The Gas Station

Trent Wood
 “Education is what remains after one has forgotten what one has learned in

school”

-Albert Einstein

Albert Einstein's last words died along with him. The nurse by his side

didn't speak German.

 Year Before

May 27th Prat/Sarel Chpt. 10

December 2nd Nate Chpt. 11

Year of

August 26th Phil Chapter 6.314

September 25th Sammy Chpt. 3

September 26th Phil/Wen 8.8

October 14th Sam/Andrea 8.turn

October 15th Phil Chpt. 1

October 15th Norance Chpt. 4

October 15th (pretty important day, eh?)Sammy Chpt. 8

October 17th Phil Chpt. 5

October 18th Phil/Nate Chpt. 7

October 25th Phil/Nate/Hitch/Sarel Chpt. 10

October 25th Sammy/Norance/Nate/Phil/Sam Chpt. !

November 1st Norance/Prat Chpt. 2

November 14th Prat Chpt. 6

November 15th Prat/Norance Chpt. 9

November 16th Wen Chpt. 12

Year After

January 7th Sam Chpt. 6.315

June 21st Kadijah/Sammy/Sam Chpt. 3.1

June 21st Sarel/Connie Chpt. 5.2

 Prologue Part 1

Nate sat down with Jame (pronounced hi may) he spoke Spanish with a

thick Mexican accent even though he was from Colorado and was speaking to a

Costa Rican. Nate used terms like “Que onda” and “orale” and “TUVO SUEÑO”

that were Mexican argot which confused Jame but Jame was entertained by the

story that Nate had begun minutes earlier. The following has been translated
from Mexican-Spanish to English for lucidity's sake.

“Anyways, It was almost exactly 1 year ago. I was 17. I was full of vigor.

And I was here in Herradura1. I stayed here for 2 weeks with the Trujos who

have that daughter, you know, Alejandra. Alejandra was 16 and you know how

cute she is. It's not just that either though. I mean, the girl's gorgeous, don't get

me wrong. It's just- It's hard to explain. She's so fun all the time and just has this

energy- I don't wanna sound all spiritual and like a hippy but I know this makes

me. She had this energy about her that I could feel when I was with her and it

changed me while I was here. Okay, now I'm going from hippy to cliché, but she

made me a better person. Seriously, it's true. Every time I'm around her I want to

do something epic. Something big. Something that will...That'll change the

world. You know what I mean? It wasn't all about me when I was with her

because she inspired me to go beyond myself. It's hard to explain but it's like I

liked her so much that I forgot about myself and became totally at one with the

rest of the world. I was so enthralled by her beauty, her brilliance (that has

nothing to do with her intelligence), her just everything. I was so enthralled by

her that I changed on that trip. I was opened to so many new questions in the

world and in a weird way. It was like she made me escape this constant self-

focused thought pattern that so many people get caught up in and embrace the

question of who I really was. I know it's paradoxical in a sense but once I

stopped focusing on myself so much and started asking questions about the

world, I learned more about myself and my identity than I ever would have

otherwise. I know I'm kinda straying but I just wanna clarify how profoundly

1 A small town in Costa Rica

Alejandra opened me to the world with nothing more than a beaming personality.

Really that had no point in the story. Sorry dude. It's just, you know how

once you get sidetracked by something that interests you you can tend to ramble?

Well that just happened. Anyways, I was living with the Trujos and I had a huge

crush on Alejandra for numerous reasons, some of which I just told you. Every

day I would go out with the group that I came to Costa Rica with and would do

service. I think we got up at like 7, met in the town around 8 and worked until

4ish or maybe just 3; I can't remember. But you know how the walls here don't

really reach the ceilings in a lot of the houses? Yeah, like yours. Well have you

seen the Trujo's bathroom? No, it's in the middle of their kitchen and the walls

only go up 6 feet- oh yeah. That's like 180 cm I think. Just an estimate. Well their

ceiling is something like 3 meters high in the kitchen, maybe 2 and a half, so

everything that goes on in the bathroom is very audible throughout the kitchen.

Actually, throughout the house really. See, the parents'-Patricia and Arcellio.

Come on, you live like a mile from them. You should know their names- Patricia

and Arcellio's bedroom is right next to the kitchen and of course the walls are

like a meter from the ceiling. Then right next to the parents' room is Alejandra's.

I was sleeping in Ganon's room and Ganon had to share with Alejandra- share

rooms I mean. He had to sleep in her room with her for the 2 weeks that I was in

their village is what I mean. Sorry. So since the bathroom was in such a prime

location for everyone to hear me- my bedroom was past Alejandra's, the 3rd from

the kitchen. Yeah, the living room's next to all the rooms. So like, they go down

straight, one by one, from the kitchen, but to the left of all of them, if you're
looking from bird's eye view, is the family room. No, to the left of all of them.

It's a long family room. Jame, you gotta stop distracting me. What matters is two

things. I was the furthest away from the bathroom which was in the kitchen and

that the toilet was in a very public place. Because of that I always went poop in

the village in the mornings when my group would meet up, or right before my

group would meet up, cause there was a little bathroom in the center of the

village that I was able to use. It had spiders all over and one time there was a

snake in front of the door of the place but I was obstinate and would only poop

their cause I didn't want the entire Trujo family listening to me.

At the beginning of our trip they'd told us about meeting Ed which doesn't

make sense to you cause it's English, but Ed stands for explosive diarrhea. So in

Spanish it'd be like if there was a name that was common that was De and that

you said you met De when you had Diarrhea explosive2. I was determined to not

meet Ed during my stay with the Trujos and I figured that, since I'd lived in

Mexico for 6 months, I'd be able to handle some latin food for 2 weeks without

getting sick. Unfortunately, though, I was unlucky enough to get not Ed but F'ed

up the ass which was a term I coined for frequent explosive diarrhea that comes

from a ferocious growling in the lower stomach and upper buttocks region of

your entrails- er, entrails in your upper buttocks region. Whatever. So I got F'ed

up the ass as I thought I'd so cleverly put it. It happened one night when I woke

up around 3 A.M.. I guess that's morning. So it was 3 A.M. In the morning and

the night before my stomach had been giving me little hints about what it wanted

to do, or at least what it wanted me to do and I told it “Nuh-uh, no way Jose. I'm

2 Adjectives follow nouns in Spanish.

not gonna poop in the house here with the Trujos all ready to hear my nastiness.

They'd never pooped in there with me there from what I could hear and I wasn't

gonna be the first to make the squeaky, squirty noise on the milky white

porcelain throne of doom. Or at least I thought I wasn't going to. At 3 A.M. My

stomach woke me up and told me “alright man, shit's serious now. You gotta let it

go and just let it go cause there's a lot of it to go right now and I'm not enjoying

having to deal with your inability to take one for the team here Nate!” So I gave

up. I caved in and stood up and wondered in I could “go” outside but then

figured that that'd be way too weird and that, if I was quiet enough, I'd be able to

release the mucky demons within me without waking the Trujos- specifically

Alejandra of course who I was head over heals in crush with and had been

wooing her for 5 days at this point and didn't want to turn off with my hideous

anal thunder. So I slowly pushed my door open as carefully as possible and

began to silently slither toward the kitchen in all mute mode. About 3 steps into

the kitchen I began to lethargically and methodically extend my arm in the

quietest manner possible so as to not even make a noise as subtle as the

extension of a bicep or popping of a work worn elbow. As I reached out Patricia

shouted in a non-chalant voice “Hey, Nate! You doing okay? You need a glass of

water or something?”

I jumped, startled and defeated. My stomach told me that this was the

point of no return. I slapped my hand across my face in frustration and

embarrassment and responded in a whisper “No thanks. I'm fine. I just need to go

to the bathroom.”
 Patricia's light went on and then I heard Ganon starting to whisper to

Alejandra in a tired voice that was declaring its tiredness through its slurrs and

moans. I grasped the bathroom handle and jumped on the toilet, pulling down my

pants. I attempted to persuade myself that I wasn't going to be embarrassed. That

this was the way it was. That I should avow my defecative deficiencies. That it

was no big deal, but I knew that my face was red and I was going to be ashamed

of myself for making so many disgusting noises for so long so early in the

morning. I sat for a moment, listening to all of the Trujos awakening. Arcellio

was getting dressed. Patricia was in the kitchen doing God knows what.

Alejandra was getting dressed and Ganon was sitting at a chair in the kitchen

table talking to Patricia, his mom, about how he was tired and had to work for

Dad that day but he didn't want to and stuff like that. I finally began the

initiatory push. What was released, however, was nothing of a corporeal manner

but instead a series of deafening, musty, juicy farts. My anal explosions, or as I

renamed them later a-bombs, caused an abrupt silence. It was as if the moment

had frozen and the only movement within the house at this point was that of my

bowels. Patricia, who had previously been running water had instantly shut it off

and failed to make a single, small peep. Ganon had also, in the snap of a finger's

time, shut up and was all ears. Alejandra, worst of all, stopped moving the

drawers around and froze in what seemed like mid air. I wasn't even in control at

this point. The volcano had already burst and now it was blasting out brown

magma and flames in a tumultuous cacophony. For 20 minutes. 20 fucking

minutes! I sat there. I erupted for 20 minutes while the Trujos were completely
silent! And I have no idea why they didn't make a single noise. Why they were so

hushed. I mean, it's like they were all coprophiliacs, listening in libidinous

wanting. Of course I know they weren't doing that. They were probably just

shocked, but every condemning thought possible came through my mind while I

shot fire-works from my rear end. I think I was trying to build a defensive wall,

making them seem so malevolent that what they thought- how they'd respond-

wouldn't matter. I mean, I know it sounds ridiculous, but those 20 minutes were

terrifying. Like 15 in I started fearing that I was going to poop myself to death

cause it just kept coming and coming! It was like watching Niagara falls for an

hour. That amount of flow for that amount of time just seems impossible. I was

also scared of having to live with the Trujos for 9 more days and especially what

Alejandra was going to think.

When you have a teenage crush you never even contemplate the

possibility of your interest's need for pooping and/or farting. Gross, unappealing

things just seem so far from your idealistic view of your interest that you end up

having this illogical, kinda half-conscious theory that your interest never does

either of the two. No, never poops or farts. I know, you just wouldn't think of

that. So when it's actually present you experience this great disillusionment and

romantic stuff seems to just be fake stuff that's completely blown out of

proportion by the media, and for some reason we buy into it in our youths.

Really, love is a poopy, vomit smothered concept that involves every disgusting

smell, sound, feeling, and sight known to man. I didn't know this at the time

though. So I had been living in 7th heaven with Alejandra who, from my view,
never pooped or burped or anything. And I had been thinking that she'd been

thinking exactly the same thing that I had been thinking, just regarding me

instead of her- No, I mean, I thought that she had thought what I had been

thinking about her. That she thought I never pooped either. So, because I thought

she thought what I thought, I thought that she would suddenly stop liking me

because I now symbolized this disgusting eruption of squirts and splats in the

middle of the night. I was no longer the romantic figure on the cover of a

Harlequin romance novel. I had a bowel and a rectum. I was officially too

repulsive for her because she was perfect. For some reason I was thinking, of

course Alejandra's never had diarrhea. She must be totally turned off by my

foreign disgustingness.

All of this was racing through my brain at an uncomfortable pace and a

lot of it was repeating itself over and over as if my brain was some trying to

embed these patterns of words in my brain and I thought that I was going crazy. I

literally thought that, as I sat there pooping for 20 minutes that I was going

completely crazy and was going to be a maniac. Then I had that song “She's a

maniac, maniac!” stuck in my head, repeating itself until it became “He's a

maniac, maniac!” over and over. No, it's a song from like the 80s or early 90s.

I'm not quite sure. No, I don't even know who wrote it. So when I'd finished my

prodigious release I flushed (for like a 5th time.)- Yeah, I'd had to flush

intermittently since so much you-know-what was building up in there and I didn't

wanna clog the toilet and make things even worse.

So I flush right? And I get out. By this time the ground has stopped
rumbling and the earthquake I caused in Argentina has now subsided. So I get

out and I go straight to the sink since it's in the kitchen and not in the little

bathroom. I get to the sink and start washing my hands and it's still silent. I don't

even dare lift my head up to look at any of them but for some reason I feel this

totally illogical comfort, like when Christians say they feel God's presence in

them. I feel the ability to lift my red face and look up at the Trujos and I realize

that everyone's gone outside to milk a cow except Alejandra who's looking at me

blushing like she always was. It's like the last 20 minutes had never happened.

She looked at me just the same and I felt like that energy that she had- er,

she-well. I mean, that energy she has. Just, you know, her energy. I could feel

that all the tendentious thoughts I'd come to Costa Rica with were blown away

and it kinda changed me. Sweaty and still terribly tired, I realized that not all

people are so insecure that they condescend others for natural tendencies like

diarrhea. I realized that Alejandra really didn't care about my pooping really

loudly in the middle of the night because it said nothing about who I was and that

I should never judge people based of their pooping either. Well, I mean poop in a

symbolic way if you know what I mean. Yeah, just, like stuff you can't help. So I

smiled back at Alejandra and blushed back and then lied supine on my bed for

nearly an hour just thinking about how great life was at that moment and about a

bunch of stuff. I don't remember it all cause it was a little over a year ago but it

was prolific. It was as if her smile had been euphonious.

So, as I said before, I didn't just get acquainted with Ed. This was no 1

night stand deal. I got F'ed up the ass for like 3 days straight and just sat there on
the toilet proudly letting loose my stomach pressures and when I was done, since

I was too sick to go to the village center to build and garden with the rest of the

group for 2 of those days. No, we got the weekends off. Yeah, I got the diarrhea

on Thursday. I know, we got into the village on a Saturday or Friday. I can't

remember exactly right now, but I spent just 2 of those work days oscillating

between the toilet and the couch and it was one of the best experiences ever

cause I got to spend the whole day with Alejandra. If we were amidst a good

conversation when I had to run to the toilet she would just meander into the

kitchen and shout over my excretionary sounds as if they were nothing but a

drilling in the background and I replied shouting over my own sounds as well. It

became no big deal.

Anyways, that's really how I got to know Alejandra last year and now I'm

back to do the same thing, just without the group. Yes, and for a longer period of

time. So yeah. I'm living with the Trujos again and you know what? I haven't

gotten any diarrhea and it's been like a week and a half so far and it's kinda

depressing. I miss those moments we shared while I was trapped on the toilet but

I still feel like Alejandra and I have something. Something between the two of

us. Something that is more powerful than poop and darnit man, poop is pretty

powerful.”
 Prologue Part II

First thing: I wrote this prologue before the first prologue. That's right, I

knew it was gonna be a 2 part thing but instead of writing part 2 I did part II

cause that's ubiquitously known as being superlatively cooler that the number

itself. That might be the only thing that caught my attention in history class- the

II's and IV's. Well, that and the philosophy. I had a history teacher in high school

that opened me to the world of philosophy and though I haven't traveled all the

way around it yet, I've searched quite a bit of its lands and oceans. That being

said, I wish to say something prolific: due to the colon you expect this to be

prolific. See what I did there bitch? First, I threw you off guard, then I called you

a bitch. Maybe you're not a bitch, maybe you're a very nice person in general and

everyone likes you; in that case, I'd like to meet you cause you sound like a cool

person. Putting all jejune shit aside, the prolific thing was a shocker...kind of. If

you get excited that easily, congratulations yet again. Perhaps you are a very

excitable, likeable person. In that case, not only would I like to meet you, but

also, you'll enjoy this book...Perhaps. The shocker is synechdochich of how this

book has affected me: it's caught me off guard numerous times. At one point

during the writing process -which I am still currently undergoing- I killed a

character accidentally. How did you unintentionally kill one of you main

characters, you may ask. Fuck if I know! I was reading Crime and Punishment at

the time (that book is amazing. Read it) and somehow the darkness had seeped

into my writing, cause- good God- Dostoevsky gets into you.

What am I trying to say? I'm trying to say, don't look at this book as a
singular entity that is coherent from beginning to middle and from middle to end.

It's not a 3 part thing that all comes together in the end because it is reminiscent

of life, which doesn't do that shit. Life isn't about solving all our predicaments.

It's about looking at them in a different light, and that way they won't be

problems anymore. Maybe you hate orange and are, therefore, attempting to

shorten the sun's rays' wavelengths the sun sets because longer wavelengths

cause the orangeness that pisses you off so strongly. Bitch please! That's

impossible; not even Phil could figure that shit out. Perhaps you should think of

the orange as delicious like the orange fruit. That's when you realize that you

only hate the color orange because you think that the fruits, oranges, are not

delectable in any way. Perhaps, you abhor them. That's when you look at the

problem differently and realize “hey, I don't hate the color orange! I hate

oranges!” So now you can embark on an escapade to kill all the oranges on earth;

a costly, but much more feasible plan. See how beautiful looking at things from a

different perspective can become?

It makes you feel warm and cuddly, doesn't it? You know what makes me

feel warm and cuddly? Mensa mind game books. I worked at a book store my

senior year in high school and got free books every time I worked. As a result,

my book shelves became more overloaded than a port-o-potty outside of a

football stadium and I got a lot of Mensa brain game books. As a result of these

brain games, I became a little over-fond of anagrams and other word games and

as a result of this over-fondness, I threw some of these games into this book.

Every main character's name- and even some supporting characters have names
that can be respelled into aspects of their characters. For example, Sammy H. K.

Rutt includes the 2 middle initials because I'm not creative/intelligent enough to

come up with another name that is anagrammatic of Mask My Truth. I'll give that

1 away as a free-b but you should figure out the rest. The key to them will be in

the footnotes, so if you've racked your brains and you just can't figure out what

Phil Phosero respells into, you can check, and should check cause maybe you'll

think Phil Phosero respells into “Hi Poop loser!”. This is not correct and you're

fucking stupid. Why would that be his aspect? Check the footnote. Plus,where

did the exclamation mark even come from? Jesus Christ!

Good. Good stuff. We're getting through this thoroughly. So far we've

only used a page and a half for this. These pages are, of course, according to my

open office settings and by no means reflect the actual book style page size

amount here. Did I articulate that correctly? Let me expatiate on this

thoroughness subject. Fuck thoroughness. I'd prefer a long, entertaining book

that contains ridiculous gratuity over a short, concise book that stays too focused.

Why do you think Don Quijote is so good? Because it acts like the human mind

and goes everywhere and anywhere it likes. That's what I plan to do with this

book. Screw Keruauck's non-edited business. I prefer to edit in more insanity.

There are always additions, and why not let your knew ideas grow off of the old

ones, come together, and affect each other? Throwing in new stuff to an old story

is like talking to yourself in the past; the past you is really bad at responding but

you can tell him/her anything you want. That metaphor isn't exactly functional in

that context because, when you read the story from the past it's the equivalent to
your past self talking to your present self, but we're mature adults here.

Let's get over faulty metaphors and talk about defecation like the mature

individuals that we aren't. I'm red green color blind so I'll never know if my feces

is green, cause it all looks brown to me. And furthermore, a doctor has never

taken a stool sample from me, so who knows! I might have prostate cancer.

Though, does prostate cancer make your feces green? See, I'm remembering the

scene from Charlie Kaufman's Synecdoche New York when the guy sees that his

feces is greenish and goes to the doctor for it. When I saw the scene I was very

confused cause it looked a sturdy brown to me. Later I became scared when I

realized the potential repercussions of not knowing my stool shade. This, of

course is important to the story because I'm developing my character. Now,

currently, in part II of this prologue I, the narrator, am stuck between the identity

of the author and the narrator himself. Be sure to draw a line between the 2. I am

not a high schooler and I sure as hell was not that smart in high school. Shit, I

may have written the dialogues, but I'm not that smart. So know that the narrator

is not me, but he is somewhat representative of me. To clarify things better here

is a list of our similarities and differences.

Similarities:

-We both like philosophy.

-We both write things about our lives.

-We both enjoy downtown and go there a lot.

-We both dislocated our hips skiing during winter break a while back.

-We don't have cars but our parents let us bum cars off them.
 -We're both somewhat scatter brained.

-We both think Shakespeare's overrated.

Differences:

-I hate tomatoes. The narrator does not (before the gas station incident).

-I do not have a superior intellect. I would not get along with Phil very

well. Our narrator does.

-What I lack in smartness compared to the narrator I compensate for by

being tougher than he, though I don't know if I wouldn't cry in the Gas Station.

I've seen a dead person before; 2 in fact, but I didn't cry.

-i did pole vault in high school. The narrator wrestled.

-The narrator's nose is smaller than mine. He's more attractive overall. I

find that my nose is a little too big for my face and detracts from my

attractiveness. Others say that this is a chimera and that my nose is fine. Either

way, it's larger than the narrator's who has a very nice one. So, I guess, his nose

is both smaller and more finely shaped. Let's just say the guy's nose is incredible

whereas mine is not so much.

-The narrator is a virgin. Teehee!

-I'm short (5'7”) and our narrator is less short (5'10”). I have a Napoleon

complex because of my short stature and being a youngest sibling. Our narrator

is an only child so he doesn't have that problem.

-Our narrator's favorite book is Wuthering Heights. I've never even read

that book.
 We also need to briefly talk about footnotes in this book. I talk about the

footnotes in the footnotes quite often, but dammit, that's just not enough. The

footnotes are an important part of the book because that is your one connection

to me throughout. All of the book will be narrated by our narrator except the

footnotes. Those? Those are me, the author. So when the going gets tough and

the narration gets slow or too sad or too grotesque, I'll be here to save you in the

footnotes. When the events get confusing, I'll be there to save you in the

footnotes. When you're thirsty and you need a drink of water but all you have in

your house is red bull because you have a plumber over working on your

drainage and he's shut off your water and all you have in your fridge is red bull,

which dehydrates you so you don't want that shit, I'll be here for you in the

footnotes. They may not quench your thirst but they will saturate you with

knowledge and/or rants that may or may not have much to do with the events of

the narration. As you can see, there are kind of 2 books within this 1. The

narration and then the footnotes/epilogues and prologues. Keep that in mind. If

you don't read the footnotes, not only do you suck worse than a leech that has

just become a bat and a vampire as well, but you will miss out on the me of the

book, and let's face it. I'm way more charismatic than this narrator fellow. For

god's sake! The guy's still a virgin! The guy's still in high school3 and the guys a

nerd! Me? Pshaw! (According to the auto-spell on my computer, pshaw is a word

but indivisibilities isn't. Really, indivisibilities isn't? It totally sounds like a word!

3 Well not really. But it the narration he is!

And what the fuck does pshaw4 mean?) And sometimes he tries to be as funny as

I, but I don't think he's gonna outdo me. Let's just face it folks: you're reading the

best part of the book. It's all downhill from here. You may get snippets of this

hilarity, this voice, this grace, this beautiful humbleness and sarcasm within the

footnotes, but they're only subtexts relating to a long, boring story told by a

narrator that your author created that is smarter and more attractive yet also less

humorous than the author. How is this possible? Perhaps the story won't entice

you but the question I've just raised should, and thus, let us begin the story.

Narrator, take us away to a land that I am in at this very moment because I

technically am the narrator; except for, I'm not. I just created him and wrote

everything he said, but that doesn't make me him. But does that make me the part

of him that you're reading about? I know you have a very simple solution to this.

I feel like it's at the tip of my mental grasping and my mind is just not ready for

that kind of mental stress at this moment. I spent 5 hours doing Chemistry

homework today, so I am all thinkinged out right now which raises another

question. Actually, it raises 2.

1. Why am I writing if I'm not in the mood for thinking? Writing

involves intensive thinking.

2. Will my writing, while purposely being mentally lazy, jeopardize

the quality of this epilogue5?

Since I am tired I refuse to answer either of these questions and leave the

answering to your imagination. That's right, this is an interactive experience. It's

4 Apparently it means exactly what I think it means- an exclamation of disgust or disapproval. I

just figured it was slang and not real English. Crazy!
5 Apparently not because this is not an epiloge. Few! I was worried about that one!
like a choose your own adventure novel except this is a despotic choose your

own adventure and you can follow no rules but the author's bitch. And the author

gets to call you a bitch even if you're not one...I seem to remember asking the

narrator to take us away a little while back. This guys slacking. I wonder when

he'll come in. He might be out, but then again how does that make sense in the

terms of a book? If you skip the prologue then you go straight to the narrator. It's

like transcending time. And that's spectacular. Also, just in case the prologue cuts

out half way through a sentence or word or anything take that as a sure sign of

your having antihistamineaphobia- the fear of antihi-

1. What is identity?

2. How does culture affect identity?

3. What does your identity say about your potential?

 Chapter 1

“Regarding the 1st question, I believe that identity is the intrinsic

determinant of living organisms that decides where and how their passions are

emitted. To elaborate, there are 2 dimensions of passions which act as the

modifiers and or sculptors of identity, the first being which subjects create

interest and which do not (for a lack of interest is but a passion against an aspect

of life) and the second being the strength of said passions. Of course, one can

create a graph like representation regarding how strongly a person feels about

certain things in a positive or negative manner. The shaping of this graph is also

the shaping of one's identity. Now, one could add a 3rd dimension to this model

and illustrate how one reacts to said passions, i.e. the manner in which passions

are manifested. Of course, this is delving into the realm of specificity. For a

general representation of identity, one must simply know the passions but for an

applicable knowledge of a person's identity- in other words, to be able to

adventitiously interact with a person in a advantageous manner based on one's

knowledge of the other person's identity, one must know the outlets of another

person's interests and hates. This is, in essence, the interaction between an
individual and society in relation to said individual's interests, like a musician

with a love for piano elucidating to others his or her love for the instrument by

avowing his or her ability to play Chopin versus a musician that is very

conservative regarding who he or she will allow to hear his or her playing of a

Chopin piece. These two contrasts are representational of the 3rd dimension of the

physical representation of the metaphysical concept of identity and brings us to

the second question.

I believe that culture helps edify hidden aspects of identity by introducing

a person to new things. People are constantly forming opinions based on every

experience and the more eclectic the experience, the more detailed the opinion.

Let me explicate analogously: The more data sources one has for a research

paper, the more detail and knowledge the research paper will have. Therefore,

culture is a catalytic as well as expeditious source regarding the emergence and

shaping of one's identity. To expatiate on the shaping effect of culture I believe

that it is sufficient to say that the opinions and reactions that one must develop

while interacting in culture, (yes, there is an art to reaction) are the tools that

shape identity.

Okay, third question now.... More importantly than identity's effect on

potential; potential is the measure of one's ability to succeed, right? Then what

measures success?

Phil was a zany character. He had short brown hair that waved like the
Mediterranean sea; one which his ancient ancestors had lived beside. His eyes

were dark brown and gleaming with vitality. His skin color matched that of the

olives picked by his great, great, great grandfather in Greece. Or maybe his great,

great, great, great grandfather. I'd do the genealogy but neither of us care that

much and it really doesn't contribute to the story enough. His shoulders stood as

broad as he was short and always was he lost in thought, yet somehow grounded

in an eccentric reality; though, reality itself is quite eccentric when looked at by

anyone. Those around him were bewildered by his enigmatic, lunatic behavior,

yet he always seemed to have a logical thought process supporting his actions.

While the majority of high schoolers have too few thoughts and too large an

audience -friends, crushes, acquaintances- Phil lacked an audience and had too

many thoughts. His mind surged with circuitry so elegant and efficient that it

blew the fuse of nearly any mind that attempted to reach his level. Phil didn't

enter high school until he was 10 years old, but he was already reading graduate

level books at that point. Phil was ready for high school at the age of 6 but his

parents held him back a bit to give him time to mature before he went into higher

education. Phil cordially obliged with his parents' decision, as he deeply agreed

with this.

When he wrote, his diction and syntax flowed with beauty that surpassed

Shakespeare's, though I'm not a very adamant fan of Shakespeare. Actually, I

think that Shakespeare is overrated, and maybe no one agrees on me with this

view, but I still stand firm in that belief. After playing the piano for 5 weeks, Phil

could sight read any Mozart song with complete perfection. His photographic
memory allowed him to intertwine detailed images, and because of this, he drew

masterful works of art that coalesced New York City and Brazilian rain forests 6.

Somehow, talent seemed to seep from him without effort like acne oozes from

greasy teenage faces (let's just say abundantly. Yet we've already said more...o

And that's a paradox for you!). He couldn't help but concentrate and be interested

in things, because he knew, if he put even a minimal amount of effort into things

he would promptly succeed in whatever he was trying-of course, unless it

involved physical struggle. Phil lacked physical integrity, and because of this he

was built like an oxymoron: a flabby twig. Parts of him were extremely skinny,

yet other parts were covered by a soft coat of fat. Phil was never picked on by his

peers mainly due to the fact that he was almost never around his peers. Through

his childhood, Phil spent his time in class reading Confucius and Kant and

Russel and Tolstoy and about the sciences as opposed to running around outside.

Phil was finishing his high-schooling at the age of 12. He was in his final

semester and had received grades much lower than his capability because he was

distracted by things that would actually challenge him. He received 100 percent

on every single test given to him in high school except for one essay which a

pretentious teacher had decided to give a C due to an overflow of jealousy on his

part. This teacher had been so frustrated by Phil's overwhelming ability to write

absolutely perfect essays without any work that he decided to show him who was

really in charge. The teacher of course, pulsated jealousy day in and out through

the 6 months in which he had Phil as a student. He had become a teacher in the

6 This is really boring. Just get this:the kid's a genius. Now go 2 pages forward and skip this
superfluousness.
1st place because he loved power, superiority, and being smarter than all those

around him. He, unlike Phil, had put his heart into so much as a youth and pulled

nothing but mediocrity out of it. This attempt at revenge on the teacher's part had

no effect on Phil though, for young Mr. Phosero had already been accepted into

the University of Chicago with a full tuition scholarship, and gave no care to his

grades. Phil believed that grades were a reflection of ones' ability to suck up to

the system in place, rather than a reflection of one's intelligence or ability to

succeed in obtaining one's aspirations. He, like so many geniuses, was frustrated

by the fact that mediocre people thought less of him because of a scale that they

had created which did not truly portray his abilities. It was not that he disliked

GPA's. He was indifferent to them, but he abhorred that a little number, a side-

note in one's life, could have so much effect on others thoughts of you, of one's

life in general when they say so little about one. For Phil had received a perfect

score on the both the ACT and SAT7. He had also already received a 5 (the top

score possible) on every advanced placement test that his school had to offer, yet

he had a 3.2 GPA. This was because Phil refused to do “busy work”, repetitious

homework assignments that accounted for nearly half of Phil's grades. He

7Phil took the ACT and afterward was called by the ACT institute, the College Board. They had
him come in to a testing center in which they made him take the test again because they thought
he was cheating. Allegedly, they do this to everyone who gets a 36 (perfect score) on the ACT.
When Phil took the next test he didn't miss a single problem and, in fact, ended up showing the
college board that 2 of their answers on the English section were wrong. They then offered to hire
him as an editor but since he figured that he would be bored in that job he declined. Can I just say
that this is a really boring way to start a book? We’re just talking about test scores here. I mean,
where’s the action? There’s no hook! It’s just a high school kid rambling on about how this 12
year old feels about high school. I swear, Phil’s philosophy is much more interesting than this.
So, seriously, skip the next page or 2.
ascertained that learning new things would be more beneficial than practicing

things that he had already learned and would therefore remember due to his

photographic memory.

When Phil was 11 he started an on-line video blog in which he presented

the ideas on his mind. At the age of 12 he was continuing these video blogs,

speaking mainly of philosophy and physics. One night he flicked on the camera

atop his computer and sat on a green bouncy ball speaking.

“Hello, Phil here. This is webcast number 39, I believe8. Tonight I want to

talk about truth. I want to be honest. We are masters of deception, and that's not

just because we're amazing at lying to others...or are we? The very infrastructure

of our being, the conscious mind, obscures objective data into subjective analysis

that our synapses pick up and connect with an emotional response which is

caused by some event or aspect relating to our life. What's so odd to me is to

think of how this began. When we are babies we see the world objectively. We

are consumers of knowledge and producers of nothing but green feces. What

brings us to to where we are in the present? Seeing things through the lens of

experience? What amount of experience constitutes the shift into participatory

membership of events?”

Phil spent all of his his life alone with his thoughts, whether he was with

other people or not. He saw other people as thoughts lost within a mist of

8 Phil had started these online blogs 3 months earlier, about 2 weeks after his 12th birthday.
From this you can find out Phil's birthday which has no significant meaning to the story and
we are now able to see that this footnote is completely unnecessary. I have just wasted your
time and you have just allowed for it to happen. Who's at fault really though? If you're still
reading, you've been forewarned. These footnotes are ridiculous! I mean, just for evil's sake,
I'll make some really important so that you'll need to rummage through all the shitty ones to
get a single good one, but this one's a free-b. You already knew and you've gone on reading
this. Really? What is with you? At this rate, you're never gonna get through the book!
emotions and usually those people saw Phil as an autistic boy. Phil was not

autistic, but he might as well have been. He was constantly building

mechanisms. He would read textbooks on physics and chemistry, then build

machines involving the properties of the sciences which he had learned but by

this point the mechanisms were becoming more complicated than those of many

scientific research companies. At our story's beginning Phil was building a

particle accelerator. He had seen the news about the massive one in France and

decided to make one that is much smaller and constructed with thinner tubing

which curves and has magnets at each curve to speed up the particles. Both

would start 6 feet up in the top of a mile of downward curving tubing, covered

with super-cooled magnets-but let's not get ahead of ourselves. It's so easy to get

down to business, but as all people must, Phil had to go to school first. It was

October and Phil was scheduled to graduate from Lehl3 High School in

December. He would then take 6 months off before going to school in Chicago.

On the 15th of October at 6:30 A.M. Phil Phosero4 entered Lehl high with

his new textbook he was reading for fun, Hydrocarbon Polymer Electrolytes for

Fuel Cell Application and his school books, all of which he had read and

memorized, word for word, on the 1st night of the semester. He walked into the

library and sat down giving exclamations whilst turning the page every couple of

seconds. Phil's ostensibly ostentatious behavior drove Mrs. Bliniarra5, the school

librarian, mad every morning and finally she screamed, “Shhh! This is a library.

I'm sick of those 'ohs!' and 'ahs!' from you and if I hear any more I'll ban you

3 Lehl- Hell
4 Phil Phosero- Philosopher
5 Bliniarra- Librarian
from this library for a week9”

“But we're the only two people in the library and I'm simply, spasming

through my vocal chords with excitement for the gift of knowledge that I'm able

to receive here. Although it does make some sense that those who are constantly

repressing the mandates of day to day life jealously degrade those who enjoy

what it forces on them. It's not your fault, I was just born to enjoy suffering.”

Phil replied.

“I have no idea what you just said, but the proper response to "shhh!" is

to be quite. Not to talk. You're banned from the library for a week.”

“Can I check out a book fir-”

“No! Get the hell out of here!” Mrs. Bliniarra's face was now red with

rage.

“Well I'm not a priest so I don't know exactly how to get the hell out of

this library but I could try a mock exorcism10.”

“What are you talking about? Get your ass out of here!”

“I don't know what you're talking about either. I don't even own a donkey,

and I definitely don't see one in here.”

“Leave the fucking library!”

“You seem to be seeing aspects of this library that I am unable to view. I

9 P.M.S.- Premenstrual s yndrome: a roughly 7 day cycle in which women become overly
emotional and often experience cramping which adds to said emotionality.
10 While Phil said this he had also thought of saying “I don't see any hell in this library; that is,
except for the hell that you're raising right now, in which case I implore you to not create
something and beg me to destroy it. Are you not pro-life?” but decided that that wasn't as
clever and that Mrs. Bliniarra's temper would lead him to not be able to finish such a lengthy
sentence. Also, Phil thought that this would make him come off as sounding more
conservative than he was. In truth, Phil was not political at all. He figured that there were too
many unpredictable variables in economics and politics to actually make good decisions for
the future.
don't visually perceive anything in here that would allow it to be named after the

act of reproduction...or are you talking about another library, because I'm in this

library. Not a sexua-”

At this point the librarian let out a shrieking noise which attracted the

attention of many teachers and administrators who began to congregate outside

of the library to see what all the racket was about. Right as Mr. Theefac 11 was

able to see the cause of the hooting and hollering, Phil leaped from the doors

and a book flew from the librarian's hand into Mr. Theefac's face. Of course, the

book had been intended to hit Phil in the back of the head, and of course there

wasn't much intention in the throwing of the book at all 12. It was more of an out

spurt of rage without thought. Phil thought of the dichotomy in society that

results from the 2 most contradicting aspects within all humans: thought and

emotion. As Mr. Theefac screamed, holding his bruised face, and Mrs. Bliniarra

screeched with terror, Phil wondered how technology, the reflection of mankind's

most logical mindset could mix with human emotion. What if he created a

computer program that analyzed humans' emotional responses to certain situation

through technology's objective viewpoint? That'd be fun, but he'd need to get

another book in computer programming from the library, but certainly not the

school library. Firstly they wouldn't have it, and secondly he'd just been booted

from the lib- oh lord! Phil realized the spectacle in front of him. For a moment he

had stared blankly at the screaming adults before him, but now he rushed to Mr.

Theefac's side eschewing the appearance of autism that had overthrown his body

11 Theefac- The face

12 See footnote 1
for the preceding moments.

“Are you alright Mr. Theefac?” Phil asked.

Slowly, Mr. Theefac stopped screaming and looked up, but not to Phil.

“Why did you throw a book at me Gina?” He moaned in a dazed

confusion. Mrs. Bliniarra ran away, in a mess of tears flooding down her

reddened cheeks and snot pouring from her nose. Mr. Theefac looked at Phil,

utterly confused.

“I made her mad in the library by responding to the double entendres in

everything she said to me.”

“Do you think that she maybe didn't intend them to be double entendres?”

“No, I think she definitely didn't intend them to be double entendres.”

“Phil, I can see why that got on her nerves, but to drive her to throw a

book at me? You had to have done something else?”

“No, I'm serious! Let's go talk to the principle before school. I'm going to

get called out of class for this today if I don't, so I might as well get it out of the

way beforehand.” Phil helped Mr. Theefac up and they walked to the office. The

principle had already heard from several teachers about Mrs. Bliniarra's outburst

and was glad to hear of the story from Phil, who always seemed to have a

different point of view on things, but one that was so lucid and objective that he

knew it was true. Immediately he sat Phil and Mr. Theefac down, offering them

some chocolate covered pretzels. Phil loved this about principle Sliten13, he

always offered Phil chocolate covered pretzels which were bound to be

delectable. Phil told principle Sliten what happened, word for word and image

13 Sliten- Listen
for image, as he always did and then Mr. Theefac told a broken story of his

walking and getting hit and being dazed. The principle smiled and told them that

they could go and that Phil was welcome to go into the library over the next

week. He had the right to go “ohh!” when he learned something interesting in the

library and Mrs. Bliniarra needed desperately to take a few weeks off, perhaps

the rest of the semester.

When school began, Phil began his drawings. He saw classes as the

perfect time to draw and write. He had English 1st hour and began drawing a

woman in a toga with arms for legs and legs for arms. How different would the

world be if ligaments were switched so? Phil thought for a second, and what if

we had, instead of two legs beneath two arms, one leg and one arm beneath on

leg and one arm? The entire structure of buildings and electronics and chairs and

cars and books would need to be different. Phil's teacher, Mr. Gertanam

passionately taught a lesson on Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil. He spoke

through thin, dark lips.

“Nietzsche puts us all in a paradoxical situation when he describes the

transference of original thoughts or experiences as the loss of personal respect

for them. What do you think?”

Phil raised his right hand without even peering up from his drawing after

moving the pencil to his left and resuming.

“Yes, Mr. Phosero”

“Nietzsche's a hypocrite. His saying that himself is taking original

insights and putting them into words. That's a contradiction of what he's saying
in the first place. Did he not think, I am giving up love for my insight by

communicating that 'one no longer love's one's insight enough once one

communicates it'”

Mr. Gertanam closed his eyes trying to process what Phil had just said.

“Could you say that one more time Phil?

“ Yeah, sure. Nietzsche's a hypocrite. His saying that himself is taking

original insights and putting them into words. That's a contradiction of what he's

saying in the first place. Did he not think, I am giving up love for my insight by

communicating that 'one no longer love's one's insight enough once one

communicates it'. Except I accented the is after himself the 1st time.”

Mr. Gertanam14 was a Great Man. He loved how Phil Phosero was such a

philosopher and the utter genius which constantly flowed from his mouth when

given the ability to speak on intellectually stimulating matters. The difficulty he

had was keeping the rest of the class-and himself for that matter- up with Phil.

Mr. Gertanam had always been a pliable person, especially regarding his

teaching. He believed that humans have no true identity since they are an ever-

evolving species and should therefore allow their actions, mannerism patterns,

and lifestyles to evolve in synchronization with their minds. He saw how he

changed every day and determined that it was impossible to define him over any

course of time, instead, only momentarily. Because of this, he nearly never held

past mistakes against people. He knew that each action was only a moment's

personality and that same person could be completely different a year later. Mr.

14 Gertanam- Great Man. It's in the sentence for Christ's sake!

Gertanam believed this15, but didn't exactly know that because he lacked the

ability to articulate his thoughts. Instead, he had vague feelings as to what it was

that he was thinking, yet, couldn't seem to put the feelings into words. This was

one of the reasons he became an English teacher. Teaching English pushed him

mentally every day, because he was forced to articulate his thoughts on literature.

This was also the main reason that Mr. Gertanam was a fierce believer in Zen

philosophy. It so well articulated the importance of the feeling behind his

inability to articulate that he saw Zen as a divine message sent to him. Of course,

during one of his many after class discussions with Phil, young Mr. Phosero

brought that theory up. Mr. Gertanam didn't want to believe this but he knew that

Phil was right.

“Perhaps Nietzsche recognized this. You know, he did go insane at the

end of his life.” Mr. Gertanam responded after much contemplation and an

awkward class silence.

“Actually, Nietzsche's insanity spawned from his overwhelming

megalomania that spread through his mind like a cancer in his end, and this

would cause a man to view things with so much confidence in himself that he

would declare self contradictory statements and deem them perfected concepts

because he was too lost amidst the myopia that results from said brain

dysfunctions.” Phil replied. “That's not to say that his earlier works shouldn't be

validated. What was written in Beyond Good and Evil reflects nothing of his

earlier years with its insanity and the book itself is abundant with brilliance.

Should we really disregard so much effort and thought just because certain

15 Identity Philosophy #1
misconceptions, such as the stupid sexism within this book, are existent? If we

were to think that way, we would push all people aside, regarding them as

mistakes and nothing more.”

“True, true...Well,” Mr. Gertanam continued his lesson but his heart was

not in it at this point. It was too busy contemplating the words of Phil. Mr.

Gertanam suffered the disability of not only teaching like a literary intellectual,

but thinking like one as well. The reason as to why this is a disability is that

thinking as a literary intellectual tends to let ideas seep into moments

spontaneously and take over one's mind. Mr. Gertanam had always fallen victim

to deep thought in times of action and those around him could recognize this.

After that class Mr. Gertanam sat at his desk and covered his eyes in deep

thought. Nietzsche's myopia detached him from his society but connected his

ideas with people all around the world. It seems as though there is a difference

between an actual idea and its being put into action. Nietzsche's ideas seem

prolific but when putting them into every day situations they're abominable.

There was some connection between what Phil had said and what Mr. Gertanam

was thinking, but he couldn't put it together. He visualized Phil's words and his

thoughts as 2 sides of a river and he began to build a bridge connecting the ends.

After 15 minutes of what appeared to Mr. Pere16-who poked his head into the

room but abruptly pulled it back out and quietly closed the door-as much needed

sleep, Mr. Gertanam found the steel beam supporting the middle of the bridge.

He finally thought out the words Insanity isn't actions; thoughts. The thought

behind his inability to articulate was: Insanity is to live a life led by thoughts

16 Pere-Peer
unconnected to actions. This was something that Phil had thought 3 words into

his 1st remark to Mr. Gertanam.

Phil took the bus home after school and walked from the corner of 6th

Ave. and Jones Rd. to his house. Phil walked into his room and pulled what he

saw as the meaning of his life thus far out of the closet. He dragged the 6x6x8

wood box into the edge of his room with numerous tools and scientific supplies.

He opened the hinged front side of the box and looked in for a moment, then

turned, grabbed a pencil, a calculator, and finally, the 300 page notebook with

“particle accelerator” written on its cover. He smiled and went to work. His

project was nearing an end. According to the time table he had set, he was 3 days

away from completion. Nearly all the plastic tubes were in place, but he had to

build and attach the robotic arms that would tap the tubing with the magnets 1

millisecond apart.

That night Phil worked on the particle accelerator until 6, then had dinner

with his dad. “Where's mom?” he asked when he entered the kitchen seeing only

his dad.

“She's at a meeting” His dad quietly responded. Phil nodded to signal his

hearing this and ate his dinner in silence. Phil's dad was a man of few words and

Phil knew nearly nothing of him, not even his work. When Phil was 9 he went

through a phase in which he was interested in sociology, and this had brought

him to the subject of his dad. After discovering the oddity of his not knowing his

father's profession he asked his dad who had simply replied, “I'm a

businessman.” Phil looked into what he knew of his dad and calculated that there
was a 73%17 chance that this was true. During dinner, Phil remembered this and

the time he had asked what kind of businessman his dad was. Both times, Phil

came out knowing no more about his father. This was one of the reasons that Phil

took the initiative to learn on his own at such an early age. His parents had

neglected to teach Phil nearly everything as a child, so he decided to do so on his

own. Phil had once read a book that spoke of parents' neglect as being a source

of decrease in intelligence, and thought of how he was an exception to this, but

he had determined that, for the most part, this statement was true. His parents

had failed to teach him, but they had supplied him with all the materials he asked

for to complete his scientific experiments and all the books anyone could ask for.

Phil had been nurtured by information and, because of this, was able to connect

with people through what he had interpreted as normal social interactions in his

readings. For all the rational abilities that Phil had, he lacked emotional ones.

Yes, he understood sadness and love, but he had never experienced the depths of

tears brought to a man when his wife dies, or the ecstasy of falling in love for the

1st time. At least he hadn't yet.

17 The narrator totally made this statistic up.

 Chapter 2

“I think that, especially in modern society, we lose ourselves to our

surroundings and try to create this culture based character that has nothing to do

with who we really are. We live in a postmodern era in which we are constantly

searching for ourselves through external influences. I mean, it makes a little

sense if you look at it analogously. It's like trying to determine what's inside of a

box based on the writings on the box. The problem is, often times, our box might

say that it contains a great guy and potential husband when the inside contains an

abusive alcoholic. I just think too much emphasis is put on what is around us

creating who we are. I mean, you are someone beyond what culture tells you to

be. We think that culture affects identity, but I think your identity needs to be

separated from the facade that you wear because of society. When you make that

separation you see that the two have nothing to do with each other, and we- for

some stupid reason- think that they are correlated variables. We need to

transcend the cultural constructs that skew our perception and look into who we
really are, not asking if we are cool. Not asking if we are culturally acceptable,

but asking what it is that drives us or makes us do the things we do on a day to

day basis. I guess that kind of answers your first two questions. And, well,

because of this I'm gonna have to say that you aren't defined by your actions-

your identity that is. It's what's within you. Our actions are mostly dependent on

our surroundings, so they have nothing to do with identity. It's how we think

alone and unaffected that forms our identity. Like, you'll think so many things

without doing shit about them, but the thoughts reoccur or occur singularly in a

certain fashion because of who you are. You might be an imaginative person

naturally and sit there imagining things in class. So ostensibly you're not doing

anything, but your mind is in an elaborate land that you've made up, right? That,

I think, is totally what your identity is. Like, the world you create in your head.

You, being a god create this little universe. The universe is your identity. So

yeah, it's all within.

What was the third one again? Oh, yeah, okay. Well, hmm. I think

potential is- no, potential has everything to do with your actions and identity has

nothing to do with that. So your identity might be something very hopeful but

you might be stuck in a shitty situation. That doesn't change that you're a good

person or hopeful or whatever, right? So, yeah, once again, I think potential has

nothing to do with identity.”

Prat Ped18 was put in jail for drug possession in Las Vegas. He served a

18 Prat Ped- Trapped

sentence of 6 months and learned more in those short months than he had in the

24 years preceding his incarceration. He had learned that he hadn't been living

his life. He had been a cow, moving through a series of factories that had tried to

fatten him, so that his beef would be tender enough for the economy to feed on.

Prat had failed to feed on the information given to him in the academic factories

throughout America, and had thus been thrown aside as a diseased bull. He was

disappointed in the way that society had treated him like another one in the herd,

but he had also learned that there are those who care. His rehabilitation counselor

had shown him this when she cried and hugged Prat in his last meeting with her.

Her hope had caused his change had caused her tears. He had left more than

drugs19. He had shed the skin that they had put on him.

Prat dropped out of high school at the age of 16 and joined a gang. He

had shot 3 men and was the father of 2 children, (neither of which he knew

about). Prat's best friend was Norance Igman. People who saw Norance and Prat

were bewildered by the fact that a nearly silent Native American and a

blabbering Negro were best friends. Those who knew Prat and Norance

understood how their friendship worked so well, in however of an odd manner it

did. Prat did all the talking and Norance did all the existing next to the talking

because one needs a set of ears to hear hear what one says much more often than

a person to respond to what one says because, in the former case, one's thoughts

are never questioned and, therefore, there are no discrepancies in one's logic or

19 Prat had been addicted to cocaine, tobacco, and heroine. He had also been a heavy weed
smoker and drank heavily, nearly nightly. When he went to jail, his counselor, a beautiful
young woman who was working with him to get her masters in therapy, became very
involved in his life and listened to him adamantly. She had been the first person in his life to
do this and her altruistic interest led him to change his entire thought process.
perspective.

It was 4 pm on November 1st. Norance walked into the Northern Nevada

State Penitentiary and was escorted to the visiting room. At the far left corner

was what appeared to be nothing more than another black man wearing orange,

but there was also a name and an identity. Norance shot Prat his crooked jawed

smile and walked over towards him, giving him a bear hug. Prat returned

Norance a huge smile with his big white teeth and sat down.

Prat immediately said “How ya been Norance? How things be in da

outside world? What's da news brotha?” the words seemed to come together,

they were spoken so fast. Norance sorted through them and replied.

“Good, good. How you doin?”

Prat laughed for a moment then said “Fuck Nigger! You got no mouth on

you! I'm trapped in da fuckin box all day,and I got shit runnin' outa my mouth

like it comin' outta a horse's ass, and here you is with like all the opportunities a

nigger coulda asked fo' and you ain't got any news for me? The fuck is dis? Man,

You gotta stop followin' yo life and start leadin' it, you know what I'm sayin'?”

Norance tried to decipher Prat's rapid flow of words but couldn't and said

“No.”

“Fuck Nigger! I always gotta be clarifying shit wit you. Probs cus I gots

this ridiculous shit running through my brain in dis place, you know what I'm

sayin? Well, what I mean is, you got all these opportunities and I'm uh,” For a

moment, Prat paused. Norance wondered what Prat was thinking. Usually Prat

thought through things by speaking them aloud but he seemed to-for the 1st time-
not be doing so. What Norance didn't realize was that the silence of the prison

walls had reached Prat, who now thought without his mouth-at least for the most

part. He continued, “Well I'm trapped. Man, Prat Ped is Trapped up in dis fuckin'

place without a single opportunity to use the fuckin' abilities I gotz. I could be da

fuckin valedictorian or whateva dat shit is and one trip up into this heap and I'd

got just as few opportunities as I doez now. It's funny man, you can live an entire

life fulla doing good shit yet you do one bad thing and people will see dat as

more important than all the good shit you done. I mean, people be thinkin' that

the bad shit defines a person, but truth is, you ain't a single sided label. We a

whole mixta o' shit and if we looked and the good shit insteada the shwag20 in

evyone we'd be livin' a whole lot betta. I mean, shit, you shouldn't be held back

jus cuzza yo past. Yo past don't say who you iz now completely. It just say why

you is who you iz, yaknow I mean21?”

Norance sat, trying his best to focus on Prat's words but somehow

couldn't put all the thoughts together. Prat was simply too complex, but Norance

liked this for some reason. He felt that, somehow, Prat's words were prolific. So

he replied “I, uh, guess. Yeah.”

“Fuck Nigger! What the fuck you mean you guess? It's da fuckin' truth.

That kinda shit gives a nigger hope in the box. I ain't lookin to get back out and

be turning tricks wit' you niggers anymore. Ima be tryin' to disprove people's

impressions. Tha world may notta changed but thiz nigga sure as hell fuckin'

has.”

20 Shwag- shitty weed

21 Identity philosophy # 2
 Norance frowned “Prat, you saying you ain't gonna be with us no more?

But you get out in a month and shit's goin' real good with Wen. We just found

some shit that's gonna be worth some

real bucks. This ain't kiddy shit. Seriously, billions of dollars man.22”

“Fuck Nigger! When the fuck are you gonna learn? Prat Ped is a changed

man, and a billion dollars ain't gonna change that shit. When I leave, I'm gonna

be clean. Ima be a black fuckin' Ghandi bitch! Know what I sayin?”

“But Prat, it's so much money!”

Prat looked into Norance's eyes for a long moment. The irises were a

clear, passionate brown, but the balls around them were bloodshot from weed

and confusion. He spoke more slowly and softly “Norance, I've got a dream and

no amount of money is gonna change that. I been in this place for almost 6

fuckin' months now and I've learned that I'm not in here to wait and get out just

to fuck things up again. I'm gettin' resurrected here and I'm not about to fuck shit

up in my 2nd life.”

There was a silence that absorbed all the noise around them broken by

words that Prat never expected to hear from Norance. “If what you're sayin' is

true, I'll help you get a new life started. I don't know what half the shit you say

means, but I feel it somehow... And it makes me wanna change myself. Whadaya

say?”

“Fuck nigger! That sounds like a fuckin' plan right there! Ha! Oh shit, I

can already see it.

22 Norance really had no idea how much the thing was worth but it looked complex enough to
him that he figured billions was right, which, serendipitously, it was..
Shit's gonna be workin' itself out fo' me. You're my angel come to move the stone

trappin' me in my cave, cus truth is, I could get outa this box, but unless I look at

it the right way, I'd still be stuck in here. It's people like you-as dumb a

motherfucker you may be-that help trapped niggers like me get out into the light

again! WEOW!love ya Norance!”

Norance smiled reluctantly, embarrassed by Prat's public promulgation of

his affections for Norance, no matter how platonic they were. Prat, however, did

not notice this at all and was glowing with happiness and excitement for the

impending.

“Shit man! You ain't gotta be all quiet about this. Fuck, ya know what I

jus realized? We jus hit dat spot in tha convosation when you's done talkin' bout

one thing and you ain't got anotha thing to talk bout' yet so you just sortin'

through shit to talk about. And fuck man, when I'm in da cell I thinka so much

fuckin' shit to talk to you about, but da second I get here it's all fuckin' gone

cause I just too fuckin' psyched to thinka shit to say right now. Ha! How fuckin'

great is that! I'm talkin' bout how I ain't got notin to talk about! That's like one of

them fuckin' patterns you see on DMT23 o' some shit.

Fuck man, I just thoughta something to talk bout. Fuckin, drugs and shit!

You know I won't be selling no mo' but I got this great lady wit' me here that

made me realize that I ain't gonna be smoking o' drinkin' no mo' either. And you

know that they's gonna drug test me with parole and all that shit but I still got

acid and trippers as a possibility24. And fuck man, I'm fuckin' glad to still have da

23 DMT- Dimethyltryptamine. A hallucinogen that causes one to see fractal patterns.

24 Hallucinogens aren't detectable on drug tests... I bet I just made some stoner's day.
opportunity cause den iz my own fuckin' choice to say no. Cause when you ain't

got no choice, and you do what's right , you no betta than da dude who did da

wrong thing. Hegemony an' shit don't mean you got good people o' whatever.

You just got people wit' no choice an' that means noones doing no good. Shit

man, fuckin', if you gonna be good, it can't be cause someone told you what da

fuck you supposed to do. You gotta fuckin' do what you know is right, even if dat

shit be hard and you tryin' to deny it. Fuck nigga, I did dat shit wit drugs fo' God

knows how long. I always be thinkin' this ain't bad. People just be sayin' it is.

Then I went through a phase when I was all wit' da people and now I be realizin'

that it son't matter shit what people say. Drugs is bad cause I know theyz bad and

that shit's within me.”

Norance wondered why he'd come. He liked Prat-he loved him, but this

wasn't the normal hanging out with him. Prat was rattling on about God knows

what, and what the fuck does hedgehogony or whatever mean? Norance looked

at the wall behind Prat and saw that it was old and rusty. A yellow mold was

seeping down. This yellowness- probably water stain- had been slowly flowing

downwards over the 5 months that Norance had visited Prat and every time he

came he saw that it was getting nearer to reach the same level as Prat's forehead.

To the left of the stain were 2 guards standing imperiously with guns and black

jackets at the door for inmates to enter and exit. One of the guards caught

Norance's wandering eyes and bared his teeth vehemently for some reason. The

teeth then began to lengthen and become fangs. Norance blinked in shock and

saw that the guard had, in fact, not opened his mouth at all25.

25 Because of the LSD and clusterfuck of drugs that Norance had done, he was prone to all kinds
 “Cool man. Look man, you should like, write a book or somethin' Prat”

Norance said in an attempt to say a statement that appeared as if he had

understood what Prat had said while being ambiguous enough to be relevant

even though he had not. Prat did not catch on to this because he already expected

ignorance of Norance Igman26. Prat was actually impressed by Norance's

response as it had been somewhat relevant to what Prat was saying. Of course,

Prat had misconstrued Norance's thinking, believing that he liked that Prat had

to say and agreed with the thoughts so strongly that he believed a book would be

a wise course of action. And from this excitement that was rooted in deception,

Prat said:

“Norance, shit, I might fuckin' do dat. Ain't noone eva wrote a book bout

like how da black man be tryin' to pick himself up from a black man tryin' to

pick himself up. No, no, like, a black man tryin' to get himself in a betta situation

an' shit ain't neva written bout dat. It'd jus be like a diary o' some shit an' then I'd

be rollin' in da big dough, but fuckin' clean dough fo' once. I feel like I been

bathin' in dirt wit' all this dirty shit in my life an' finally I been able to wash

myself clean here. Ha, took some nasty fuckin' showers in here to do it too! Oh,

an' you know that shit bout droppin' da soap?”

“Yeah!” Norance said excitedly, finally knowing what Prat was referring

to27.

“Well that shit ain't true at all! Guys get raped in da showers but it ain't

of hallucinogenic flashbacks and out spurts. Norance also suffered from frequent muscle
spasms, the cause of which is unknown.
26 Norance Igman- Ignorance man!
27 Prat was referring to the old joke: when you drop the soap in prison, some guys going to
anally rape you.
got nutin to do wit' droppin' da soap. I thought about that. Yeah, that's onea da

thingds I wanted to talk bout wit you. So, if you was gonna rape people that be

droppin' soap in da shower, you'd just be walkin' around lookin' at guys

showerin' the whole time an' people would know what you was lookin' fo' and

beat yo ass. Guys do have bitches fo' themselves though. Is like a defense thing. I

just stay away from dat shit and I ain't gotta be nobody's bitch o get myself a

bitch cause I keep my mouth fuckin' shut.”

“So it hasn't been too bad?”

Norance laughed. “Shit man, you're lucky. Is shit bad in there?”

“It's fuckin' jail man. Yeah. I mean, you make da situation what you want

it to be but der be times when shit just overtake yo outlook an you can't do shit

bout notin. Fuckin', you betta watch where you goin' around in here, but I ain't

had notin' terrible happen dat got me limpin' o' notin'. Nah man. I I don't know

nigga, jail just seems like a stupid ass fuckin' place. Put alla da fuckin' most

worst guys in the country in one place and let 'em fuck eachother up all ova da

place. Sometimes it's fuckin' mayhem, but dat's when you just gotta sit back an'

watch the fireworks, an' if they blow up in yo face, back the fuck up.”

“So it's not too bad?”

“Nah man. It ain't too bad.” Prat summarized.

“That's good man. You sure you don't want in on this shit I got with

Wen?”

“Fuck nigga, you a persistent motha fucka ain't you? I'm tryin' to

remember but it seems like about 30 fuckin' seconds ago when you said you was
gonna give me a place to live so I wouldn't have to do none of dat shit no more.

Yeah, yeah, that was about 5 seconds afta I told ya dat I ain't gonna be doin' none

of dat shit no more no matter what an' I don't give a shit what amounta money.

Fuckin, you makin me repeat myself and we ain't got a lotta time mo. Let's talk

bout some new shit. I'm sicka stickin' round da same old subjects like whose got

a kilo an' what Wen's got you shippin' now but fo' some reason I still be strugglin'

tryin to get that shit outa my head, you know what I'm sayin?”

“Man, you always ask that.”

“Ask what?”

“If I know what you're-um, um- what you're saying. And I fuckin' never

do. You always talk about the most weird shit all the time. It's stupid.” Norance

said.

“I don't know what to say nigga, that's da shit I got to say an' you be here

to listen to it so why you complainin'? You was the one who made da choice to

come da fuck ova here and visit me. Shit man, you could be out rollin' wit ladies

an' doe right now but you be sittin in a room with an incarcerated nigga. Looks

like you ain't too bright a mutha fucka, is you? So when you be tellin' me that

what I say is stupid, you oughta look at what yo doin'. Not to say I don't love you

bein' here an' all, but honestly, you's a free man encapsulating yoself by visiting

me an' you ain't gotta be. So, befo you go talkin' bad bout me you best be

checkin' yoself. People always be lookin' at the faults in othas but it's harder to

see what's you doin' wrong all the time, even when people be sayin' that you

wrong. I guess it's cause you do shit that you think is right an other people look
at it from a different pair a shoes so in their mind it be bad an shit but just cause

dat be the way they thinkin'. Know what I'm sayin? Fuck nigga, I guess you's

right. I am spillin' out some pretty weird shit right about now man. Ha, whatevs.

You right an' you wrong, just like we all is. Know what I mean?”

“Sure man. Look, so you said I could be rollin' with ladies and it got me

thinking. You ain't gonna be doing drug shit but you still want some girlies for

when you get out man?”

Prat stood up and his entire face seemed to shine with a smile so big that

Norance couldn't help but smile back, even if he didn't know why it was that he

was smiling. “Ha, shit nigga! Course we gonna celebrate with some fuckin'

ladies! Ha, when I get out, they's gonna be the one thing to hold dis nigga

togetha. Seriously, muthafuckas fall apart when there ain't girls nowhere. There

ain't no bitches to show us when we bein' dumb mutha fuckas and there ain't no

booty to distract us from our boredom, except fo hairy booty and I just ain't into

dat shit.”

Norance laughed.

“Is Ally still hangin' round you and missin' me cause I'd be down to get

back wit her. Fuck man, when you wit all them girls in the world they just seem

like a fuckin' parta like, like, life. Then you get in here and realize how good you

had it even when you had a girl you wasn't to hot for in yo arms. Ally may notta

been perfect fo me but she sure as hell ain't bad neither, and 'sides, she was

rockin' in bed.”

“Man, Ally got pregnant.” Norance looked at Prat seriously.

 “Fuck man! Who's the dad?”

“She don't know but she thinks it's you. She's a whore though so it could

be half the guys in Vegas.” Norance said darkly.

Prat's countenance became serious and he looked as if he were suffering

greatly from what he had just heard. He looked down at his hands in silence and

saw that they were trembling mildly.

“Is, is, she okay? Did she stop smokin'?”

“Smokin' what? Weed, crack, or meth?”

“Any of them?”

“No.” Norance said uninterestedly, wondering why Prat was acting up so.

“And she's just gonna have that baby?” Prat asked quietly and seriously.

“Yeah. Why the fuck do you care?”

“Shit! She's makin' a mistake that you can't turn back. Fuckin' I made a

mistake that you can't turn back. There's times when you realize dat shit ain't just

gonna fix itself, or at least, der be certain things you just gotta fix yoself and you

can't wait it out or pray to God cause shit don't fix itself all da time.”

“What are you tryin' to say? She's getting rid of it as soon as it's out of

her.”

“Like adoption?”

“Yeah. At least, that's what she's sayin.”

“Oh fuck! Man, you scared me. I thought she was gonna be tryin' to raise

a fuckin' baby! I was just thinkin' that shit ain't gonna work, fuck man! Still,

that's some serious shit. Those drugs can fuck up the baby's brain an' shit man.
She betta stop doin' dat shit. Norance, stop sellin' her shit man, if you is,

seriously, stop sellin' her shit.”

Norance looked at Prat perplexedly, “Why?”

“Cause she's fuckin pregnant and havin' a baby an drugs an' shit's gonna

fuck up her baby man! Shit, be responsible mutha fucka!”

Prat stopped himself and took a deep breath. A security guard walked

over, “Everything alright over here boys?”

“Fine.” Norance responded candidly.

“Yeah. I just found out I'm a crack baby's dad and my friend here's gonna

make a billion dollas offa some shit he doesn't know da name of. I guess that's

what fine is.” Prat said to the guard ironically.

The guard laughed at Prat thinking that this had been a joke and walked

back to the door.

“Sorry man, dat's just some heavy shit. It was good to see you though you

crazy son of a bitch.”

“It's all good. I guess this'll be the last time I see you before you get out.”

“Fuck nigga! This is! Shit! Ha, we gonna be chillin' in Vegas again befo'

you know it mutha fucka! Ha!” prat laughed.

Norance stood up laughing and hugged his friend goodbye. He walked

out thinking about how he was going to throw Prat a giant party the night he got

back. Norance was completely caught up in the excitement of the moment,

totally forgetting the gas station, and the kidnapping, and the murders, and that

weird thing, and the billions of dollars, and Wen.

 Prat sat awkwardly wondering why Norance had left before their allotted

time was up and at such a random moment; one in the middle on the

conversation. A guard came and took him by the inside of his elbow, leading him

to the door and back toward his cell. He looked backward over his shoulder and

saw that Norance was gone.

L.L. Zamenhof formed a language in an attempt to create a unified,

global form of communication. It was called Esperanto. Zamenhof, a British

ophthalmologist of the 19th and 20th century, tried to make it simple and straight

forward, avoiding all the inconsistencies that run rampant in all existing

languages so as to make it easier to learn and speak. It was a really good concept

but it fell off. I think that, most likely, the language wasn't successful because

L.L. Zamenhof lacked political influence, (honestly, how would anyone change

any aspect of culture if it weren't through politics or technology? The guy was an

ophthalmologist for Christ's sake. He had no political power. Now, the spread of

the practice of Esperanto itself wouldn't need an original political source per se
but it did need a political influence to pick it up and put it into action which

never happened.) and new language contradicts the traditions that people hold,

but any unified language would break into numerous separate languages just like

Latin broke off into Spanish, German, Italian etc.

People express themselves through verbal communication more intensely

by obtaining specific dialects and as time progresses these dialects become

means of self segregation (in a social form). Paradoxically, people wish to

manifest their differences by differing in verbal mannerisms while

simultaneously connecting to similar people by sharing those mannerisms of

speech. It's as if there could be one base language but people would sprout out

from the base form and begin the slow process of communicative evolution.

The line of evolution of language that we follow determines how people

react to us and often is reflective of how we will react to others. A unified

language would mix all personalized socioeconomic reflective expressions

together and cause people to lose the individuality aspect of their persons relating

to their races, education levels, moral standings etc. while also braking the

cliques that are often formed by sharing a language and race or moral standing

etc.

Subconsciously, or maybe even consciously, we pick up the dialect of

identity of the culture/race/what-the-fuck-ever-it-may-be that we wish to be a

part of- to share a connection with- and that is where the personal identity comes

into play. Without this choice, language would fail to express which is, at its root,

its main purpose. Therefore, the unification of language would inevitably be the
death of expression which could be the death of identity.

Chapter 3

Sammy H.K. Rutt28 identified herself as nothing more than Idloh Rutt's29

little sister. She was the younger daughter, the 2nd, the shadow of her sister's

achievements, and she would never live up to them. Sammy had the work ethic,

but Idloh had something more. Idloh, somehow, had an aura of achievement and

greatness around her, yet she was incredibly humble-stop. Sammy thought of

herself less than her sister and when she did think of herself it was usually

exploiting her inferiority which was actually vicariously thinking of her sister

through herself.

The truth is, Sammy was not inferior to her sister, and at times she could

see this, but for some irrational reason she couldn't help but feel small compared

to Idloh. Sam turned 18 on August 31st and had a party full of friends that loved

her for her humble, driven, outgoing personality. Her boyfriend had bought her a

28 Sammy H. K. Rutt- Mask My Truth

29 Idloh Rutt's- Truth's idol
gold necklace and told her that “it's almost as beautiful as you”. This was false

though; Sammy was much more beautiful than the necklace, and her boyfriend,

Coby Sireen 30, knew this. The necklace wasn't curvacious and didn't saunter like

it was nobody's business or have a nose the perfect shape for rubbing his nose

against. Coby loved being with Sammy and hoped to go to college with her, but

doubted that he would be able to get into a single one of the colleges to which

she was applying. Because of this knowledge of the brevity of their relationship,

Coby treated every moment with Sammy as one of incredible meaning and

jubilation. Sammy cared deeply about Coby-who for some reason she called

Colby and now Coby-, but not as much as she did about her future and proving

herself as successful as her older sister.

Sammy was nearly done with her project on the relation of olfactory

sensory and memory in mid-September though the state science fair wasn't until

the last Friday of the month. Some of her friends joked with her about being an

adult in the science fair, and this made Sammy laugh. No offense was meant by

the jokes, and none was taken. Sammy's friends knew that they could joke with

her about things like that because she never took offense in derogatory jokes.

Sammy had the ability to see the best side of everyone, and because of this, she

brought it out in everyone. Ironically, she would always see others as great

people that were better than she, while others thought the same of her.

On September 25th Sammy drove to downtown Seattle to enter the

Washington Scientists of Tomorrow Science Fair. The town was sparkling with

drizzling rain; it cleaned everything. The building gleamed with Sammy's hope

30 Coby Sirene- Sincere boy

for doing well in the science fair. “Of course,” she told Colby “I won't get 1st and

go to nationals. Well, with all the brilliant kids just in our school there's no

chance that I'll medal, but at least I'm going to learn more today.”

“Sammy, have you looked at your project? It's amazing! I wouldn't be

surprised if you get 1st place, seriously.” Colby responded.

“Oh, you're sweet!” Sammy replied thinking he's only saying that. He

knows I won't win, but that's still nice of him to say.

Colby was sitting in the passenger seat in Sammy's car smiling. Sammy

looked over and saw this and asked “What?”

“I'm not kidding! I can see that look on your face. You're thinking, oh,

that was nice of me to think but I don't believe it. Well, I do.”

“Really?”

“Sammy, trust me, there are going to have to be 3 Isaac Newtons here to

beat you.” Colby Sireen was sincere, but Sammy couldn't imagine doing better

than Idloh, who only received 2nd in the state and wasn't invited to nationals.

Sammy and Colby arrived at the Washington State Convention and Trade

Center at 11 A.M. And carried in 3 trips of supplies from Sammy's Mitsubishi,

setting them on the table labeled “Sammy H.K. Rutt”. Colby set down the plastic

face that was missing half of the nose to show the nasal passages and their

connections to the brain and looked at the table. On it was set a beautifully

designed, analysis of human memory and olfactory sensory, full of graphs,

diagrams, writings, and experimental procedures and results. It was an

overwhelmingly massive amount of data, almost too much to handle. Colby

wondered how Sammy had even started, where she had trailed, and how she had

determined the project over. It seemed to him that it had been done perfectly and

was completely covered. Every aspect of every question asked was answered

thoroughly. To Sammy, it seemed that she could have done so much more, and

maybe then she would win, but she hadn't and it was hopeless.

After perusing the other experiments, Colby was positive that Sammy

would win. Sammy, however, was positive that she would lose. There were other

students that had much more aesthetic and insightful experiments, and I had

been foolish to pick a nose for the object of her experiment. At least I wasn't the

boy who had chosen the effects of masturbation on 40 year old women. Why did

he bring a dildo anyways?

The boy who had done the masturbation project had done so as a joke and

had brought some of his friends with him to laugh while he presented to the

judges. What the dildo boy never expected was that his project would win 3rd

place. His friends all cheered and laughed, knowing that he had made up all of

his data as a complete joke. This boy, however, came up with a plan when he was

awarded the bronze ribbon31. He gathered his 3 friends and whispered what they

were to do when that hot girl who had won 1st place for picking noses' effects on

memory walked up on stage to give her speech. When his friends heard the idea

they all boisterously obliged and grabbed a dildo from the boy's table.

Colby hugged Sammy who seemed to be unable to stop crying with joy.

31 I want the reader to recognize what kind of integrity this boy has. He doesn't settle for small
pranks like teepeeing a house or some other shenanigan. This boy has gone to a science fair to
mess with the system and has won a bronze medal because his presentation was so legitimate
and scientifically thought provoking. This boy, in my mind, is no less than the greatest man to
ever live, and if he actually existed and weren't a figment of my imagination, I would hug him
harder than I hugged I've ever hugged anyone before.
Sammy thought to herself I just got lucky! It couldn't be! There's no way that this

was better than Idloh's project. But something in her was telling her that it was

true. Colby wiped away a tear and Sammy looked up laughing. Finally between

laughs and tears she said “I'm so sorry. It started as me being happy to win, but

now I'm laughing at how ridiculous my crying is and I'm crying because I

opened the gates to my emotions and I can't close them until this flood pours out.

Ha!”

Colby laughed, he knew what she meant and was glad that he could see

her open up like this. To see that she had been holding so much back that when

she actually opened up a new part of her she couldn't pull it back and put on an

act, relieved Colby. It somehow showed him that he knew the real Sammy and

was enthralled by her. Sammy sniffed in a bubble of snot that was beginning to

emerge from her small nose and closed her sparkling eyes to let her tears know

that they were finished with that falling business. She collected herself and

smiled. The corner of her lips pressed little dimples into her cheeks that allowed

Colby to know, Sammy was really happy. Only when she was truly feeling great

did she have dimples.

One of the judges walked over to Sammy and told her, “You'll be

speaking in 10 minutes. You might want to clean you face before that.”

Sammy stood confused for a second wondering what he had meant, then

realized that she probably had mascara running down her entire face. When she

entered the bathroom and looked into the mirror, her suspicions were confirmed.

She washed her face and put on new makeup. From the corner of her eye she
made out a figure leaving a stall. She gave a small glance to see who it was. It

was a a scroungy, short man in a cleaning suit with a mop. He looked at her

worried for a moment and with a terrible lisp, declared “I'm sho shorry! I didn't

know no one wash in here!”

“It's ok! Don't worry! I'm just doing makeup. Why are you cleaning the

ladies room while they're having an event here though?”

“It's a shcience fair. There aren't too many girlsh here you know.”

“Now that's not true! Almost half the entrants here were females!”

Sammy shouted proud of the involvement of females in the sciences. The Janitor,

however took this as an insult, thinking that Sammy was calling him sexist. But,

due to something about her, the janitor didn't want to fight her; he wanted to

prove that he wasn't sexist.

“Oh, I thought this was an only boys science fair! I'm so sorry. Had I

known, I...Well, I'm sorry” The janitor wished he could think of a better lie, but

Sammy smiled at him.

“It's fine then! You shouldn't expect many girls at an all boys science fair

either way. I hope you have a good day! This bathroom looks immaculate by the

way. You do an amazing job!” Sammy was sincerely jealous of this janitor's

cleaning ability. The janitor was flattered to the point of reddened cheeks and

replied.

“Thanks. Um, good look, um, with your science experiment.”

“Oh thank you! Maybe someday I'll be as good at science as you are at

cleaning!”
 The janitor thought back to his teenage years and frowned inwardly. He

wished that he had gone to college and become someone smart and successful

like this girl would do, but he was 62 and his life's prime had already been lived.

Then, for a moment he thought of the meaning behind what this girl had just

said. She had seen his cleaning as more of an accomplishment than her scientific

experiment. And why wasn't it? He had worked just as hard in his life as she had,

yet for some reason he had always thought of himself as worse than those who

worked half as hard as he and made twice as much because of a different kind of

education.

“You oughta know that your one of the kindesht people I've ever met. I

thank you dearly.” He looked at Sammy's deep brown eyes and sighed. She had

so little experience and yet so much thought; he so few thoughts yet so much

experience. Which one, he wondered, is better?

When Sammy came back to the convention room, a crowd had formed

before the podium and a man was announcing the winners. He was on 3rd place

and saying “,and we'd like to commend Dilon K. Drap on his thought provoking,

out of the box, experiment on the effects of masturbation on middle aged

women.”

Dilon's friends shouted in excitement, clapping cautiously so as to not

drop the dildos in their jackets. When The announcement of 1st place came

around Sammy walked onto the stage to give her speech. She had written it

reluctantly, not expecting that she would win, but was now glad she had taken

the precautionary measure and done so. She pulled the folded paper from her
pocket and straightened it on the podium, wetting it with her sweaty hands,

cleared her throat, and began.

“I cordially thank all of you for allowing me to participate in this fair, and

most of all, for declaring me the winner. As a young scientist today, I aspire to

become one that is able to make my discoveries and trials significant within the

world of tomorrow. To this end, I am willi-AUGH!”

Suddenly Sammy had been pelted in the face by 8 dildos. Dilon and his

friends ran towards the door, audaciously laughing, until they were pummeled by

2 security guards whom handcuffed them and walki-talkied a policeman. The

crowd stood, frozen, wondering whether to leave or comfort the poor girl on

stage. Sammy looked to Colby who was trying to hold in a snicker which burst

out when he was hit it the face by one of the dildos, thrown by a brightly smiling

Sammy. He knew that Sammy was the kind of girl to take things such as that in

good humor. After this, the crowd was even more frozen. One of the older judges

whispered “This is what those teenagers are like. Even the good ones are into

dirty things like this! Oh, god have mercy on my grandchildren! It's that rap

music, I'm just sure of it.” to a man standing beside him.

Sammy looked back into the awestruck crowd with a smile.

“I was going to say, to this end I am willing to endure great difficulties.

When I wrote the 1st draft of this thank-you paper I had written 'great difficulties

and even embarrassments if they will bring me to contribute to humanity'. I cut

out the 'embarrassments' because I figured that it was superfluous, but now I

realize it wasn't. In fact, it may have been the most important part of this speech.
To think of the greatest inventions on earth, it's amazing how many of them were

accidents. The creation of the light bulb by Thomas Edison was a mistake as was

the discovery of gravity by Newton. Our mistakes can be our greatest

accomplishments, because they are seed of change. And change is the source of

hope.”

The crowd burst into applause. Amidst the cheers, Colby ran up and

hugged Sammy. She thanked everyone, including the boys in handcuffs and

stepped down. Afterward, Sammy was handed a sandy, yellow envelope which

contained an invitation to the AFCEA National High School Science Fair.

Sammy shrieked an exclamation of joy and opened the envelope, already

knowing what it was. When she looked up to Colby knew he loved32 her.

3.1

On June 21st of the next year Kadijah's house was crumbling at the seems.

Its fireplace had fallen back into the yard scattering bricks throughout it like little

toy soldiers in a boy's room. The grass was overgrown and the roof was covered

with a tarp to protect the already caving in ceilings from further water damage

from the holes in the shingles above. The vent had eroded and was now such a

dry, crusty metal that one could stick a hand through it and watch it flake into

little pieces, floating down to the ground like dry, brown leaves in autumn. The
32 Love, in this case, is meant entirely in the high school definition here. High school love is not
a mixture of purity, care, and endorphins but more of a mixture of acne, awkward hormones,
lust, an half erection, and being friends with a girl. I mean, most girls are kinda lame in high
school. Their true beauty tends to blume in college and/or later on.
Detroit gust blew by and the white fractal chips of paint on the exterior of the

house clasped on with all their might, summoning a final effort's gusto, and then

teetered back and forth until they were pried off by the breeze and silently

floated through the air. The inside reeked of dust and moldy bacterias. Kadijah

had until July 31st to move into this terminally ill house and out of her apartment.

She had bought it for $3,000 because she needed to move out and pay less and it

had 4 bedrooms and Oh My God!, it'sa be so cute girl! After $2,000 more of

repairs to leaking pipes and battered walls and rusting vents and uninsulated

kitchens and new carpet that wasn't multicolored from animal shit and urine she

had realized that, maybe a 4 bedroom shit hole wasn't so a good an idea, you

know? After her funeral for her son in November, Kadijah hadn't had no reason

to be workin' all day long when she was mournin his turrible death. Just fuckin

turrible. Because of her deteriorated drive, her life began to dry up and shrivel

into broken pieces. She couldn't make rent and Sarel was living with her again

and his girl Connie and Connie's sister's baby and Connie's sister sometimes

were over there and none of them was workin and Sarel wasn't doin nuthin but

sittin on his ass all day so Kadijah had to do everything fo everybody and

nobody said thankyou or nothin and there wasn't no reason for her to be workin

as much no more.

However, something changed when she got the new house. This new light

flickered on in the cold darkness of her heart and she began to glow with a

passion, although it was a very expensive passion: remodeling and fixing.

Kadijah had been so enthralled by the idea of cuteifying the house that she had
expelled all her funds before she realized that chaos that would ensue between

March and July. Aspects of the house started revealing themselves to her as the

veil of illusion began to drift away from Kadijah's eyes and she began to see

what a heep of trash the house was. Finally she had a panic attack in late April

and hallucinated walls screaming at her “Hey bitch! Why'd you let me crumble

all ova da place and fall apart! You be buyin these designer tiles to cover the

floor underneath me but I'm not even held up by nails anymore yo! Go ahead

girl, push me! I'll fall! Ima fall! Don't even be doubtin!”33 At this point Kadijah

signed up for a volunteer group to come help renovate her house that summer

and began working harder and harder because fear is a very very good motivator.

Kadijah had received acceptance from the volunteer group and now 5 people

were on her roof, at 9 A.M., peeling old, rotted shingles off the roof and

preparing to put new ones on. Among these 5 volunteers were Sammy H.K. Rutt

and Colby Sirene who had gone to Michigan for 2 weeks over the summer to

renovate houses and plant gardens. Kadijah was sitting on her front porch.

Staring at her phone. Pretending to be playing a game on it or something. She

had bought internet and unlimited text and call and everything but she just

couldn't entertain herself with it right now. See, she had to be at the house at all

times when the volunteers were there, which meant she couldn't be working and

makin money which meant she was stressed. There were plenty of games on her

phone that she could have played but she was so preoccupied with the stress of

not being able to work for 5 days that she was staring at it in anger at its being so

33 This has been translated from an Ebonics version of Latin that Kadijah had heard it in
somehow and comprehended. In all honesty, it wasn't Latin, but it sounded like it to Kadijah.
boring. Sammy and Colby were pulling shingles from the jungle on the top of the

house and throwing them into the backyard without much thought. The

construction manager, an inept 24 year old, was inside impetuously/apathetically

telling people what they could/might wanna do if they wanted to, maybe. Pat

Hay34 was his name and he looked like this: he was pretty attractive. He wore

glasses and a baseball cap that covered wavy brown hair underneath it which

flipped out like wings underneath the hat. His hair went down to around his ears

and his skin was red from being outside doing construction so much. His arms

were surprisingly small for being a construction manager. In all honesty, he didn't

really want to be a construction manager of this but the market was bad35 and this

paid well, so whatever. He had recently graduated from Wayne State with high

honors, majoring in psychology. He had worked construction for his dad during

the summers of college to pay his way through it and had gotten a lot of

experience. When he graduated, his dad started up a volunteer based construction

group while he went job hunting for a year. After exactly 365 days of serious

applications in every place around the metro area of Michigan at businesses and

psychology centers and medical centers, Pat gave up and worked for his dad as a

construction manager for $10 and hour. Pat was now cutting sheet rock that

needed to be put up over the newly insulated front wall of the kitchen. He looked

into the backyard through the cracked window that looked out of the family

room of the house behind the kitchen and saw shingles flying down onto the

ground and smacking against the bricks that had scattered throughout the yard

34 Pat Thay- Apathy

35 Detroit had a 45% unemployment rate, so many of those who got jobs during this time got
ones they didn't want particularly.
when the chimney had tumbled. He looked at the falling shingles and felt a tinge

of envy for Sammy and Colby, who had been given the easiest job- though he'd

expected it to be the hardest with the expected heat, made much more potent by

the humidity that day, but a heavy breeze had canceled out the heat, leaving

Sammy and Colby comfy and celebratory on the rooftop. Pat thought he heard

laughing and giggling and pulled his blade from the sheet rock to check on the

two 18 year olds (youngsters compared to the two 60+ year olds in the kitchen

with him) to make sure that they were on task. As he opened the back door he

ran, covering his head, dodging flying shingles back into the house and realized

that the steady flow of shingles had been proof enough that they weren't messing

around, and that, in fact, his own boredom had caused this illusory fear which

was probably subconsciously an attempt to stop working on something he didn't

want to do36.

Pat opened the front door to check on Kadijah who quickly closed her

eyes as she heard it opening, to avoid an awkward conversation wit some white

boy that didn't want to talk to bout notin cause she had to take off work so he

could be doin this and why couldn't he just work without her there? She was

missin work!

Pat, who didn't know why exactly she had to be there, scowled at the

sight of her asleep while he was working on her house, which left him even less

motivated. He walked back in, shutting the new front door with more strength

that he intended out of anger. Kadijah opened her eyes back up and looked, once

again, to her phone. She wondered if she could help. She was so bored. She

36 In fact, it definitely was.

wanted to do something and felt terribly embarrassed needing other people's help

to simply fix her house.

I should go in and help them. But shit, they don't need no help. I mean,

what'm I s'posed to do? They aint askin fo no help but they actin like they need

some. Should I just go in an ask em if there's anything I can do? Nah, they'd tell

me, right? Well, shit, would they? Maybe they be thinkin the exact same thing

right now, wondering if Ima ask if they got any work fo me. Then I should just go

in an ask. But whatm I sposed to say to em? They all talkin bout campin and shit

I aint neva done and I don't know whattasay these crackas. Should I just say I'm

gratitudefull an glad dat they be here workin' wit me or should...

and on and on Kadijah wrestled with herself in her mind wondering what

to do.

Sammy shouted from the roof to Kadijah “I feel awkward working on

your house and not knowing you. I mean, I know your name cause they told us

you're Kadijah in the orientation this morning but they didn't tell us anything

about you and knowing your name doesn't really count for anything. Speaking of

which, I'm Sammy and this is my boyfriend Colby.”

Kadijah turned her face up and put a hand over her eyes to block out the

sun light which shined straight onto her smooth, dark skin. Her nails were all

flamboyant with multicolored designs on them and extended well beyond her

fingers. She smiled, portraying the giant gap between her two top front teeth and

responded “Well nice ta meechya Sammy an Colby. I'm Kadijah...You already

knew dat though.”

 Colby laughed “You have no idea how often that's happened to me

before. My dad will introduce me to someone and then, right after my dad has

said my name and I have nothing to say, I'll just tell the new acquaintance my

name.”

“It's all formalities. We have these simple things that we can say to

strangers and still be in the safe zone withour revealing our personalities like our

names and asking 'how are you' and talking about the weather.” Sammy threw in.

Kadijah nodded in agreement and then thought about how she had nothin

to say, wonderin how to relate to these kids up there on the roof who seemed like

they was very nice.

“Where you from?” Kadijah asked after a pause that lasted longer than

anyone had wanted it to.

“Washington. Both of us.” Sammy replied, peaking her head over the

rooftop while Colby struggled with a piece of shingle that was being obstinate.

Finally it came loose and Colby tumbled onto his back nearly falling from the

roof, but he had grabbed it with both his hands by the time Sammy looked

around and asked if he was alright.

“What just happened?” Kadijah asked, masking half her face from the

two on the roof by covering her eyes from the sun37.

“Your roof is trying to kill me!” Colby shouted down from the back side

of the roof (which was tilted in two directions, both at a 30° angle, one going

toward the front of the house other going to the back) half laughing, and half

calming himself down.

37 Symbolism!
 “Yeah, it's been tryin' to do dat to everybody lately.” Kadijah replied.

At this point, Pat saw that the amount of tiles falling down from the back

side of the roof had slowed down and he walked to the backyard to catch Sammy

and Colby in the act38. He only saw Colby, since Sammy was on the other side,

who was shouting to Kadijah but still pulling shingled off, just not throwing

them off; instead, stacking them since he wasn't really thinking about what he

was doing as more of his attention was directed to the conversation at hand.

“Hey...ummmm, Cole!” Pat interjected.

“Close, Colby.” Sammy yelled from the other side of the roof.

“Oh, nevermind.39” Pat turned around and went back into the house to

instruct the old farts on how to spackle the wall behind where the sink was gonna

go.

“Look honey, I don't want no roof be killin you today. Why don't I come

up an work on dat wit you guys?” Kadijah smiled nervously. Sammy smiled back

forcefully, seeing that Kadijah was about 5'13” and 220-240 pounds with big

rotund hips that bounced voraciously when she walked; don't even try to imagine

her running. Chances were, she would have quite a struggle maneuvering around

the roof and there was a good chance that she would fall into it as Colby had also

done so twice.

“Kadijah, I think you should work on the inside since this is a really

unstable surface and we're more agile, not to be rude,” Colby shouted across the

roof “But I've fallen in twice and had to pull myself up from the hole that I

38 Of goofing of. No sexual innuendo is intended here in any way you sex-addicted freekazoids.
39 He was going to ask were...Sabrina? was.
created which would be more of a struggle for you.”

Kadijah liked how laconically Colby addressed her and thanked him for

his realism and candidness. “You should really go ask Pat inside though, cause

I'm sure he has something for you to do.” Sammy offered Kadijah hopefully. “I

could even go ask him for you if you want.”

Kadijah laughed at Sammy's ridiculous selflessness and said “I'm fine. I'll

go ask him myself.”

20 seconds later Kadijah came back outside and sat in her chair looking

defeated.

“What happened?” Sammy said, looking over the roof down onto Kadijah

once again.

“That Pat boy, I don-” Kadijah realized that the front window was open

and that he could hear her “Hold on a sec girl.” Kadijah jumped out of the chair

and bounced upstairs, climbed the ladder and got onto the roof.

“I don't know bout dat Pat boy girl” Kadijah whispered as she crawled on

all 4's in fear of fallin into or off of the worn out roof.

Colby laughed, “Guess we just can't keep you off of the roof, now can

we?”

“When a girl knows whata girl wantsa do, a girls gonna do it, and don't

you try an stop her boy. You keep dat in mind next time you with yo girl. You

best be treatin her right.” Kadijah felt herself rambling and caught herself,

figuring that this wasn't necessary to say to Colby since he seemed completely

respectful of Sammy.
 “Don't you worry about how Colby treats me Kadijah. He and I get along

just fine, unlike this roof and I do. Would you mind handing me that hammer

Kadijah? I left it on that side.” Sammy asked, trying to make Kadijah feel

helpful. Kadijah smiled and nodded and grabbed the hammer and stood up. She

walked over toward Sammy and handed her the hammer on a creaking roof,

avoiding the holes that lied about randomly.

“Anything else babe?” Kadijah asked, excited by the no-matter-how-

small-it-was-I-just-did-something-to-help feeling.

“You know what, just wait here. I'm gonna grab you some gloves and we

can deshingle the house; all 3 of us.” Sammy replied jubilantly in celebration of

the new friendship that they had made, exposing a quite gregarious side of an

ostensibly introverted woman. Kadijah clapped her hands together in joy and fell

into the roof, down to her wide, wide, really wide ass hips, which caught her. She

had, however, scraped her legs and blood was trickling from her knee onto the

2nd story floor where Pat was walking up to ask what Kadijah was doing on the

roof. He felt something liquid drip onto him and looked at his shirt, realizing that

it was becoming stained red by blood, then looked up to see 2 enormous legs

swinging back an forth and hear a black woman's shrieking, which to apathetic

Pat seemed quite amusing.

“Awww shit! Ima be stuck in here fo good! Dayum girl! Aye!”

 When Kadijah went to the hospital bleeding profusely from her hips,

wearing nothing under her shirt except a small thong which covered nearly

nothing. The doctors rushed her celluloid and blood covered booty into a room

with a patient already in it. All the E.R. Was full but Kadijah was splurging out

blood everywhere and the doctors didn't want blood on the carpet that had just

been cleaned. Why had they put carpet on the floor instead of some stone or

easily wipe-able surface you may ask? The head of the hospital at the time didn't

have much of a head on his shoulders and believed it more aesthetically pleasing

to replace the tiled floors with a bright pink carpet. Unfortunately the pink

became covered with a thick layer of filth and was now a neon, annoying

cesspool. Kadijah's bloody hips added a thick layer of blood to the stains and

trash, helping cover the neon reflection from the florescent lights above, some

flickering, all of them covered in dirt and grime. The man in the room with

Kadijah was old and had long, greasy brown hair, and was a Caucasian. His arm

was broken below the elbow and was pointing out but he countenanced a solemn

face. Kadijah juxtaposed his quazi-meditative appearance with her tumultuous

beltings and screechings. She was writhing in corporal pain and loathing the

impending bill, causing herself mental pain as well. The man next to her

introduced himself.

“Sam Peleck40. You're gonna be alright. Just relax.”

“Ayyyy! Easy fo you ta say! You aint bleedin Lake Michigan outaya hips

muthafucka! You didn't fall through no fuckin roof an hafta get pulled outait by

40 Sam Peleck- Keeps Calm

five people den drive fo twenty minutes an ruin yo car interior. Yo aint got no

idea! So you aint got no right tellin me howa live my life. You best just keep yo

mouth shut boy!”

This boy was actually 25 years old, and though he was younger than

Kadijah she was exaggerating the gap in maturity between the 2 of them so as to

get him off her case, but so calm was Sam Peleck that he simply smiled, holding

his broken arm. Kadijah felt awkward, absorbed by the silence and was frustrated

that she had gotten what she'd wanted so easily. She turned to Sam and as he

looked back to her she quickly looked away to scan the poster on the wall that

was entitled: Kids, have you heard about STDs? They're why having sex will kill

you and scar all those around you for eternity.

Kadijah looked back to Sam again who was silently looking at her in an

ostensibly objective manner. She cringed and let out a little squeal that had been

the result of an aleatory urge to show this Sam her pain. Sam looked at her

unchanging and finally she stopped griping and guffawing perfidiously and

pursed her lips.

“I'm Kadijah. How'd you do day to ya arm?”

The man smiled. “I was walking down Joy Street if you know where that

is-”

“I live offa Joy.”

“Oh okay! So, I was walking down Joy and I saw a dog in the middle of

the street and I ran out to get it a-”

“What typea dog?”

 “Something like a golden retriever I think. I'm not really sure. But, um, I

went out to get the dog and a car was coming so I grabbed it and the car

screeched on its brakes and I jumped to the side and missed the car. Well, the car

kinda skidded to the side and I jumped to the other side. The only thing was that

I jumped toward the curb and the car skidded towards the other side of the street

and then another car going the opposite way screeched on its brakes since the car

had skidded into its lane and then it was turning towards the curb and then

another car behind the car screeched on its brakes and hit the car which hit the

other car and then another car screeched on its brakes since it was going the same

way as the car and that one skidded towards me and the dog but it didn't hit

anything. So the car that got hit first was all dented and the mirror on the side

had been shattered by the car that had hit it that got hit by the car behind it that

had only hit that car, but the car that hadn't hit any of the other cars had hit the

curb so quickly that a wheel had popped off and shattered the glass of an

abandoned sandwich shop and a crack head ran out of the abandoned shop

because -apparently- he had been hiding out in there and he ran out screaming,

thinking that the cops had found him, but really it was just the tire from the car

behind the other 2 cars that had hit the car that had almost hit me. So then t-”

“What da fuckdyou just say? What car hit what? Why was der a

crackhead o whateva? Say it again boy!” At this point Kadijah was so confused

by the story that she had forgotten about her pain and was trying to figure out

which car had hit which. Sam had spoken so rapidly that she didn't understand

him.
 The real story behind why Sam was in the hospital with a broken arm:

Sam had an unnatural love for asparagus and tea and for the last month he had

been in Detroit attempting to make a brewable tea out of asparagus. Of course,

this was not just about making asparagus tea for personal pleasure. Sam had

multiple reasons for doing so that extended beyond himself and personal wishes.

This inexorable nisus had led Sam to the intensive study of ethnobotany,-

something he had had a knowledge of formerly due to his shamanism.41-

herbology, and chemistry. Sam had recently made $10,000 on the sale of

hallucinogenic mushrooms that he had encountered at his previous work. With

that money and the $120,976 he had saved up he went to Detroit, bought an

apartment downtown, and began his research.

Sam had believed, as a result of Shamanic studies, that asparagus held a

ethereal quality that put human energy into a channeled, unified, stream. He saw

asparagus's year long growth to be reminiscent of the human nature in its anti-

hibernationality and its diuretic qualities to be a physical manifestation of the

spiritual cleansing that it caused. Also, asparagus grew in Asia, Europe, and

Africa. In his ethnobotony studies Sam had learned that asparagus had made a

mysterious appearance in Peru in the year 5 B.C. (the exact year that Jesus had

been born) and had disappeared in the year 30 A.D. (yep, when Jesus died). The

41 A spiritual which-doctor that uses herbs and archaic ceremonies to heal illnesses and
ailments. Sam was specifically interested in the hallucinogens involved in shamanism, which
he partook of weekly in the least.
Peruvians had named the plant Xcapliatcayeshua, the last 6 letters of which

formed the Hebrew name of Jesus. The translation for the word

Xcapliatcayeshua showed that it meant “balance and harmony” in the natives'

language. The native Peruvians at the time had two meanings for the word

xcaplia which formed the beginning of their name for asparagus. Apparently it

had meant both harmony the sacred. This harmony was more directed toward

the spiritual however. The tca's participation in the word meant physical, so

when added on it meant balance of spiritual and physical with the holy. Yeshua

had not been a part of the native language at the time and its being involved in

the nomenclature at the exact same time frame of Jesus' life lucidly persuaded

Sam that this had been a non-coincidental archetype at the time. Because of these

obvious spiritual qualities, Sam wished to make asparagus the only food eaten by

humans.

Sam was also extremely fearful of the toxins in everyday drinking water

and believed that asparagus' purity would be able to destroy those toxins with its

negative ions that would put an electro-spiritual charge in the water and

metamorphose the time-matter flux of the positive ions within the water caused

by the toxic chemicals that were mixed into every water source, including rivers.

He knew that, because of the quantum leaps amidst the electrons that composed

the genetic code of asparagus, its (asparagus') plemoric42 powers would allow its

sub-atomic materials to-as a result of morphogenetic fields43- consume the

42 The Plemora was what Daniel Pinchbeck described Carl Jung of describing as the spiritual
realm of archetypes.
43 Morphogeneticism is the belief in the laws of nature's ability to evolve along with the
universe. Morphogenetic fields are pockets of these evolutions in which a certain type of matter
evolved by a different set of natural laws as Sam thought was the case with asparagus.
dualistic electrons/positrons within the water that were the source of all human

tribulations and dispose of them in a quantum, parallel universe. As a result,

Sam found it to be categorically imperative that he invent an asparagus tea that

retained a physical formation which allowed for its psycho-spiritual qualities to

remain intact.

A number of weeks in, Sam was working on the retention of the

expansive ubiquity of asparagus in its crushed form, for without it he would not

be able to cancel out the densification44 of the fabric of the universe, and the time

wave zero45 would continue closing in on itself until the stress of the

compression of time would cancel out all the beneficial effects of asparagus,

rendering his creating of the tea useless. To expand the dried asparagus he was

working with numerous chemicals that would separate the molecules of

asparagus and was also eating a piece of asparagus. As he turned from his table

full of test tubes and papers toward his desk on the other side of the room he

slipped on a pile of asparagus and his arm came down onto the ground with such

a great velocity that his radius and ulna had both split in two. Sam had picked

himself up and walked to the hospital holding the arm. When he had gotten there

he refused all pain medicines and told the doctor that he would wait patiently for

the bones to be set but he would make the cast himself since he wanted to make

it out of white asparagus skins.

44 Rudolf Steiner's theory that the universe is getting denser and denser in events and things, as a
result, are getting more and more intense.
45 Terrance Mckenna's theory that time spirals inward and has similarities between past and
present as it begins to repeat itself more and more and fall into itself.
 Sam was not embarrassed by the true story of why he was there. He

remained calm because he was wrapped up in believing that all pain is a

subjective, self-created concept and that his sub/conscious denial of it would

make it not exist. So far it was not working very well. His nerves were shouting

profanities at him and telling him that they existed, but he paid little attention to

them and instead tried to put himself into a trance. Sam had used the shamanic

practice of distracting those in pain with complexities, forcing the victims of pain

to shift their attentions to a mentally strenuous activity such as deciphering his

rapid story about the cars colliding on the street. He had intentionally used Joy st.

to begin the story with an energy of positivity and it had worked. Kadijah was

twisting her brain trying to figure out which car had hit the other.

“Oh, well the details don't really matter. The only point is that a couple

cars hit and then I ran with the dog from a crack addict down a street and then we

took a left and then the crack addict went straight because I think he wanted to

mug me. So then we took two rights- the dog was running with me happily at

this time. I don't know where he was from. Then we knocked into the crack

addict who had taken a left then another left and then 3 rights after he'd taken an

original turn on the street off of Joy and then turned completely around.”

“Waitaminute mista, you aint makin no sense. You just gotta leave out da

details an tell me why you's here.”

“Well, I tripped while running when I knocked into the crack addict and I

broke my arm.

“An the guy didn't rob you or jump you or nothin?”

 “No, he was so shocked as well by knocking into me that he ran away.”

“But I thought he was chasin you.”

“No, see when I took the 2nd right he took a left cause I think he'd given

up. Then when he went right and then took another right we knocked into

eachother by accident.”

“Buchyou said you was takin a right, didn't you?”

“Either way, it doesn't matter. The important thing is that we're both here

and ready to get healed. Or at least by the standards of American ignoramuses.”

“Whatchya mean honey?”

“See, we cure ourselves with toxins that infect us on an energetic level

and leave us with unbalanced energy so that we create the conflictual duality that

is so intrinsic to our perception of existence. Through true shamanic healing and

the purification ceremonies of asparagus officinalis we would be able to purge

ourselves of the infectious spirits that roam amidst the spiritual realm and pollute

our mind-body unity.”

“Whas shamanic?”

As Kadijah asked this question Sammy H. K. Rutt entered the room

followed by a doctor. She had been the one to drive Kadijah to the hospital and

had just persuaded a doctor to simply stop the bleeding with clothes or pressure

or something for the time being. The doctor lifted up Kadijah's legs and wrapped

a sheet around them tightly, taped the sheet to itself to close the loop, and then

hurried out of the room. Sam looked at Sammy in astonishment.

“Sammy? What are you doing here?”

 Sammy, who had been wiping up the blood from the floor from the

second she got into the room, looked up at Sam and Gasped.

Chapter 4

“Americans consume 16,000 tons of aspirin every year man. See, life is fucking

pain man but we're too wimpy to accept that. We just hold everything back. We

numb ourselves constantly. We distract ourselves constantly. We try to not find

out who we are. We block ourselves from seeing our identities. But what is it?

Identity is what we're all so scared of in secrecy but are always wondering about

in the back of our heads. When you live your life and you never question who

you are- like who you really, really are- you're just avoiding having to confront

your identity. So really, I guess, identity is just that part of you that you're afraid

of cause you don't understand it. It's the fucking enigma inside of you that you

want to know the truth behind, but at the same time you want to run from it. It's

like that thing inside that keeps you from being exactly who you want to be and

makes you exactly who you are. It's weird too. It's so natural but everyone's

afraid of it. It makes you wonder if the true, like, nature of life is bad. Cause if it

isn't then what are we so afraid of? Then again, it might not be- bad, you know.
Maybe we're just too afraid to look at it cause it's a gamble. We're afraid that if

we look into our identity that we might find out that we really are bad. That, no

matter how long and hard we've tried to always be good, we're still just bad at

heart. The real thing inside us. The unaffected being that makes us who we are.

That it might just be pure evil. And really, what's scarier than that? Although,

there's a good chance that it's different with different people.

Like last night I met this drunk guy in a parking lot. He was going into a

711 store to get some cigarettes. He was absolutely belligerent really. This guy

was just so fucking myopic that I wondered if he was really good at heart. He

kept on rattling on about how I need to get into politics and how we 20-

something year olds are gonna take over the country and we need to do

something cause that's our God given right and shit like that. Then he talks about

how we need to listen to Glen Beck and Bill O'reilly to get informed. The guy

wasn't really coherent. He just wanted to talk and talk and talk. It was like he had

all this emotion pent up inside of him but it was really dark, convoluted emotion.

I was with a Pakistani and a Spaniard who go to school with me and he was

ragging on them calling the Pakistani a terrorist and all this shit. He was trying to

prove to me that voting would keep these 'Gihad fucks' out of our country and

my Pakistani friend was all red faced and embarrassed, but I was even more

embarrassed. This drunk guy is really, in his mind, doing everything he can to be

good. He thinks that rambling about how I need to vote to keep the terrorists out

is really philanthropic. He's fucking doing this in front of my Pakistani friend.

He's just disregarding my friend's humanity. It's like that was his identity. Who
he really was was this angry guy that is so lost in this maze and unwilling to

accept it that he drags other people down- or tries to drag other people down-

with him. Then this like 17 year old girl walks by and he talks about how hot her

ass is in that leopard skin skirt for like 5 minutes and all the disgusting things

he'd do to her. I was trying to redirect the guy to either leave or talk about

something that didn't degrade a human being but he wouldn't. The guy only

wanted to think about things that are painful to others. He couldn't just recognize

that other people exist just like him and that they deserve respect. They deserve a

chance. Everyone deserves a chance no matter what. So when we left and went

back to our dorm rooms I was just sitting there awake, feeling really bleak. It

was like the first time I realized that a person can actually just be bad. That

someone can really be trying to be good. Like, don't get me wrong. That drunk

guy wanted what he thought was best for the world. Really, who doesn't? It's just,

there was this thing inside him. This obsession with hatred and separation. This

disdainful apathy almost. It's hard to explain. All I can say is that this guy was

totally denying himself. He was drunk to numb the pain because, you could tell,

he didn't like who he was. Okay, it's coming together now. He was one of those

people that denies their true identity because they know, deep down, that it's

sanguinary and they're afraid of it. They're afraid of themselves. They're afraid of

their identity.

But not everyone's like that. Take my Pakistani friend for example. He

came here with a full ride scholarship and is just studying day in and day out

because he wants to be a computer engineer and set up sites that allow people to
know where in the world they can help and how they can do that. That's his

senior thesis and really, all along, that's just what he's wanted to be able to do

with his life. When I look deep down into him I just see this great guy. He could

have yelled at that drunk guy or beat him up but he just listened instead. He just

stood there and endured it because he knew that it was the best thing to do. And,

I mean, for a little while there he tried to logically persuade the drunk guy that

his being in America wasn't bad and that most Muslims are peaceful. And when

the guy called him a sand nigger he just got quiet and let the dude rant. He's

straight up peaceful and loving. It's hard to explain but he just has something in

him. Really, it's his identity. His identity is just so understanding and sympathetic

that he endures all the bad stuff in life because that's his way of pushing for good.

So, like, the world is filled with both beautiful identities and disgusting

ones. And most of us are just in the middle somewhere. Really we just need to

get over ourselves and look into what we really are. And it's not what we want.

Cause everyone wants good. Everyone just wants to be good, so that's not what

really matters. It's how we want to go about it, because that's what determines

who we are. Like, are you the guy who wants to try and kill thousands of people

to find peace or are you someone that wants to try and talk to terrorists and to

understand where they're coming from so you can learn how to help them? Yeah,

we all have the same goal but our identities are the part of us that determines

how we go about trying to reach that goal.”

 On October 15th at 6:30 P.M. Norance was getting home from the gas

station with 4 bags of groceries. Norance lived in a small, dirty apartment just 2

miles West of Las Vegas. He was a 6'4” Native American with piercing; green

eyes, a wide set; under-bitten jaw, and impressive muscles. He set the 4 grocery

bags on the kitchen counter and pulled out 10 40 oz. Beers, 2 cartons of

cigarettes, and the latest issue of Maxim. He sat down on his couch and lit a

Marlboro, flicking on the TV. He stood up, walked to the fridge, pulled out a

Pepsi, and went back to his couch, sitting down. As he sipped it, he pulled 2

baggies full of yellow powder from his coat pockets and thought.

No, I can't take this all.

That's like $20,000 down the drain if I do.

I've just got to wait until 9, then it'll be hundreds in my pocket, not molly.

Ah, fuck, but what if I took some then sold it.

No, I don't wanna be rolling and selling,

I'll save a little then take it at a party.

Fuck, I want some now!

Norance fought with his thoughts for nearly the entire episode of the

Simpsons before he snorted a gram and texted everyone in his phone from names

XTC1 through XTC36 “2 Kilos of Molly avaylubl”. Within 10 minutes he had

gotten 25 requests. He responded to 10 of them and told them to come over for

some. By 8 PM he had sold out and snorted 2 more grams. By 11 PM he was

kissing a girl that was friends with XTC13 or 14 in his phone. There were about

15 people in his apartment, all of which were high as well.

“You know what we oughta do?” Norance said to the girl, noticing how

far her ribs protruded as he pulled of her shirt.

“What?”

“We oughta just go to Vegas and party with some peoples there.”

“Oh, that sounds like fun! Who do you know that's throwing down?” The

girl's teeth chattered from cold chills as she rubbed Norance's flexing abs.

“No.”

“What?”

“A party.”

“I know, but do you know anyone that's having one in Vegas right now?”

The girl looked at him confused and bit his lip, then kissed his neck.

“It's Vegas girl.” Norance was trying to remember what he wanted to do.

It was something about Vegas, he knew, because he was talking to this girl about
it. How did he know her anyways?

“Well then let's go!” she jumped up from his bed and looked at him

excitedly.

“Where?”

She laughed, thinking that he was kidding with her, and pulling on a blue

shirt said “Where the party's at silly!”

“I'm having a party here though. Why are you putting on your clothes?”

Norance sat up, frustrated and confused, rubbing his palms against his bed

feeling the molly hitting him hard.

The girl looked at him for a moment and giggled, pulling her shirt back

off and unsnapping her bra, then lied down on top of him and stuck her tongue in

his mouth. “You're silly!” She giggled as the rubbed against his obliques and

unbuttoned his pants.

The next morning Norance woke up feeling like a lion had pounced him

the night before. He looked at his clock seeing that it was 1 PM, then at his

mirror seeing that his neck was covered in so many hickeys that it looked like he

had been strangled. He put on a pair of pants next to the bed where the girl from

the night before still lied asleep and walked into his closet. He looked at the

tattoo on his left forearm with the numbers 12-44-27 written on it then used

them to unlock the 5x5x5 safe within the closet. He pulled the $17,300 he had

made the night before from his pants, which had been thrown on the floor, and

set it in the safe, then hesitated, took $5,000 out, and closed it.

He opened his bedroom door and saw a teenage boy asleep on the floor in
his hallway. He kicked the boy awake and shouted, “Get the fuck out. I don't

want any fucking minors at my place!”

The boy jumped up and ran out. Norance shook his head in disappointment. Kids

man, they're so stupid they be getting me caught, like shit man. He walked into

his kitchen where his friend, Bud Lowshal, was eating a hamburger from

McDonalds. “You here last night?” Norance asked Bud.

“Yeah man. How was that chick?”

“Can't remember. Look at my neck man.”

Bud looked at Norance's purple neck and laughed heartily, accidentally

spitting some coca-cola out of his nose while laughing and wiped it up with his

hoody sleeve. “ Haha, How could you not remember that!” Bud stood up and

slapped Norance's back. Bud was a 5'9” white 25 year old with short blond hair

and a short, thin nose and the girl who was just waking up on Norance's couch

thought that he looked like a Nazi next to Norance. “Whatever man, ha, that's

ridiculous. Wanna smoke a bowl?”

“Yeah man.”

“Alright, pull out your bong. I'll spot you the bud this time cause you

hooked some dank molly last night. Shit man, got any more?”

“Nah” Norance said as he reached his hand into his pocket to feel that

there were at least 10 grams left for him that day. It felt like there were less so he

went to the bathroom and weighed the bag. Including the plastic, there were only

6 grams.

“Fuck!” He punched the wall and looked at the dent he had made in it
then took a deep breath, snorted a gram and went back into his kitchen to smoke.

After he'd smoked the marijuana with Bud Norance kicked everyone out of his

apartment except for the girl he'd slept with the night before who was now in his

kitchen looking for some food. Norance was beginning to feel the effects of the

ecstasy so he offered her some and after she abruptly snorted a gram they went

into his bedroom.

One hour later, Norance's phone range. Norance pushed the girl off him

and grabbed it with a trembling hand and grinding teeth. He picked it up and

flipped it open.

“Yeah?”

“Norance, I need you to do a delivery.”

“Where to?”

“Oregon Border. Fucking hippies and their shrooms.”

“Aight, when?”

“You gotta be there at 6 PM on Thursday.”

“What day is it again?”

“Norance, get a fucking calender you dumbass. How the hell can you not

know what day it is?”

“Um, yeah, ok.”

Norance sat up and thought for a moment. Something was missing that he

needed to ask Wen, but he couldn't wrap his mind around it. He punched his

forehead in frustration and squeezed his eyes closed but nothing came except a

cold chill from the girl rubbing his back.

 “Norance!” Wen shouted through the phone.

“Yeah?”

“You there?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok, good. Now I need you to write this down. Your going to take

highway 95 North. When you cross the border you go 5 more miles north and

stop at a gas station called Fill 'er up. Got that?”

“Hold on, I gotta write this down.” Norance jumped out of the bed and

went into his living room searching for a pencil and piece of paper. After

scrambling through the room for a while he obtained both.

“Alright, tell me that again.”

“North on highway 95, 5 miles past border of Oregon, then gas station-

on the right- fill 'er up. 6 PM Thursday, that's 2 days from now. It's 2 G's for the

trip.”

That was it! How much was he going to get paid. Norance was relieved

that Wen had thought of that for him.

“Alright, thanks. Say man, I'm clean now. Got anything I could blow 20

G's on?”

“I've got a couple kilos of coke and DMT, a couple pounds of Maui

Wowy bud, and a whole lot of acid. What's your pick?”

“I'll take 500 g's of coke, a pound of the Maui Wowy, and how much for

the acid?”

“Well, with 20 G's you'd have enough for about 100 viles, 100 hits per.”
 “Aight, sounds good. When can I get them?”

“Tonight at 11.”

Norance hanged up the phone and looked at the girl in bed with him,

rubbing her leg. She smiled flirtatiously.

“You're pretty legite aren't you?” She asked as she grazed her hand down

his chest which he flexed to show his 6-pack.

“Whadoya mean?”

“Well, blowing 20 G's on blow and bud. You must be pretty rich. It makes

me wonder, with all the money you've got, why do you live in a shitty little

apartment like this instead of a mansion?”

“I ain't got money for no mansion.”

“Well why not? I mean, where does all the money go?” The girl looked

and Norance's neck and laughed. “I can't believe I did that you you last night!

You should wear a turtle neck or something! Ha!”

Norance thought for a moment why he didn't have any money even

though he made so much. He thought about the drugs he bought but he didn't

think they cost that much. He decided to forget about it. What Norance didn't

realize was that he had taken $200 worth of ecstasy in the last day and given

another $150 of it away to his “friends”.

That night Norance went to Wen's house at 11:15 PM, bringing the girl

with him. She liked that Norance was getting so many drugs and had so much

money; Norance liked that she kept him company, was good in bed, and talked.

Her mindless chatter filled the silent void in his life through that day and for that
he was grateful. Norance knocked on the oak door and after a few seconds Wen

opened it. Wen was a tall Asian with a thin stomach and thick black hair that ran

down to his shoulders. He had glasses and a wide nose. His complexion was

extremely white and he spoke with harsh diction in every syllable when he

wasn't speaking with people about his work. When he was doing business he

seemed to have a less formal and precise attitude, but when Wen would have the

chance to talk to Norance about non-business related matters he would speak

with an energy that made every syllable seem as though it were specifically

chosen for a set purpose within his words.

Wen smiled when he opened the door and saw Norance with the girl.

“Norance! How are you? Who's this lovely lady? I'm Wen, it's nice to

meet you.”

“You got the stuff ready?”

“Yeah, it was ready 30 minutes ago because I was under the impression

that you would be arriving 15 minutes ago. Come in.” Norance and the girl

stepped inside Wen's spacious, suburban home and sat down on a couch in the

entrance room. “Let me grab the shit for you.”

Norance looked down at his jacket pocket and pulled the bundle of

$20,000 from it then looked out onto Las Vegas' lights. Wen came up with 2 bags

and handed them to Norance who then handed Wen the money and sat up,

signaling to the girl that it was time to leave. She reluctantly sat up and followed

Norance out the door.

“I'll see you tomorrow Norance.”

 “What for?”

“Don't tell me you've already forgotten! The shrooms for Oregon. Be here

at 5 to pick them up. Did you write what I told you down?”

“Yeah.”

“Where then?”

“My place.”

“Okay, well then add this when you get back. 'Come to Wen's at 5 and

stop being a dumbass that forgets everything'. Got that?”

“Fuck off Wen.”

“Good, then we're on agreement in that. I'll see you tomorrow. And I

never caught your name.” Wen winked at the girl who curled the sides of her lips

in a forced smile.

“I'll see you tomorrow.” Norance said as he stepped out the door pulling

the skinny girl with him. Norance looked out to the city lights and then at the girl

by his side. He opened the car door and drove off through a hollow night. When

he got to his apartment and had snorted a few grams of cocaine with the girl,

texted all the people in his phone from Coke1 through Coke72 “Got a half kilo of

coke. Git it soon.” After 68 replies he had sold out. That night he shared a vile of

LSD with a few of his “friends” and lied on his back porch smoking marijuana

and looking into the night's clouds. They swirled into animals which called him

into the desert. He tried to close his eyes to escape the chaos but instead of

seeing the blackness behind his eyelids there were swirling fractal patterns and

faces ripping from other faces. He opened his eyes and tried to breathe but he
couldn't calm down with so much going on. Every moment seemed so

monumental and freeing but somehow he was simultaneously trapped. He looked

to his friends who were talking and saw lines shoot from their melting faces.

“Is anyone else freaking out?” He asked.

His friends looked at his and laughed. Why is everyone laughing at me?

Are they messing with me? Why is everything so crazy? Norance looked out

seriously and stared at his friends who were too busy talking about taking a vile

and going camping to actually take into account what Norance had said. After

nearly an hour Bud Lowshal46 got to Norance's with 100 grams of heroine and

offered Norance a few grams to calm him down. Norance shot up and

immediately went into a dark trance. After a few minutes, Norance decided to go

inside to his bedroom. As he went to try to sleep, the walls seemed to move back

and forth through dimensions beyond his understanding and he saw the girl in his

bathroom shooting up some heroine. He looked at her in a dazed confusion,

wondering who she was and what she was doing. Something about her seemed to

give him deja vu, but he was too tired to figure out what it was, and too

distracted by the LSD. He went into his room and stared at the ceiling, feeling

something that he couldn't explain. Norance didn't sleep that night, but instead,

lied in his bed thinking about that girl. In the morning, at 10 A.M., Norance had

recollected his thoughts and walked out into his living room. The girl was on the

couch, naked, atop one of Norance's friends with vomit dripping from her mouth.

Norance grabbed a towel and began to wipe it up. This woke the girl up who

immediately groaned and rubbed her head.

46 Bud Lowshal-Shallow Bud

 “Oh god! I feel like shit! Did I puke last night?”

“Apparently.”

“I can't believe I didn't wake up your friend. Ha! That Bud guy had some

good shit! Did you try it?”

“Yeah.”

The girl forced out a smile and wearily stood up then walked over to the

kitchen for a glass of water. Norance pulled out the remainder of the MDMA

from 2 nights earlier and looked at how much he had left. The girl saw him

observing the bag and walked over to him.

“You still got molly left? Let's take some.”

“Aight”

The girl snorted a gram and Norance snorted 2. After another hour of

rolling and sex Norance's phone rang. When he picked up it was Wen.

“Norance, after Oregon I've got a big job for you. Get a pen and a piece

of paper.”

Norance grabbed the piece of paper with the Oregon instructions and a

pen and said “alright. Ready”

“Okay, I need you to rent a U-haul cargo van for this. On October 24th

you're to go to Arizona, 30 Miles North of the Border with Mexico on highway

19. At the truck stop there I need you to drive due West for 7 miles and there'll be

a shipment waiting for you. You getting all this?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok, good. You're picking up 100 kilos. I'm gonna give you $1,000,000
even for it. When you get back you get get 10,000. Okay?”

“Hell yeah man.”

“Alright. Good. I'll see you at 3 today then?”

“Yeah.”

Norance smiled and looked at the girl beside him in his bed. What's her

name?

Chapter 5

On October 17th Phil finished his particle accelerator. He looked at the

wooden box and kilometer of curved tubing that he had carefully fit into it. I

need to introduce this to the world ,but how? Science fair! Phil went onto his

computer and looked up science fair. The 1st one he saw was already at nationals

but he determined that they would accept him if he sent them evidence of his

particle accelerator and gave them reason for his late entry.

That day, Phil took pictures of the accelerator and wrote a scientific

explanation of how he had taken a mechanism that was once miles around and

had converted it into an item small enough to fit into the back of a car. Phil

created a delicate computerized portfolio and emailed it to the science fair

committee. 10 minutes later, after he had read Immanuel Kant's Fundamental

Principles of the Metaphysics of Morals, Phil received a response email that read

“You're accepted into nationals! Please come and bring a full explanation of how

your particle accelerator works!” Phil frowned thinking, why is it that when I put

an effort into intellectual endeavors I outdo everyone else? I did nothing to

deserve more abilities, yet I will have an extremely advantageous life, and simply

because of the way my brain functions. It's odd; my intelligence is actually a

mistake within my genome. I'm glad that I can create things such as this and

contribute to my society, but I wish I could be a part of it as well.

Phil sat in his computer chair looking out his bedroom window to a

visage of the season's physical manifestation. The leaves were drifting from the

trees, fluttering onto the browning grass with the gentle wind. They had been the

most beautiful right before their deaths. Perhaps it was because they didn't see

their drying and crumbling into the surroundings as death. Perhaps they saw it as

a process of freedom. Then again, maybe leaves are just suicidal. Whatever the

cause is, leaves are the only species on Earth that dress colorfully to their own

funerals.

Phil blinked and turned his eyes to the web cam by his computer. He

flicked on the switch and looked into the portal through which he communicated

to the world; well, a part of the world at least. He opened his lips and spoke. His

words flowed with a dynamic, bustling with the excitement of his

accomplishment. So excited was he that he forgot to even mention the

completion of the particle accelerator in the web cast. Instead he spoke of truth.

“Everything is relative, including facts. Facts are nothing but what we perceive
as sureties and our views are often incorrect. Therefore a fact, according to

general definition, is nothing more than a determined belief, whether it be the

outcome of psychotic myopia or scientific evidence. Because of this we must

split facts into two separate categories.

The first is humanistic facts. These are the facts previously described.

They are neither true nor false, but instead, simply believed. Humanistic facts are

perceived truths, resulting from subject-object observation. How this observation

is carried out, (whether objective or emotionally based) does not matter, because

there is an equal chance that both of these modes of analysis render falsely

believed data. This is because all logic analysis of data by humans, as well as

electronics-which are nothing more than a reflection of humans with an

electronically charged genetic code- is constricted to a singular view. When we

see a tree we comprehend the tree as it is related to our 5 senses in 3 dimensions,

but are unable to comprehend the totality of the tree's existence and reason. We

cannot simultaneously perceive the tree's age, root system, sources of life, and

material from which it came. Instead we look at one degree of the tree and

determine that to be truth, when in fact, this is nothing more than an observation

which we define as a surety.

The second category of facts is that of existence devoid of observation.

The laws and functions of the universe are an example of this type of factuality.

These are the unattained truths, knowledge which humans may stumble upon,

but are unable to prove. This is because, to know one aspect of the unattained

truth you must be aware of its entirety; each part acts as a necessary variable
within the ultimate equation of matter, anti-matter, and time. To obtain even the

tiniest glimpse into this unattained truth category, one would have to coalesce all

occurrences to ever take place as well through the existence of the universe and

compute the relation between all of these, leading to a knowledge beyond the

humanistic factuality, which is- seemingly- utterly impossible. I say seemingly

because there is one possible axiom between conscious interpretation of the

universe and unattained truth. This is the unconscious.

The unconscious has, on many occasions, proven to transcend conscious

knowledge. Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung stated numerous cases in which

patients of theirs suffered from illusions relating to matter beyond their

constricted waking mind. Dreams are a perfect example of this. Through

personal dream analysis; I have seen that, for the most part, my dreams relate to

objects of my waking mental life, but there are certain objects and occurrences

which have no apparent relation to my life. These are, perhaps, a quantum

phenomena in which my unconscious is transcending the personal ego and

connecting with either other parts of the current universe, or the past. Another

example of this transcending is imagination. Imagination takes perceived

realistic material and transforms it into what we believe as a creation of the

mind. Perhaps these imaginative thoughts occur as a result of past experiences in

life, or perhaps they are a connection with what Carl Jung described as the

“collective unconscious”

A question to ask though is, if the collective unconscious exists, is this

view obscured by conscious thought? Much of the unconscious is a result of the

conscious, as is shown by dreams frequent relation to waking life. Another

question I have is, how does constant movement effect this collective

unconscious' paradigm. As we are constantly moving formations of particles

within a constantly moving universe we see nothing in the same light for more

than a single instant. For the purpose of clarification I would like to explain that

a single instant is not a minute, not a second, not even a fraction of a second. A

single instant is a measurement of time, but one that is theoretical. A single

instant is the outcome of any amount of time (x) multiplied by 0.1−∞ . This is an

infinitely small amount of time. This is the infinitely small amount of time. We

are constantly contained within a single instant but perceive life as a

chronological change through these instants. Each instant is different in an

infinite amount of ways due to the constant movement of all matter and every

perception of the instant is based on how you, the observer, are moving in

relation to the matter around you.”

Phil spoke as quickly as he could but his thoughts were to fast to be let

out through physical movement. He flicked off the web cam differentiating

thought and motion through a mental image of a 12 part flow chart and blinked

again. Suddenly there was nothing. His mind was, for the 1st time, able to release

itself from his world of thought and simply rest. He closed his eyes and reveled

in the beauty of simplicity.

5.2

Sarel and Connie were at Andre's place but it was boring. Some kids were

playing beer pong on a kitchen table, frequently toppling the cups over by

toppling into them while throwing the ping pong ball or by trying to slap away

balls that had been bounced on the table47. Edmond was sitting on a couch

sipping a Coors light watching MTV. A couch lay perpendicular to the three

person one Edmond sat on. The perpendicular couch was a 1 person-more of a

seat I guess- with dust balls rolling around it because of the overhead fan and a

blotchy stained complexion and two brunette girls that were probably still in high

school sitting on it looking like they were in deep pain caused by severe

boredom. From time to time one would peer down at her cell phone and text

someone. The other girl would then promptly look at her phone to see if someone

had texted her, probably feeling the phantom vibration that people so often suffer

from when awaiting a text message and enduring anticipation so great that one's

muscles tense up (which is probably what causes the muscle spasms which are

then mistaken for the phone's vibration). The 2 girls scrunched together as if they

were coalescing into a single person. They stared blankly with no emotional

expression except that of boredom, their chins almost in synchronization

oscillating back and forth,up and down, signifying whether they were looking at
47 Each bounce in beer pong means that -if the ball goes into one of the other team's cups- they
will have to drink an extra cup of beer. The entire process of beer pong is somewhat
paradoxical. It seems that you play to get drunk but the purpose of the game is to not have to
drink as much as the other team; in fact- to drink as little as possible.
phones or the old 90s big screen TV that had been made out of chintzy particle

board, stained darker in a failed attempt to look more high class. Dalma was

sitting in the living room with Ianna, Stepan, Liam, and Pablo rolling a blunt

while Stepan passed Liam a long blue bong charred black from prolonged use.

Smoke monotonously poured in from the stem of the bong and flowed into Liam

as if he were gasping for life, pulling in all his lungs' capacity, as if he had just

emerged from the water and was gasping for life.

Connie put her caramel arm around Sarel's Negro forearm, thick and

muscley with a tattoo of a sun above a field of clouds above a man, and told him

that she'd be back. He knew that she would smell faintly of weed when she

returned from the bathroom, though she wasn't going to smoke marijuana in the

bathroom per se. Connie, for some reason, was very very addicted to catnip;

something that she tried to keep from Sarel. This fickle addiction had stemmed

from her wanting to get high in high school one night and trying cat nip. This

aleatory addiction had lasted for 4 years now and she often had coughing fits in

which she spat up bile and bits of hairy herbs from the inadvertent sucking in of

cat nip through pipes or joints. Sarel had found little plastic viles of catnip in

Connie's purse numerous times and had seen remnants scattered about her room

before she'd moved in with him and was now getting kinda pissed off because

sometimes he would wake up and step onto a carpet that crunched and left the

foot feeling like it had just sunk itself into a cesspool when in fact that crunching

matter was spilled catnip.

Catnip smells like marijuana when burned and looks like it before being
burned. When inhaled it gives a mild euphoric feeling that lasts about 5 minutes.

Sarel grasped the wall with his arm to remain balanced on his own 2 feet

and watched as Connie walked upstairs and shut and locked the bathroom door

behind her. He stared at the front door about 10 feet in front of him and then

turned around and looked into the kitchen where Dalma was now rummaging

through the fragments of food scattered throughout the fridge. Sarel then realized

that he was hungry and that the only place to get food at 3 A.M. on June 21st,48

which was a week day (or as Sarel liked to call it, weak day because the parties

were lamer over the weekdays), in Detroit on the East side of 8 mile was the

Taco Bell on 8th st.. So when Connie stumbled down the stairs in an attempt at

appearing erotic, which was her way of overcompensating for her embarrassment

regarding her catnip addiction by trying to distract Sarel with sexual urges, he

dropped his arm over her shoulder and said “Let's get some food.”

“Where?”

“Taco Bell.”

“Meh.”

“Aww, come on connie, are you connin' me?”

“hehe...”

“...”

“What?”

“Nevermind. I was just playin' wit words.”

“Sarel, you one crazy mutha fucka, you know that? That's why I love you

and I'll go to Taco Bell wit you even if I don't wanna go. I ain't even gonna

48 Of the next year

complain bout nothin' bout us going there. I just gonna, be quiet cause I fuckin'

love you Sarel.”

Sarel laughed and tried to straighten the picture before him which was

swirling constantly outward in both directions while not moving back in but

always remaining in the same location. He burped a little and tasted tequila and

stale rum mixed in with a bit of his stomach acids that were grumbling

underneath his white tank top. Connie rummaged through her purse and handed

him her keys and then decided not to. Sarel surreptitiously snatched the keys

from Connie's lackadaisical left hand and opened the front door.

“I'm driving.”

“No! Ima drive!”

Sarel laughed and ran around the street in a little circle being chased by

Connie who was laughing and stumbling. Both of them eventually fell onto the

ground catching their breaths. Sarel pushed himself up and gained his balance, or

at least as much as he could find left in him and tried to pull Connie up which

made him fall back down. After almost a minute of trying to get up and falling

and getting balance Sarel maneuvered Connie's key into the ignition and turned

the car on. Connie dropped her seat back and closed her eyes, feeling herself spin

behind the closed lids. The engine grumbled like an old man hacking up phlegm

on a cold morning as it puttered down the cracked pot-hole-covered road. The

moon was at an early waxing crescent phase, letting off nothing but a tiny gray

sliver of light in the thick black sky. A humid and hot smog covered all the stars,

leaving only bland darkness and an odd, languid blankness, almost as if

something were missing. But more like something was there but this nothingness

was blocking it out from being existent in the eyes of those out that night.

Sarel was 20 years old and had moved back in with his mom, Kadijah, in

December. He had always had a knack for English grammar, vocabulary and

word games. When he was 17 he graduated a semester early from high school

and went in to study at Syracuse University with a collection of scholarships that

added up to his tuition and then $7,000 more which paid for his airfare between

Detroit and New York. He won these scholarships with his emotionally stirring

essays that persuaded every reader that he full well deserved the scholarship

giver's money. He wrote of his never knowing his father, his not being able to

look up to his older brother, and his always fighting a culture that devalued

education with his love for literature and knowledge in general. Sarel did very

well his first semester in college and blew all his professors away with his

natural skill. He had this certain ability to write and comprehend things at a level

that so many other naturally talented students worked so hard to obtain. In the

class he lacked all loquacity which drove his teachers insane but tended to

discuss things copiously when they would approach him after class. Sarel felt

somewhat godlike at Syracuse, leaving all the other students in the dust. He

eschewed their superfluous academic competitiveness and simply outdid them

with shear intrinsic ability, enjoying looking down upon their seemingly brutish

academic battles that played off in subtle ways like a class mate hiding all the
James Joyce books in the library when all the students in his comparative

literature class had to do a project on Joyce. All his professors and most of his

classmates were glad to have Sarel in school with them and displayed their

support for him but when he visited his home, things were different.

Sarel left the immaculate, gleaning campus and found himself, once

again, in a musty old apartment, cramped in with his brother and mom who

looked at him as if he were constantly pretentious. He no longer talked about tv

with his brother and kept on discussing philosophical things with his mom who

didn't understand and therefore became offended and angry. When his brother got

drunk on Sarel's 3rd night home on Christmas brake he threw a whiskey bottle at

Sarel, bruising 2 of his ribs. When Sarel was writhing on the ground the

incoherent screaming began.

“What, what bitch!? So you think you gonna jus' go off an be betta dan

all'a us? Huh muthafucka!? You ain't shit! You ain't shit yo! Fuck you and yo

fuckin' school shit. You ain't no better than us you little nigga fuck. You jus

gonna go off an' leave us? Huh, you too embarrassed bout where you came from

or is you just hate us? You fuckin' ain't worthy of us mutha fucka think you betta

but we betta than you eva been in yo fuckin' books an shit all tha time. The fuck?

The world's fuckin' outside an people be livin' every day an you ain't even think

about them. You ain't think bout nobody mutha fucka gone and just tell us to fuck

off of your life? Why you here mr. College? Mr. go off an' leave us to rot cause

you ain't give a shit bout noone but yoself, you muthafucka, you betta realize

where you from. Where you born. Where you came from. Dis is yo home. Dis is
yo life and you ain't nobody mo no matter whatchyou think you is fuckin better

than this.”

When Sarel went back to school he felt a subtle tinge of pain resonating

in the back of his head every day in class. He lost his focus and kept feeling that

he had abandoned his roots and was forgetting those that had raised him and

given him all he had. After all, without his brother he wouldn't be alive 49. His

grades began to fall and by the end of his second semester he had a cumulative

GPA of 2.4. In his last semester of college he had received a 0.8 GPA and was

kicked out. It wasn't as if Sarel consciously wanted to drop out after the winter

break incident. He planted a self deceiving seed in his brain to make him think he

wanted to stay in school but was too stupid too and began to lose his focus and

drive. When he came back and told his family he'd been kicked out and was

moving back in he was welcomed with open arms, happy tears and a loaded pipe.

Sarel blinked to try to unify his still swirling vision. He was able to

discern that the sign said taco bell by focusing on certain letters, one at a time

and then trying to put them together with great mental strain. Connie was snoring

slightly in a satisfied tone that was oddly high pitched for a snore and seemed to

some more from her chest. It was almost as if, when she exhaled, her tongue

rolled and you could hear the echo of it sonorously pouring out through her nasal

cavity. The blue sign above a mansard roof was lit in an annoyingly bright neon

49 Sarel's brother had fought numerous people to protect Sarel from getting jumped or robbed or
beaten while they grew up.
that bordered on looking as if it was LED in Sarel's opinion. He weaved into the

parking lot and drove toward the drive through. As he began to pull into the one

lane path he noticed that there was no voice box in sight, so he pushed on the

ignition and accelerated forward in hungry anticipation not noticing that he had

just passed the window and that the sign above the entrance of the single lane

path that he had entered had said “Do not enter”.

As Sarel pondered the oddity of the lane having no talk box and

contemplating the possibility of his having to talk to the cashier face to face his

car rammed into officer Jones, who had innocently been ordering a bean and

cheese burrito from the voice order box and was facing the correct direction, and

smashed his front bumper into the police car's grilles. Officer Jones sat stunned

for a moment looking blankly at Sarel looking blankly at him.

WEEEEEOOOOOOWEEEEEOOOOO! The siren light went on and

officer Jones stepped out of his car, still in shock from the fact that a fucking guy

drove into him in a drive through. Connie jumped up and opened her eyes seeing

that her car was effectively bumping uglies with a cop's auto and screamed at

Sarel.

“Reverse! Fuck! He might not have seen us! Just reverse really quickly!”

Sarel through the stick into reverse and let the clutch go without

remembering to put on the gas and stalled out.

“Fuck!”

“Shit!”

The cop began to step toward them and was tapping on the window. Sarel
turned the key with all his strength while pushing his foot down on the clutch

and started the sputtering car. Smoke puffed up from the dented hood and fumed

into officer Jones' eyes who began to cough and back away from the car. Sarel

red lined in reverse, trying to pull Connie's car out of the drive through but the

cop car had become attached and was scraping against the ground creating a

frictional force too great for Connie's 83' Corolla to outdo and so the engine

began to rattle and then went out. The corolla wheels span ferociously, leaving

thick rubber marks on the browned drive through cement in that one place alone.

Sarel started coughing from the smoke that was shooting into the car via the air

conditioning system and popped open his door. He fell face to the ground and

picked himself up, lost in a haze of burnt rubber mist and dead engine smoke. As

he ran forward he collided, face to face, with officer Jones, knocking his

forehead into the latter's nose and breaking it. Officer Jones fell over, writhing in

pain, feeling the blood trickle down his face. Sarel began to run again out of the

smoke, rubbing his throbbing forehead and escaping a ridiculously close call.

Connie was sound asleep, hanging precariously from the half opened car door

that she had fallen asleep on while opening. She dreamed of a strong Siamese cat

that, for some odd reason, was very sexually appealing to her.
 Chapter 6

On November 14th Prat Ped lied, trapped in a prison cell for one last

night. He stared at the ceiling above him in anticipation and thought. He looked

back into his mind and thought of how odd it was that the fragments of his life

which he had forgotten were practically moments which had never occurred. He

wondered if that meant that memory is the key to life. Prat's bed was

uncomfortably soft, so to speak. The problem was that the bed always comforted

him in a way that made him want to stay in jail. Every time he lied in it, he flew

into an internal conflict, thinking about how atrocious it was that he was

comfortable with his punishment. As his thoughts coalesced and matured he

recognized that, up until that point in his life, prison had been the best thing to

ever happen to him. In fact, the last 6 months had been the best of his life. He

didn't have to worry about being sent to jail, because he was already there. True

fear lies within the anticipation, when awful events transpire there is relief,

because that is when one embraces the darkness and recognizes that man's eyes

will adjust to it. That is exactly what Prat did. Though he had been trapped

within a jail for 5 months and 30 days, he had never felt more free. He was able

to think. Just think. He got to know himself for the 1st time, and at 1st he was

terrified by himself, but as he began to evolve he learned that he really was in

control of himself.

As he closed his eyes Prat saw the outline of himself at 24. He was

standing on a curb with his hands in his hoody pockets. His pants were sagged

and stained from time and usage. His eyes drooped from a lack of drive; he was
lost. His hands cradled a bag of marijuana. The sun was beating down on the

white Nevada sidewalk. His shoes were black and torn. A police car drove by the

corner and he began to walk away from it. What was I thinking? Why wouldn't

they suspect me? I was wearing a hoody when it was 85 out. The cops pulled up

to Prat and pulled over. Prat looked at them with fear in his red eyes. “Hello sir,”

One of the cops shouted to Prat, stepping out of the car “seems like a mighty hot

day to be wearing a jacket. Aren't you hot in that?”.

“Nah man, I'm fine. You know us niggers. We just be wearing hoodies no

matter what the temperature. Could be 10 degrees outside and I'd be wearing this

same fuckin' thing. Know what I'm sayin? Ha!” Prat laughed nervously, looking

at the cop who put on a false smile as the other exited the car. He had been

saying something into a walkie-talkie.

“So what are you doing just standing around on this corner here sir?” The

officer looked at Prat getting the to matter at hand.

“Whadaya mean? I was just walking. Ya'll saw me walkin' so wuchyou

talkin' bout sayin' I been standin' round?”

“Well, yes, when you saw us you started walking, but we were in the

coffee shop across the street from you for a couple minutes ago and you were

just standing around or selling what appeared to be drugs to people. That's

probable cause, and we have the right to search you for that.”

Prat gulped and replied, “Nah man, I was jus...Ya kn-” He stopped,

unable to think of anything to say and turned around, running. One of the cops

shouted “STOP!”
 Who the fuck is really gonna stop when they say that? Like, does anyone

start runnin' then the cop says stop and they go, 'oh, shit. I better stop. That cop

told me to.'

Prat's heart pounded throughout his body as his feet dashed away from

the 2 police who had abruptly began to chase Prat. Prat ran to the side of a

building and hopped a rusty fence. The walls around him were darkened from

smoke and covered in graffiti. He looked back as he reached an intersecting

alley. The 2 police were just climbing the fence. Prat ran to the left at the

intersecting alley and ran into a street where he took a right. He dashed away

from encapsulation but towards nothing. Before him, the buildings became

scarcer. He looked to his left where there was a construction site. He scurried

into it hoping to outrun the 2 cops, who were beginning to gain on him.

Prat ran behind a dumpster and tried to catch his breath while pulling the

gun from his pants. He poked his head from the corner of the dumpster and saw

that the 2 cops were entering the construction site. He wasn't going to outrun

these guys, so he cocked the gun and aimed it at the 1 st policeman's head. He

pulled the trigger and the cop fell to the ground. The 2nd cop, taken aback,

dropped to the ground out of fear. He looked over to his partner seeing that a

bullet had pierced straight through his cheek. He grabbed his partner and dragged

him to a pile of 2X4's. The cop's forehead was covered in sweat and he groaned

as the seconds passed. The sand beneath him crunched as he pulled his partner.

Prat's ears rang from the blast of the 1st bullet and the adrenaline of murder.

Blood seeped from the partner's deformed face. He was not dead, but he was
unconscious. The construction workers had all began to scatter after hearing the

first bullet; all except Tim Climeera50, who was using a jackhammer at the time

and later described his using that jackhammer a miracle that had to have been an

act of God. Prat poked his head out from the right side of the dumpster once

again and saw that the policeman was dragging his partner's limp body. He

pulled up the gun with a trembling hand and pointed it towards the cop. The cop

turned right in time to see Prat pointing a gun to him and reached for his but

before his hand could reach it, Prat had pulled the trigger with a trembling hand

and dropped onto the ground, screaming in agony.

It was at this same time that the partner began to gain conscience and felt

his burning face. In that construction site, two men lied on the ground screaming

in pain after being shot, one man walkie-talkied in back up and Tim Climeera

continued jack hammering. After noticing a bleeding policeman Tim turned off

his jackhammer, noticing that a large dent had been put in it by some small

object as he was jackhammering. Prat held his bleeding elbow as he stood up and

began to run but his foot stepped onto a nail and he immediately fell to the

ground again. The partner screamed “Get that fucker!”

The cop ran over to Prat and smashed his face against the ground,

handcuffing him and saying “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you

say can or will be used against you in a-”

“Oh yeah! Well why don't you use this against me! Fuck you you bitch

ass! Augh!” Prat writhed in pain and the cop noticed that a bullet had been shot

through Prat's elbow. He calmed down feeling that revenge had been served. The

50 Tim Climeera- Miracle time

cop always struggled with the emotional side of his job. Each day he dealt with

other people being terrible to him, yet he was never allowed to rebuke and

tension built in him daily as a result. He finished reading Prat the Miranda rights

and pulled him to his feet. When Prat dropped to the ground screaming, he

noticed that there was a nail in his left foot, which had just been lodged even

deeper.

Prat was taken to court and put in jail for only 6 months because they had

found that the cop's making him stand with a nail in his foot to be cruel and

unusual punishment, but that only dropped the charges against him for shooting

the cop. He still had an half ounce of marijuana and 5 grams of cocaine on him at

the time.

Prat opened his eyes, breathing heavily. Sweat beads dropped down his

forehead as he looked at his past. It's ok. Thas not you anymo'. Jus' block it out

and focus on da futa. His eyes moved to the bars holding him in the room where

he lied. He worried about Norance and whether he had even remembered Prat's

release.

Iss aight. Don't be worryin. Whataya gonna do? Fuck nigga! I ain't

gonna be livin' offa Norance's drug doe. Dat makes me just as involved as I don't

wanna be. Man, I gotta get him off dat shit when I get ou!. Man, fuck, tomorrow.

Everything gonna be changin. Shit, what have I been missin all trapped up in

here? Iss kinda like I just been a kid again, but the otha kids here is all bullies.

Fuck nigga, you sound like a nerd!

Aight, you ain't gonna be sleepin so you gotz to think bout something to
think about. Man, how many prisoners actually sleep the night befo they get out?

Fucking none I betcha. I know that no matta what I try to think about all I's be

thinkin' about is getting' outta here. Ain't even much, it could drive me insane,

fuck man, just those 4 words there. Getting outta here. Oh shit, that's 3. Well, just

those 3 words. Man, they be runnin' through my mind all night and it's gonna

make the not sleep aight. Those 3 words is better than any dreams I mighta had

tonight anyways.

Those 3 words is my futa nigga! Is funny how 3 words can mean more

than anything in da world to me right now. It ain't the words though. It's da

concepts behind the words that, like, shape the world and make people how they

be. Man, fuckin' everything is just a bunch of ideas and we just be reacting to

those ideas wit mo' of our own. We just anotha idea in a sea of that shit. Well,

fuck man, I ain't just one idea. Dat's why you can't really say who a person be.

They got so many parts to them. Man, you don't even get to see all of otha people

so you don't really know anyone's identity unless you actually look into yaself,

but nowadays who be doin' dat? I probably the only nigga in dis place dat's

thinking about anything mo' than 'this sucks for me'. We always worryin about

ouselves and we don't even know who we is.

Now, shit, dere's anotha problem. I always be changin. I ain't nothin' like

the 24 year old Prat Ped. Sure, it's been 6 months and now I be 25 but that ain't

that much time over the course o' my whole life and I considarin myself totally

diffrant. Man, if Ida met myself back den I woulda punched me in da face thinkin

I become a duesche51. I don't even know who I gonna be 6 months from now.

51 Did you know that, according to the auto-spell on this computer, which has every word in the
Fuck, shit changes so fast when things is intense or just there ain't no things at

all besides you and yo mind. But then again, what is life really beyond you and

yo' mind? Everything I be livin' is just my mind like, thinking stuff and seein'

stuff. Life ain't nothin' but a buncha thoughts. But they's gotta be somethin' more

in it. Fuckin' wasn't just nothin that got me in here. That bullet was meant to hit

that jackhamma. Man, that bullet couldn'ta been just thoughts, unless my

thoughts is just makin it mo.

Aight, wait, let's think about dis. How long have I lived and how many

crazy things like that be happenin' to me? That's gotta be the 1st, and crazy shit's

always gotta be happening. Life's jus' random and crazy shit happens when you

livin' the random so that bullet coulda just been an accident that turned out

good. Why would there be anything mo? Look at all the guys in here. 90% of

them ain't learning anything. They livin' lives wit no purpose, no direction, and

they ain't happy. There ain't nothin' out there that would save me and let me

deserve to have mo' than these muthafuckas. Shit! I was one of em' when I got in

here. There ain't no reason for me deservin' mo' than anyone else in here. Why

the fuck do I got it betta off? I didn't do nothin' better!

Prat stared into the darkness before him unable to answer that question.

Usually the silence brought out an answer for him but there was no answer to

that question. All questions are meant to be asked, but only some to be answered.

Prat accepted this and closed his eyes, abruptly falling into a deep sleep.

dictionary, duesche is not a word? Apparently I need to inform you that duesche is a vaginal
cleanser that is also used as a derogatory term in slang. The auto correct thinks I might have
meant to say eschew. What a funny sounding word, eschew! That's just peachy!
6.314

Phil's video blog #7 ( a free flow of thoughts that Phil Phosero rapidly

spat from his mouth while eating a bag of salsa flavored sun chips): “Hey there,
today I was thinking about patterns and habits and how the two interact.

Intersecting the two and attempting to dissect them via their differences in

empirical application as well as metaphysical attributes I came to a conclusion

that I didn't expect by any means; that habits and patterns are the same

essentially. Both are the manifestation of repetition as regarded by cognitive

faculties and can also be defines as the cyclical flow of events and/or thoughts

within life or the human brain. In other words, both patterns and habits are

simply the cause and effect correlations that archetypally occur within existence.

Recognition of patterns helps us ascertain new information regarding the

universe and this is the same as acknowledging the habits of the universe

because, regarding the relationship between the two, habits are the physical

enactments of patterns though patterns can also be physical enactments as well as

the possibility of habits being existent without physical enactments. I might

digress addressing this but it's important that I bring up the fact that things can

exist without being physically present in the universe. As is the case with habits,

they exist in their potential to exist and thus are a part of the universe, just in a

different moment. The same is the case with patterns. Patterns' potentials in the

current moment determine that they are indubitably existent within the universe,

just only within another moment.

The second thing I want to regard pertaining to habits/patterns or maybe

just hatters if one puts the two words together. Either way, as I believe it is the

most important aspect of philosophy, I must regard application. The application

of our knowledge of patterns allows us to meander through the datum within the
universe and draw conclusions based on that. The analysis of patterns is essential

to the art of science since the recognition of the habits of the universe and how

the different aspects of the universe- take the correlation between macro laws of

physics and micro laws for example52-interact can tell us about our own

existences and how we should survive. We are the questioning species. The only

species with the ability to ask why we are here and why we are doing things. We

instinctually question our own instincts. There must be a purpose to this. With all

these questions, it is incumbent upon us to search for semiotic aspects of the

universe and relate them to the other aspects of existence to decipher the

meaning behind each sign we are given. Of course, this is ambiguous to say the

least. We are left asking, how does one know when something is synechdochic or

semiotic or simply a portal to the obtainment of new information? In all honesty,

there is a probability that all information, every moment, if approached correctly,

contains the possibility of opening our eyes to another new law of existence

because every moment contains something- not matter how subtle- that is

different from every other experienced moment and that experience's causes and

what the outcome of that experience will be are signifiers of how the universe

interacts with itself, i.e. the habits of life.

52 What Phil was thinking of was quantum mechanics' electron probability model which shows
that electrons jump from one radius of orbit around a neutron to another without filling any of
the space between, often to go toward a more stable energy level since a smaller radius
between the neutron and electron will cause less energy to be involved in the electron's
movements and form a more stable atom. This micro law does not correlate with the macro
scale example of a planet orbiting another. The Earth does not jump toward a smaller radius in
it's orbit of the Sun to stabilize our solar system.
6.315

January 5th of the year after. It was 10 A.M. and Tucson was hitting 70

degrees already. The fan blew across a room stacked with books and magazines.

The furniture was faded and worn. Sam stood up and walked across the lvigin

room toward the kitchen. It had been 40 minutes and he wasn't feeling anything.

His friend Ian was sitting on the couch, sipping on fluorescent orange juice that

had been precariously placed on the heightened coffee table before the couch.

“Sam?”

“Ian?”

“Why are all your tables lofted in you apartment?”

“If I have a semantic epiphany I'll be able to write it down at the moment.

True inspiration is ephemeral and needs to be recorded with all its understanding

in the moment it arises because it is the essence of that moment that defines the

strength of the epiphany.”

“But then why do you lift the tables? You could still write on a coffee

table.”

“When your back is in an upright position your lungs are opened and

your thoughts are clearer. You are at 100% as opposed to being hunched over and

breathing through scrunched up lungs.” Sam replied, fingering a glass to check

and see if his dishwasher had been a thorough worker the previous night.

“I need to do that. Although, whenever a thought collects in my brain I

usually just record it on the verbal reminders on my phone. That's faster too.”
 “What if the thought takes visual form though?”

“Never thought about that. I figure drawing takes to long to sustain a

single inspiration anyways. A visual epiphany is like a sudden inspiration to

write a 1,000 page book; When it's put into action the thought is skewed, no

matter how quickly you start. And the rub of it is that hurrying through the work

will detract from the original understanding of the something that is greater than

oneself which is the seed of an epiphany.”

“I guess we need a camera that captures the images within our thoughts

then for that purpose.” Sam said, deciding that the dishwasher had been a valiant

fellow in the previous evening and filling his glass with water.

“But then think of the social repercussions. Spy work, torture, sabotage. It

would all be expedited by the fact that we had the ability to capture thoughts. To

capture to true form of a person's thoughts; like to have an understand that

transcends empathy and makes you think you're that other person, that would be

robbery. The purity of life is manifested by the fact that nothing is pure. There

are no absolute definitions except for absolute non-absoluteness. So to reach into

another persons mind, photograph their understanding, be it auditory or visual or

whatever. That is to capture the driving force behind their life. That's stealing

what really matters, who they really are.” Ian stood up and walked around the

apartment, looking through the endless titles of books.

Ian turned his head methodically toward Sam. “Those shrooms just hit

me. The letters on these books are rearranging themselves. I love it!”

Sam laughed nervously. This was his 1st time doing any hallucinogen. He
took a deep breath and smelled the familiar dry must of books that perennially

permeated through his apartment. He realized that the mushrooms were starting

to alter his mindset too; that the orange juice had been fluorescent; that when he

shut the fridge, it echoed. He looked at his hands and saw that the lines were

subtly growing and shrinking like the ebb and flow of waves. Reality began to

disintegrate into art.

“It just hit me too. Really hard.” Sam told Ian, taking a sip from the

technicolored glass he held in his hand.

“Just wait. Today's gonna be beautiful. Be set out to learn something

though. My philosophy is, when you enter an altered state of mind, enter it with

an open heart and mind, ready to embrace what it tells you. Listen to the

mushrooms man. I swear, this isn't a distraction, it's a cosmic lesson.” Ian had

finished his orange juice and squeezed past Sam to put his cup in the dishwasher.

“Let's go for a walk.” Ian proposed.

Things were starting to change.

Chapter 7

On October 18th at 10:30 A.M. I was sitting in Mr. Gertanam's English

class to the left of Phil Phosero. I love Phil for the very same reason that I hate

Phil: he, without effort, puts everyone else in the dust. Sitting next to him in

English, I felt like a light bulb trying to brighten the earth being set next to the
sun. I was a lake next to the ocean. I lost my lust and love for work ethic because

the knowledge of trying and not doing as well as someone who doesn't-to me- is

the most degrading prospect possible. For that very reason, I work at nearly

nothing, yet it seams to work pretty well. My natural talent allows me to glide by

in life without effort, but simultaneously digs me into a hole.

I don't know how well I could do if I actually put my heart into my work.

I've always had interests but I've never had loves, (Now, that's not to compare me

to Phil. I've experienced moments of passion so overwhelming that I couldn't

help but break into a shower of tears; weather the result of joy or depression).

That's what's always pushed me away from Christianity. I've never felt anything

within me more than a brain and my organs. My brain creates stirring emotions

but I feel no soul compelling me to do what's right or tempting me with evil. I've

sensed no outer spirit entering me and compelling me to love others. I feel

myself. Life is just that, people stuck in their minds, tricking themselves into

believing that they're free. Well, that's what I've thought, but I'm naïve, and it's

not cause I'm young; it's cause I lack the ability to view life-clearly- from any

perspective past my own. Honestly, those who believe they're free and are

trapped are more free than those who have all the freedoms in the world but feel

trapped. I, personally, am somewhere in between. I have freedoms, but I have

limits too. I feel that there's a balance; No one's completely powerless, but

noone-nothing- is omnipotent. The world may hate economists but they've really

got it down when they say that life is marginal.

Mr. Gertanam had, once again, strayed from the subject because Phil had
provoked him to a thought so prolific that his mind was lost in the abyss of

contemplation. There are some people in English class that simply don't care and

there are others, like me, that do, but are pushed aside by Phil's words. I am a

boy of words-for fuck's sake, I'm writing a book. (But then again that's only

because this story needs to be told and I'm the only one who knows its entirety). I

go into a thoughtful, open-ended class expecting to voice my thoughts and

develop them through others' input, but with Phil every thought is fully

developed. There's no process of questioning and answering. There's simply a

definitive proof that he has. Forgive me- I'm prone to straying from thought to

thought.

We started in English class-yes. I was sitting at a desk and Mr. Gertanam

was talking about Hamlet, but what had started as a lecture on motifs and themes

was now a clusterfuck of words with a period at the end. I knew this wasn't

normal Mr. Gertanam because this was my 2nd year in a row that I had had him.

The year before he had truly emitted a passion that was soaked up by those

students who opened their minds enough to sponge up his words. Phil turned to

me and whispered “I'm sorry I turned his lesson into a tautologous banter lacking

a point. I know that frustrates you but I've a giant favor to ask of you.”

“Maybe you oughta say your thoughts half developed and let the class

take it from there. But what is it?” I responded.

“Well, I made a particle accelerator and I was accepted into nationals for

this science fair that I entered yesterday, but I need a ride. Would you be willing

to take me there? I could get you excused from school. It's on October 27 th so
we'd need to leave on the 25th.”

I was as stunned as I was excited-though I would never have admitted at

the time that I was excited- by this proposition. 5 days with Phil would be like 2

years of school, but I was confused. Not to mention, he had built a particle

accelerator. I can't say that I was surprised though. I'd always figured he'd done

something like that after school, but to actually hear him say it nonchalantly was

like jumping into and icy pond.

“What about your parents?”

“They both have work.”

“Well I'll have to ask mine but I'm betting I'll be able to. You'll probably

have to come over and meet my parents so they know I'm not lying to just take 5

days off and go party. Where is this by the way?”

“Arizona.” He replied. Of course, we never made it to Arizona, but-yeah,

well- we'll get to that.

“Why do you want a ride from me though?”

“You have a license and a car and I know you better than anyone else

here. I know that in comparison to your other friends I'm nothing but an

ephemeral acquaintance, but as a 12 year old going to high school, peer

relationships are quite weak.”

I nodded and looked back to Mr. Gertanam who had apparently sorted

through his thoughts and was now talking about Nietzsche's view of Hamlet.

“Nietzsche believed that Hamlet's lack of action was the result of 'the

veils of illusion' being lifted from him.” Mr. Gertanam said. I wished that I had
been listening because I never figured out what Hamlet's eyes had been opened

to.

That night Phil came over to dinner with my family and blew my parents

away. My mom wanted my dad to come with me since she was tied up with work

but he was too. They decided to trust me and allow it, fully recognizing that Phil

could teach me everything that I would in school, and more quickly. That's

something I always appreciated about my parents. They measure things out,

benefit verses loss instead of directing my life in the direction that they wish

theirs had been in. I was not the redemption of their mistakes. I was a new hope,

a gamble, but most of all, the one controlling my own life. They had given me

life but it was now mine and that, they understood.

After dinner Phil and I went to my room to formally and informally meet

each other. Through his eyes, he processed all the things that were strewn about

my room and applied them to each other creating a web of interests. He

correlated which interests were most probable in me as a result of these mixtures.

He saw my acoustic guitars, one classical and one steel string then looked at my

book shelve, noticing that 17 of the books I had related to sonority or auditory

aesthetics and determined that I was highly motived in an understanding of the

basis of my interests; not just the interests themselves.

“I've never gone to a friend's house for dinner before but there's a 1st time

for everything, even for 2nd times.” Phil looked to me.

“You interact as if you're completely normal though.”

“I've read a couple books on psychology and sociology so I know how to

be normal, ostensibly.”

“Does that mean you're using vernacular with me and dumbing down

your thoughts?”

“Sadly, I do that everywhere to eschew obfuscation. I don't always form

things in my mind in a manner that's formally aesthetic though. When my

thoughts wander into the realm of contemplation regarding philosophy and

literature I get bored with the entrapment. If those subjects were truly sources of

intellectual freedom, they would have no boundaries regarding process. If the

right answer can be found, who's to determine the correct path of obtaining it?

Saying big words and writing a hard read doesn't create a literary masterpiece.

People get confused by that because they are too distracted in appearance. All the

Disney movies talk about the content, not the shell of things, being where the

truth lies, yet no one applies that to anything more than people. Correct grammar

proves nothing more about a person than the fact that they care enough what you

think to say things in a way different than how they truly wish to. I knowingly

end sentences with prepositions because that is my subtle way of telling the

world that the way in which something is presented should have a negligible

importance in comparison to the meaning within that something.”

I laughed and smiled. “But there's a depth to beauty in and of itself. I see

life as an aesthetic journey of discovery and opportunities. People are

instinctively prone to be attracted to beauty and since that's an unchangeable

aspect of civilization-mankind- as a whole, shouldn't we embrace it?”

“If we embrace any flaw, we are accepting every flaw.” He responded

looking into my eyes.

“But life is incremental. Nothing is absolute.”

“Everything is absolute. We just think that nothing is because that's all we

know.”

“Nothing?”

“Yep.”

“But wait, if we know nothing, how do we know that we know nothing?

We couldn't. We're left guessing which is anything but absolute.”

“kind of. I know this is paradoxical, but we actually don't know if we

know nothing, which is absolute ignorance. Every thought is absolute, no matter

how unclear. Fogginess is absolute unclarity. We know nothing because we don't

know anything absolutely. We keep getting closer and closer but absolution is

infinitesimal, which we aren't able to grasp. You could say that there are

numerous interpretations of a book but the author had one specific meaning, or

one unspecific meaning and each reader has a specific misunderstanding,

understanding, and confusion regarding that book. Every aspect of that situation

is absolute, but through the reader's ignorant eyes, his confusion is 'evidence' for

nothing being precise.”

“So you're saying that everything we know is precise imprecision?”

“Exactly. It's great actually being able to talk about this stuff with

someone. Usually I'm only able to say this kind of stuff into a little camera and

hope for comments on my video blogs.”

I looked at Phil in sympathetic awe. I knew he didn't mean just this stuff-
philosophy. He was talking about simply talking. His mind had opened him up to

all the data one could imagine but closed him to the real beauty of life: those one

share's it with. I was his 1st true connection to something living; well, at least I

think so. I wondered at that moment if he had a connection with nature, since he

lacked one with conscious beings, did he still strive to form a relationship

between himself and other life, or were his thoughts enough? I forgot to ask

though, and he never told me before- I'm straying from the conversation. Maybe

this is important though. Who knows? Perhaps there is meaning in the

meaningless. That's kind of how I feel about poetry. The most subtle unintended

nuances of them have the power to define generations such as the simple words

written by a stoned folk singer “Times, they are a changin'.” God, I noticed that I

strayed then I strayed even more. Ok, Phil had just told me about his happiness

with our friendship. I responded “You know, looking humans in the eyes releases

dopamine in your brain, making you happier? We were meant to live like this,

not online or through books. Experience-life in general- is meant to be shared as

much as it's meant to be lived.”

Phil laughed. “I knew that about the dopamine release with eye contact

but I never put that together with the necessity of human contact. I guess my

mind is so wrapped up in personal reflection that I don't even consider the

thought of connection with others. It just leads me to depression because it forces

me to acknowledge how lonely I really am, no matter how much I have in my

life. You know how Mrs. Blinniara, the librarian, had to leave for throwing a

book at me? Well it's sort of my fault. I provoked her as she was shushing me
because I'm so desperate for human contact.” Tears welled up in his eyes.

“What about your parents?”

“They distance themselves from me, each other, everyone. I don't

understand it!” He broke down in sobs. His wide shoulders shuddered as he

buried his face in hands, embracing the tears and succumbing to their

omnipotence. He was consumed by sadness but was relieved and happy to finally

acknowledge what was within him. I patted him on the shoulder and he leaned

against me. I put my arm around him and for some reason, even though I had no

reason to, I began to cry with him. His life's pains had seeped into my heart and I

began to empathize even though his situation was so far from mine. We hugged

each other and lost ourselves in the tears.

“Why-SOB- are you crying?” He looked up to me with green pouring

from his nose.

“Ha! Sob! I don't know!” I cried and laughed and Phil began to as well.

Chapter 7.1

She is 20 and feels like adulthood is a little too close for comfort. Like

responsibility is about to smack her in the face. Her arms are too flabby and her
stomach protrudes too much so she always sucks it in and wears a hoodie more

than she should. She was born and raised in Atlanta, Georgia so she has a right to

be addicted to Coca-Cola, because that's where it originated. Last night she was

drunk and vomited onto her friend's bathroom floor. Her friend is mad at her now

which is stupid because it wasn't really her fault. She was too drunk. She

shouldn't be held accountable for stupid shit she did when she was drunk. When

she wakes up in her dorm room she's cold and wishes there was a boy with his

arms around her to warm her up. Instead, she has stuffed animals. They are cute,

but there's something hollow about them that leaves her unsatisfied every time

she goes to bed or wakes up.

When she was 17 she weighed 220 pounds. Every Saturday she would

walk into the tanning salon, chin raised high, thinking that this bronze would be

the one to make him fall for her. She would set a 20 dollar bill on the front

counter, take her change, and go into a room. All 5'5” of her would squeeze into

one of the most pristine tanning beds and lie there with those red glasses over her

eyes. She would try to extend her body to undo the fat rolls that curled up into

her waist but it never worked. When she got out she would look into the mirror

and pull out a flab of skin to see those 2 inches that were completely white from

being in a roll. Often times she cried while looking at herself crying and then

hated herself, watching herself so weak.

Her daddy pays for her college but doesn't ask very much about it. Her

mom likes to call and share recipes of the week. Sometimes she wears a hoodie

even when it's hot out and she sweats a lot. Sometimes in class she stares at the
teacher blankly, not hearing anything that is said. She incessantly checks her

phone for text messages and creates mental lists, comparing how often she texts

certain people in ration to how often certain people text her. Often, in

conversation, she feels like people are bragging and thinks about how to brag

through some interesting story. She snaps when she is nervous or bored or scared

and her room mate often leaves the room to study in silence because she snaps so

much. She wonders if maybe people aren't bragging, but she just feels jealous.

She thinks about how, every time she talks to someone, she feels like everything

that person says is an attempt at impressing her. She thinks this might be because

everything she says is an attempt at impressing other people.

There is a plastic, cherry red cup, clasped between 5 purple nails that

extend out a half inch past her fingers. Sometimes she scrapes them on things

which is annoying, but her hands look good. She looks down into the cup at a

cold, dark, bubbling mixture of liquids. Her eyelashes are thick. Her eyeliner

extends beyond the ends of her eyes and curves like she's an Egyptian from

ancient times, or whatever. She leans against the blunt surface of a white wall in

some guy's house. She had gone to dinner with a friend who invited her to this

guy's house after she had asked her friend what she was doing tonight. She feels

like her friend had been reluctant in inviting her but she doesn't even care. She's

completely over it and just wants to get smashed. She wants to find her friend

because she doesn't know anyone here and everyone is looking at her and paying

a lot of attention to her, so she needs to look cool. She fills up her drink and

looks for a drinking game to play.

 People are playing beer pong but there's a long line for that. She walks

downstairs and people are watching tv. She sits on a couch next to some guy and

watches the tv for a couple minutes but what they're watching is stupid. It's just

not interesting. So she gets up to go do something and walks back upstairs. There

are more girls than guys at this party which isn't good news for her if she wants

to hook up. She tries to walk with a lot of hip movement and feel proud of being

fat. She's not fat, she thinks, she's busty. She's just big. Her shirt's collar is

stretched down to show the deep abyss between her two tanned, D cup breasts.

She closes her eyes and remembers seeing herself in the mirror, lifting her floppy

breast to look at the outline on the skin underneath it, where the tanning bed

hadn't had an effect. She wishes her breasts were less floppy and more perky. She

is a virgin. She knows that her floppy breasts are the reason why. People are

looking at her like she's a freak for just wandering around alone at this party.

People are talking about her and wondering.

She goes to the backyard and sits down, pulling a cigarette out from her

purse. There are 2 other people smoking in the backyard and some guys playing

flip-cup on a table. She lights the cigarette and walks over to the flip cup table

and asks if she can play. She's good at flip cup and even better when she's drunk.

One of the guys invites her onto his team because he has 3 people and the other

team has 4 so they were switching off and yada yada. So she starts playing and

she's doing well. Everyone loves her cause she's winning and no one cares about

the fact that she was alone. When she flips the cup and her team wins they all

cheer and think about her and how attractive she is.
 The guys no longer want to play flip cup. A couple of them have to go

home or something and some others of them need to do something that she can't

really remember. She stumbles inside and feels better. It's been nearly an hour.

She gets another drink and leans against a wall, watching the beer pong game

like she really cares about its outcome. People are shouting and cheering, but not

for her. She is detracting from their cheering because she is alone and awkward.

She thinks her friend has left but doesn't know and doesn't care. People stare at

her because she is snapping and it's annoying everyone but she can't stop so she

goes to the kitchen to get another drink and drinks it really quickly and then goes

to a couch somewhere. Her friend has definitely probably left and she definitely,

for sure doesn't care at all.

And after she's fallen asleep, as people start to leave, they wonder 'Who

the hell is that girl sprawled out on the couch, snoring into a pool of her own

bubbling vomit?' Nobody knows. Nobody's seen her before or noticed that she

was at the party that night.

Chapter 8

On October 15th at 2:30 P.M. Sammy H.K. Rutt was getting in her car, leaving
school. She had just finished another day of 6 straight academic classes. Her

schedule was:

8:00-9:00 AP English

9:05-10:05 AP Calculus

10:10-11:10 AP Biology

11:15-12:15 AP Physics53

12:20-1:20 AP Chemistry

1:25-2:25 AP Spanish

Sammy was known for being the student with the most “ridiculous”,

“ludicrous” schedule in her entire school but, even with no off hours and all

advanced placement classes, she felt as though she was lacking rigor in it.

Sammy was carrying a backpack full of books and had two in her left arm when

her eyes were covered by hands of someone behind her.

“Guess who!” a female voice sounded behind Sammy's covered eyes.

“Jenny?” she guessed.

“Nope!” Colby Sireen responded uncovering her eyes and turning her

around to kiss her. Beside him was Jenny who had said “guess who” to fool

Sammy. Sammy felt frustrated in herself for not being clever enough to be able

to guess correctly, taking into account how clever Colby was, but was also happy

53 Physics C. It's calculus based...Now, why, in a fictional story, does it matter which AP Physics
class a character is taking? I'll tell you why. It's those literary critics. I expect this book to be a
perennial hit that will change lives forever and ever. In the year 2345, kids will read this in
their classes and say “oh golly! That Trent Wood sure was dandy!” Apparently kids in the
future will revert to 50's vernacular. Either way, I don't want literary critics complaining that I
was too ambiguous and that I left certain details out. Therefore, I am going to tell you this
completely worthless piece of information and expect that you prize this piece of information.
Perhaps I will put a quizz portion in the epilogue which will ask which Physics class Sammy
was is. Then, unless you read this and treasured this gratuitous information, you'd have no
fucking clue!
to be with him. Colby's lips curled up and his teeth emerged in a big smile.

“You know what today is?” He asked her flirtatiously.

“The 15th?” Sammy responded in a stolid manner.

“Not even close! Today's the day before pre-season basketball starts, so

we're gonna have a picnic to celebrate my last day of freedom until march,”

Colby smiled in a bittersweet way “I already called your mom and told her you're

not gonna be home until around 6 so don't even bother with any excuses about

that. The basket's in my car and only I know where we're going so I guess I'm

gonna have to drive.”

Sammy laughed. “Alright, let me put my books in my car really quickly.”

She ran over to her car and threw her back-pack and books in then ran back to

Colby and smiled. “Okay, ready.”

Through Colby's car window, the Washington forest glimmered with a

shimmer of natural beauty beyond auditory description. The thick, dark green,

trees reached up 50 feet towards a bold gray sky with branches that were so full

they seemed to be pulling themselves down. As Colby's car turned right onto a

dirt road the foliage began to reach inwards towards the road. The trees' brown

roots emerged from the ground and everywhere there was life. Tree stumps were

covered in dense, lime green, moss which climbed up the vines hanging from

bare branches. There was a stream to the left of her which flowed serenely

through a mixture of smoothed rocks. The rocks, like everything, were covered

in the green life of the forest there. Rain began to slowly trickle from the tops of

the trees. The sky had now become invisible behind the clusters of branches
which acted as a ceiling for the road upon which they drove.

Colby pulled his car to the side of the road at a small outlet and turned it

off, looking at Sammy.

“Alright. It's about a 5 minute walk from here.”

“How'd you find this place?”

Colby didn't reply, but looked back at Sammy and laughed. They walked

down a rugged, worn out path that seemed to be more of a deer trail than one

made by humans. In fact, it was. They walked up a hill and came to the summit.

At the top there was a single, massive, Evergreen tree and a view of a grassy

valley that sunk down to a deep blue pond. Beyond the pond lay more mountains

and a crystal image of Mount Rainier. Sammy screamed and hugged Colby who

then dropped the pickles from the basket and fell over.

After 5 minutes of kisses they lied down against the Evergreen tree

looking out at the view. Sammy sighed a breath of relief. She was separated from

all the stresses of her family, school, and friends. She wished that that moment

had lasted forever. It was more than an overwhelming joy. She felt a

peacefulness. The constant pressure in her back from anxiety has dissipated and

there was nothing left but a blissful serenity. That was her 1st meditative moment.

Colby, on the other hand, had a pounding heart. Sammy's fingers interlocked in

his always made his heart pound as though he had just ran a mile. For 10 minutes

Sammy fell into a glorious half-sleep and Colby looked out in full wakefulness.

The rain trickle that had began when they were in the car slowly subsided and

Colby pulled the food from the picnic basket.

 “You awake?”

Sammy looked up towards Colby realizing that she had been drifting

towards sleep for the last few minutes and nodded her head.

“I wish this moment would last forever,” she said to him dreamily “I

haven't felt this good in- I can't remember how long.”

“I'm glad to be of assistance. You know, you never give yourself credit for

how good you are and I think that puts a lot of stress on you. You're smarter,

prettier, funnier, and much more of a good person than you give yourself credit

for.” Colby said in a serious tone.

“You're just saying that- Everyone says that. It's as if you've got all this

pity and you try to put this illusion up. It's really sweet of you, but Colby, I know

who I am and what I'm capable of. And it's not nearly as much as everyone

thinks. Kids at school treat me like a different species because I do well on tests

and stuff but the only difference is the amount of time I put into studying. I'll

never have the kind of natural talent that you do.”

“What are you even talking about? Sure, you spend a lot of time studying,

but that's because you have a capability to work that goes beyond anyone else I

know. And what's most perplexing is that you have no real reason for working as

hard as you do. You're going to be great at whatever you do yet you always feel

inferior, even when you are the best. Why?”

“You've met my sister. I am always inferior. You've heard my mom too.

Everyone thinks I'm great but once they see Idloh I'm just a sidekick. I've never

told anyone this because I never thought it mattered- and it doesn't- but whenever
Idloh comes home from college, I feel like a shadow. I live and breathe in her

shadows. My parents had me but they just wished for another her and I'll never

live up to that.”

“Sammy, you've masked this truth from yourself all through your life

because of your family.”

“What do you mean? What truth?”

“Yourself. You've never recognized yourself because you live through

others. All you see is the best of the world and the worst of yourself. You've got

this filter over reality that's trapping you. You need to recognize what you've

accomplished and instead of weighing your achievements against your sister-

against anybody- just acknowledge everything you've done. Sammy, every day I

see you I'm amazed and jealous. You're the most humble, hard working, smartest

girl I've ever known and I'm not just saying that. You've got the worst kind of

confidence: confidence in everything but yourself.”

“Colby, you don't get it. You're able to say that because you only see the

best part of me. Who's to say that that isn't the case with you?”

“Because I've accomplished nothing close to what you have. But even so,

I look at my life before I fall asleep and am able to be happy. I'll never be as

smart as you, I'll never become a professional basketball player, I'll never paint a

Mona Lisa, but I'll always be happy with what I have done. And you know why?

Because I try. I live every day with all the passion I can muster up and I know

every night that, even though I may have been able to accomplish more had I

pushed it just a little harder, I tried. And that's better than nothing. You push
yourself to the brink every instant of your waking life yet you see nothing in

your work.”

There was a silence for a moment and Colby stood up, taking Sammy's

hand. He led her down to the valley to the pond and jumped in.

“What are you doing!” Sammy shouted towards Colby who had drenched

all his clothes and was now wading in the pond.

“I jumped in here because I wanted to enjoy the water. Now, let's say I'm

trying to get to Mount Rainier. If I swam to the other side I could get out. But

then what? Climb over more and more mountains, swim through more ponds,

and get closer and closer to it, but I didn't come here with a parka and the

necessary supplies to get to its summit. We aren't born with the necessary

supplies to get all the way to the summit in one lifetime. No one could start

where I am and simply get to the summit of Mount Rainier on his own, so what

makes the guy who gets to the next pond any better than I am? Why are we

always worrying about how far we get and forgetting to enjoy where we are?”

Sammy wiped her eyes laughing and jumped into the pond with Colby

forgetting about the picnic. Forgetting about school. Forgetting about Idloh.

Remembering her future. Colby looked at Sammy and for a moment their eyes

met and something snapped. They both realized what was aboutto happen54.

Colby wrapped his arms around Sammy and put his lips to her. They both

fell into the water together but kept kissing underneath for as long as they could

until Sammy jumped up and gasped for air laughing vivaciously. Colby was

54 Amazing sex? Let's see!

laughing too and ripped off his shirt55. His nipples were dark and pointy from

being so cold. Sammy tried to rip off her shirt too but, since it was wet, it got

caught on her face and she couldn't pull it off. Colby laughed reluctantly as if to

try to avoid making it apparent that this was kind of awkward and attempted to

help her pull the article of clothing off, but to no avail; the shirt would not budge.

So tightly sucked onto Sammy was the shirt that, no matter how hard they both

tried, they could not get it off withou-RRRRRRIP! Sammy looked at the two

pieces of shredded cloth in front of her, trying to shrug it off so as to remain in

the moment and keep the sensual energy alive. Colby then began fumbling

around with his hands to try to pop Sam's bra off but ended up snapping it

against her back numerous times which always resulted in her belting out a high

pitched “ouch!” or “Aye!”

Finally, after several red strips being put onto her back by Colby's failed

attempts, Sammy put her arms behind her back and took the bra off herself.

While doing so she tried to keep kissing Colby, but since he had moved his hands

to his belt to try and take that off she had nothing to hold her body, which was

leaning backwards, up and she began to fall away from Colby into the water who

opened his eyes seeing that she was falling into the water and abruptly froze in

his tracks, having absolutely no idea what to do in the situation. Sammy fell into

55 Really? You're still reading this? These are high schoolers you perve! You don't even know
when Colby's birthday is either, so you might be reading about an 18 year old and a 15 year
old getting it on right here. Is this really something you wanna be doing with your time? Do
you want to become one of those people? Maybe a weird obsession will stem from these next
couple of pages and, before you know it, you're that weird guy on dateline that tried to have
sex with a 12 year old girl that you met on a chatroom on aol but really they'd just set you up
and now you're being seen by millions and as you weep you'll say to yourself “why didn't I
just heed the words in that footnote? Why did I read the high school sex scene in that book? I
should've known! The author even forewarned me! Woe is me! Woe is me!”.
the water, which was beginning to feel a bit cold and Colby regained himself,

leaned down, and picked her up and tried to rekindle the flame immediately by

kissing her neck. As he pulled his lips from her neck, however, a long string of

saliva remained stuck to her shoulder on one end and to his lips on the other. As

he pulled further away it did not brake but got longer and longer. Finally he tried

to subtly remove it with his hand but this just caused it to get stuck on his hand

as well and it did not brake. By this point, Sammy had looked down and saw that

Colby was straining to brake a line of spit between his mouth, his right hand, and

her right shoulder. She immediately let out a “Eck!” and dropped into the water

again to brake the line of saliva. Colby's face was beet red when Sammy came up

from the water and she tried to play the situation off by letting out a slightly

desperate sounding giggle. Of course the desperation in the giggle was not

intended but she couldn't help but feel terribly awkward. Nevertheless, she

mustered up what bravery she had left and kissed his neck back. Colby, however,

tensed up immediately fearing that Sammy would also leave a string of gooey

liquid hanging between her mouth and his neck but this was not the case. In fact,

Sammy had no trouble sucking on Colby's neck but when she pulled her head

away she noticed that she had given him a massive hickey and thought to herself

“now we look like one of those sketchy couples that gives hickeys just to show

off. Oh God!”

Colby quite liked the neck sucking though, and he kissed Sammy's lips.

Attempting to be more sexy, he opened his mouth to make out. Unfortunately,

Colby's mouth was much bigger than Sammy's and he had opened it far too
much, so instead of beginning a make out session, he got a bit of her nose in his

mouth. He tried to correct this by making his mouth smaller and sticking his

tongue out into her mouth. It was at this point that he realized that they both had

terrible breath and that making out is extremely weird when not done with

enough vigor. It seemed to him, as it actually was, that she was returning his

tonguing with hers out of sheer sympathy for his naivete in thinking that that

would be attractive. Sammy, in fact, was doing this indeed. She felt much more

uncomfortable moving her tongue around his mouth, wondering, “what move

should I use?” and then realizing “I know no moves”. So, for a minute or 2, the

two fumbled around in each others mouths with their tongues and finally Colby

mustered up the courage to rub Sammy's breasts as he had so much wished to.

When he lowered his hands he was not so much aroused by rubbing them as

nervous about his being weird in this situation. He worried that she might think

that he only liked her for her body but could think of no sexy way to tell her that

he liked her for her personality. So he lowered his hand and unbuttoned her

pants. Then he tried to lower her pants realizing that this would be much more

difficult than the bra and maybe even worse than the shirt cause her legs weren't

close enough together for him to pull them down. Also, he had to stop kissing her

to pull them down which made him feel like the impending sex was more

important to him than kissing her and he did not want to convey this idea at all.

Sammy helped him pull the pants off which came as a great relief to him,

reassuring that he wasn't taking things too fast. Once she had taken the pants off

she tried to throw them onto the grass by the pond but they landed on a little
promontory of mud and Sammy promptly cringed at the sight of the mud

splashing onto her jeans so she swam over to the promontory and extricated the

jeans from them, throwing them back into the water and rapidly trying to scrub

the mud off so as to resume her hook up but the mud was coated all over so she

threw the jeans aside and swam back to Colby who was trying not to look at her

breasts to prove to himself and her that he was above natural male tendencies and

inevitabilities. Sammy became aware of this and felt embarrassed by her boobs

because her nipples protruded outwards a little too much and were oddly pointy

from the cold.

At this point a wind was beginning to pick up and the cold was setting in

more harshly, causing both Colby and Sammy to shiver and have goose bumps

all over their bodies as they approached each other in the water. They both forced

their lips to meet and moved them around to try and make things exciting, but at

this point they had been kissing for so long that a new stench was beginning to

form from all of the mixed saliva and drying lips. Colby detached his lips from

hers and began swimming towards the land to subtly signify that the water was

getting too cold. Sammy happily followed but when she got out the true

temperature hit her and she began shivering uncontrollably. She grabbed her mud

smothered jeans and began running to the car when she realized that her bra was

still floating in the water. With her teeth chattering she looked at Colby and

pointed toward her bra, telling him through physical movements that he needed

to go get it. Colby reluctantly jumped back in, grabbed the bra and ran out

shivering more severely now. The 2 ran to grab the picnic supplies and booked it
toward Colby's car. When they got inside they looked for towels and found that

the only one was a sweaty, smelly, basketball towel but because of overwhelming

cold and a lack of any dry clothed, they wrapped it around themselves and

shivered in the stench. Colby put his arms around Sammy in one last desperate

attempt and Sammy, not wanting to kill what had been a number of minutes

back, turned to Colby and began kissing him again. They then jumped into the

back of the car and closed the trunk door. Sitting in the cramped trunk among

smelly basketball practice clothes, school books, and cd's they decided to lower

the back seat so that they could lie down together. At this point, Colby found a

blanket in a plastic bag and realized what this meant56. Colby pulled the blanket

out and removed his soaking boxers to try and keep Sammy from having to see

his penis. He then realized that he needed a condom and jumped to the front of

the car where he had a 5 year old condom in his wallet57. He pulled it out and

tried to put it on himself and immediately thought “This is way too slippery. It's

gonna slide right off”. Then he realized that he had put the lubricated side in and

turned it inside out. Sammy was in the back putting the blanket over her and

sneaking glances at Colby who's hairy butt was immediately before her,

squatting as he tried to fix the condom. Finally, the condom was oriented and

Colby crawled into the back with Sammy. He began to kiss her and moved on

top of her. As he began to try to put himself in her he noticed that he couldn't by

56 Amazing sex? Well, let's face it at this point. High school sex is awkward so this is just gonna
be terrible. The plastic bag itself was a bag of old clothes and, of course, that blanket, that his
mom had put in his car for him to give to good will which he had completely forgotten about
and left in there for 4 months until he found it on this day.
57 Colby had put this condom in his wallet in 7th grade as a horny middle schooler, thinking that
sex was just around the corner. This illusion had remained constant in his mind until this day
in which he actually was able to use it.
any means. She was too small and with the lubricant rubbed off, she wasn't

slippery enough for him to glide in. Sammy cringed in pain from Colby's trying

to maneuver himself inside of her and finally pushed him away and told him

candidly “Let's just face it. This isn't the time for sex.” and let out a seductive

smile. Colby looked at her flummoxed by her trying to be seductive by biting her

lip while telling him that they weren't going to have sex. As she kissed his chest

and moved down it though, he realized. She pulled the condom from him and

began moving her lips lower and lower, kissing him all along the way. What

Colby hadn't told Sammy before this moment was that he was incredibly ticklish

in the pubic region, especially around the area between his naval and penis. As

Sammy put her lips to this area, Colby let out a massive twitch and knocked his

knee into her face out of an uncontrollable reaction. Sammy shouted in pain and

Colby bit his lips in embarrassment and disappointment in how everything had

panned out. Sammy looked up to Colby and he saw that a black ring was forming

around her eye and upper cheek. And so, him, with a giant purple mark on his

neck, and her, with a black eye and swollen cheek, decided to call it quits and

drive back, but since they had no dry clothes they were forced to put on sweaty

basketball clothes and jackets that were too small, since they were from the good

will bag in which Colby had found the blanket. And this was how Sammy looked

when she got home that evening.58

58 I would like to let it be known that every part of this sex scene has been a true awkward
experience that I had attempting sex in high school. There were also numerous other things,
perhaps more awkward, that I omitted due to their graphic nature. I decided that trying to
involve failed tit-fucking in a sex scene between 2 minors would be a very bad decision but
now you know. I really wanted to tick-fuck one time and, oh my god! It did not work at all.
Just take this advice; the girl should never be lying down during an attempt at tit-fucking and
the guy should not be the one trying to hold the boobs together. Really, what was I thinking?
Also, is there a less vulgar term for tit-fucking? I feel like there should be something in
8.turn

On October 14th Sam Peleck was at a poetry slam. Sam had clean,

glimmering hair and was a sort of pretty attractive young man. Sam worked at a

gas station during the days in the middle of the dessert of Northern Arizona,

almost next to four corners, and did slam poetry by night. Most of his time was

spent driving from the gas station to Pheonix at 90 mph to get there before poetry

slams began. Often times he didn't perform but he tried to be involved in

something regarding spoken word performance every night. Sam wrote short

stories in solitude that were often about friendships and love while he inspired

himself to write darker, more sinister slam poems when around people, often at

performances. At times he had the inspiration to write a positive piece but would

suffer through his urges because he felt that the darkness of life was more

powerful in presentation than happiness, as was often the case in his slam poetry.

It seemed to him that the more he said things like “Fuck rape and Dick Cheney,

between breast fornication and tit-fucking, like booby-banging. It's alliterated and everything.
Perhaps it'll catch on. But then again, it does sound a bit too bro-ish. I could totally see a bro
saying “Yeah, I booby-banged and booty-banged a busty bitch last night.” and I don't wanna
be the creator of a term that could be legitimately thrown into a sentence like that. I can't
think of another one though so, email me your ideas for a word at
wallawallabangbang@msn.com.
the two seem synonymous in that they both ruin lives.” or “They called them a-

bombs because they originated from our asses. They are shit. Then they called

them h-bombs because we found out where they came from: hell 59.” the higher

scores he would get.

You might be wondering what exactly slam poetry is. It was started in

1984 when Marc Smith decided that poetry readings were way too boring and he

was sick of hearing about how some old guy's cat climbs into a flower pot all

sneaky like. So Marc Smith created a form of poetry that is a mixture between

the entertainment of story telling and the denseness of poetry that balances out at

a level in which the slam poem is both thoughtful but lucid enough to be

understood the first time through. In the scoring process 5 judges are selected at

random from the audience and give the poems a score between 1 and 10: A1

being a poem that made you vomit from boredom and disgust, or perhaps it put

you asleep and gave you nightmares with how bad it was and a 10 being a poem

that made you orgasm numerous times, cry with joy, and has inspired you to

change your way of life. After a poem is scored, the lowest score and the highest

one are cut and the middle 3 render a score somewhere between 3 and 30. The

audience participates in slam poetry, usually booing judges that score low

(which, because of people being too consumed with self conscious trepidation to

score anyone poorly, usually makes a 7- relatively- very very low.) and cheering

on high scores like 9.9s and 10s. The poets are given 3 minutes each and there

59 This was not true at all. A is for atom since an atom of unstable uranium in rapidly decayed in
an atom bomb's explosion and h for hydrogen because an hydrogen atom is used.
are 3 rounds. Usually the 1st round has 7 poets, then 2 are cut as the slam

proceeds into each new round until 1 person is crowned champ of the night and

usually given a massive reward of something like $20 and a free scone since

slam poetry is anything but lucrative.

Usually, when Sam would win a poetry slam he would be given the

opportunity to perform an encore poem in what was called the victory lap. He

would use this opportunity to display his humorous poems, or avante garde

poems, or simply celebratory ones.

Sam was sitting in the back of the Milton Cafe, named after John Milton

by the owner Al because Al loved that Milton was one of the 1 st poets to write

without rhyme, a benchmark in the evolution and poetry in itself, signifying that

format is not as important as the material in and of itself. Also, Al thought it was

interesting that Paradise Lost inadvertently made the devil a respectable

protagonist and thought that it was reminiscent of the extravagance that emerges

from mistake and Al secretly wondered if it wasn't divine intervention that

caused Milton to portray the Devil as a hero and elucidate the truth behind the

ultimate antagonist, Luficer. Al thought that this depiction opened the world's

eyes to the possibility of one's enemy's having a good reason for being who

he/her is which is the 1st step to making amends with all of one's enemies.
 A golden light descended upon a young Caucasian boy60 with bushy

blonde hair and a baggy green shirt. On the shirt was the image of a tree

extending in all directions, freely. Little white particles that floated impetuously

through the air steadied themselves and became visible as they entered the cone

shaped beam of golden light that extended from the source itself to its end,

forming a large circle of brightness around the microphone and the boy's feet on

the stage floor and shrinking back upward to extend almost no further than a

foot from each side of the boy's head, nearly 6 feet from his feet. The boy spoke

in a high pitched voice that sounded amiable and shook his body viciously at

times to emphasize more heavily the emotions he wished to portray. Every line

had corresponding choreography, usually hand signals or arm movements. Sam

half listened somewhat unimpressed as much of the audience gasped and cringed

at the boy's candid vulgarity. The boy had been one of his students in a poetry

workshop and had worked on that very poem he was performing with Sam but

had been too obstinate to change nearly anything.

“Over spring break I saw some of my friends from high school.

We all rendezvoused at a party and pretended that our 1st year of college hadn't

changed us.

And there's something you have to understand.

I had changed.

Because I was no longer a bro.

And when my friends would grab my shoulder, stumbling, with a beer in hand,

asking ' hey man...Hey you... Why aren't you drinking man?'

60 18 years old
All I could say was that I'd changed.

But that wasn't it.

There was so much more to it than that.

And that's when it came to me, like a bolt of lightening, abrupt and shocking.

And it wasn't just a poem. It was a broem.

I looked at my friends and I said”

“' “We are sucking on pink pussies and slimy slurpies made of gangster ice and

arrogance

sayin 'fuck the police,

fuck the “man”,

and fuck my parents.

Let's go fuck some fuckin' chicks.'”'

“' “We use synechdoche on Friday nights cause we ain't out to get anything more

than some pussy

You know what I mean?

I pop girls' cherries like I pop my collar

putting myself on a pedestal with a height directly proportional

to the size of the tits on the girl

that I fucked last night”'”

“' She had bleached her personality blonde

and tried to appear deep by putting charcoal black circles around her eyes made

of mascara

but all they did was detach us when we came together'”

“' “61See, me and my bros are texting skanks from Tibet to Texas

bumping bitches and beats in the back seat of my Lexus

And only dueschebags and fags would think I'm a sexist

Ya'll can suck my cock cause you know I respect this

gender of wet twat and orange skin

I'm down to let her go down on me as long as she got a nice bronze tan over her

personality”'”

“'But personally I've to realize that that isn't reality

All these bros are so convoluted worshiping their sacred vanity

that they put on stylish shades, shading out what really matters'”

“'Why do we get so drunk off the moment that we lose our lust for life?

Chasin captain morgan filled condoms with hangovers

just trying to sleep off the sobriety

And I'm circumlocuting my question as to whether she's on birth controlling

Cause I just pulled out realizing I'd forgotten a condom

again'”

61 To simplify the quotation convolution, this is the quote of a boy quoting himself at a party
quoting himself as a bro. It then becomes noting more than a quote of a boy quoting himself
and then goes back to the quote of the boy quoting himself quote himself in the past.
“'Now my body tries to vomit out all this vile toxicity that I have incessantly

crammed inside of me

but I'm still teetering

wondering what to do.

So I close my eyes

because I can't stand another moment of this violently whirling insanity!'”

“'And when I wake up, pasty, peeling the crust from my lips

and rubbing my chest because, lately

my hearts been cold

I stand up and I say

“I love the cops!

I love the man!

I love my parents!

And I love those beautiful souls that I unjustly called douchebags and fags

because they wanted what was best for me.

To realize that I was wrong.

And I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.”'”

Sam knew that the boy had wanted to poem to be humorous at the

beginning but the descriptions were too grotesque to be funny and it created an
obfuscation, leaving the audience wondering whether he did take the terrible

things bros did seriously or was still willing to laugh about it. It was also a

cliche` idea. Its performance was powerful but the subject matter itself lacked a

coherent form which detracted from the poem. Overall, Sam was frustrated that

the boy hadn't made the humor less racey and the transformation so abrupt but he

clapped for the boy who got a 27.9 on it and jumped off stage extremely happy,

knowing that he had made it to the next round.

The Milton Cafe was 23 years old. It was a small brick building in the

middle of a crowded street, squeezed in between 2 other shops. Its inside was

somewhat musty having a thick dry air from the Arizona climate and used books

that covered the 2 side walls from ceiling to floor. In between these giant walls of

books were 3 levels, each a single step above the other. The top level had a wall

that blocked it off from the other two mini-levels. Before the wall was the

counter where one could order coffee and small round tables were scattered

throughout the small room. There were double doors on either side of the cafe

counter which opened up to one level (about 30 ft. by 30 ft.) of tables and seats

and then a step below that was another 30x30 level of theater seats, bolted side

by side to the ground, facing a stage that stood at the very back of the cafe. The

2nd and 3rd level were usually lit with LED light bulbs powered by solar panels on

the roof of the building but when the poetry slams began all the lights in the

bottom 2 levels were turned out except for a single spotlight that illuminated a

focused ring around the microphone on stage and whoever was standing behind

it.
 Milton Cafe thought itself interesting for having the MC shine a flashlight

on the score cards that the random audience members got as opposed to having a

room lit well enough to be able to see them. The people who went to the poetry

slam loved this and thought it made cafe Milton stand out when the truth was

that Al didn't want to hire a lights guy for every Tuesday and Saturday night just

for score cards and LED lights don't dim very well, even the dimming ones. The

dimming ones just kind of flutter annoyingly when they're dimmed, giving you

the choice of painfully bright, flickering, or off. Al chose off.

Sam sat with a cup of chai tea steaming on the table in front of him next

to Andrea, a girl he had dated the last year and was now on a poetry team with.

Sam was 1 of 8 white people in the room, filled with 55.2 people, the .2 being

the arm of a server who was opening the door for a woman entering and Sam

loved this. It was almost reverse racism. He was so bored with the monotonous

suburban banter of well to do white people that often used a lot of words to say

nothing of substance and hovered around a very select amount of subjects,

namely: boys/girls one likes, new phones, plans for the night, etc. Sam adored

the eclectic nature of slam poetry and its universality. It was like all people from

all socio-economic levels, races, genders, and sexual preferences came together

to share thoughts and stories in a beautiful way here. Some people that, on the

streets or in the gas station, would make Sam defensive, were his best friends

here. He was able to peer into the hearts of all these people and see that who they

truly were inside differed very little from who he truly was inside.

Sam rested his chin against his palm, trying to make out Andrea's
silhouette in the darkness without avail. He realized that, at this moment, he was

very content with who he was. He may have been a gas station attendant but that

said nothing about his true identity and right now he was grasping into his true

identity by experiencing this overwhelming passion for poetry. The next poet

came up, a svelte young black man that had bright passionate eyes and a face

that looked like it was filled with love.

“ When I turned 20 my mother told me that she had had no idea what to

do with me.

Clock ticks of anxiousness and hour hand fingernail bites.

Baby tears and diaper smears thrown in the basket on top of her ignorance.

A 16 year old looking down on a hospital bed in wonder and worry.”

“But my mom raised me right

even if it was from the very bottom

We climbed every day

getting over past boyfriends leaving red marks on my face and broken bottles on

floor

Stepping over whiskey stains on the wall cause we weren't going nowhere but

up.

She was my lifesaver keeping me afloat in an ocean of gangsters and muggers”

“At least until I reached high school.

See, when Waldo became Whitman and Spongebob became Socrates she couldn't

help me

because a large growth in her stomach kicked her out of high school

and when I tore at my cerebral cortex trying to grasp my physics class she

couldn't contribute

because when her friends had been at desks she'd been nursing her child.

And when I turned 18 and she couldn't pay for college

she told me she was just human

But I knew otherwise, so I worked and saved and payed for it myself

and when I graduated and came home to see an abandoned building

I saw that she had pulled me out of a cliff with all her strength

and once I'd climbed over the edge she'd fallen in

“But now I had a rope yo!

And when I bought her a house away from the corner covered in dopesick drunks

Tears dropping down her face like all those pains falling onto the ground

leaving her eyes to crystallize pure

I thanked God for a mom who hadn't been born on the top

cause those who climb are stronger when they get up

and it allows us to take others back up with us.”

 The audience clapped reluctantly booing all the scores they secretly

wished had been lower. The poem got a 21.7 which, by slam standards is as bad

as a meth addict's teeth after chewing on moldy tar for 2 weeks. The man on

stage walked off stage with glassy eyes. The 1st round was over and the overhead

lights went on causing everyone to gripe and cover their eyes with their hands

and then begin to stand up and walk around. Sam went outside with Andrea who

was wearing a short, pink, silk skirt that had been ripped at the bottoms and was

stained with dirt as if it had been dragged in the mud at the bottom. Andrea had

long tan, Latina legs with thick black hair growing on them that Andrea refused

to shave and had no explanation for not shaving except “why shave them?” and

when people responded with reasons like “because it's normal.” or “because it's

socially acceptable” or “because it's not fucking hideous” she'd shrug her

shoulders and walk off defiantly, moving her hips with more force to try and

prove that she was still sexy. Her hair was dread locked on the left side and had

been permed into an half afro on the right side which she also had no explanation

for. But beyond all that and her 8” fingernails strategically grown only on her

middle fingers, Andrea was a very attractive woman. As she and Sam walked out

the front door so she could smoke a cigarette that she had rolled herself from

tobacco she grew in her backyard, spliced with some marijuana she'd gotten from

Martino in a hemp bag that often spilled the little dried bits of herbs, her left

hand's middle finger's fingernail clipped a guy that was trying to walk in and he

shouted “What the fuck! Cut that thing!”

 “Fuck you!” Andrea said reveling in her being a maverick and flicking

the lighter cautiously so as to not stab herself with her right hand's middle

finger's fingernail again like she had 3 months ago. Sam stood, leaning against

the wall with one leg crossing the other, looking out into the city in a pose that

said 'I am a fashion statement against fashion' with his horn rim glasses and

clean, dark brown hair parted at the side, poofing up with the perfect amount of

body, and a 5 o' clock shadow covering his face around the sides and not in the

mustache area. Sam was a rebel. He breathed cool. He didn't even care. Yeah he

was hanging out with Andrea. What of it? He'd even dated this kind of beautiful

freak. The truth was, 17 months earlier when he'd asked her out on their 1st date,

her legs had been shaved, he wore contacts, and all her nails were the same

length. As the year went on she began to become more and more bored with

normality in appearance while he stagnated and floated in Contentville thinking

'Man, I'm 23 and this is about as good as I'm gonna look. Let's keep looking like

this then.'. Andrea had tried to get fat for 2 months to learn that she had a really

good metabolism, then she began to paint her arms and neck on a daily basis

which didn't do much for her. Then she tried living an entire month with a penis

drawn on her left cheek which she found kept her from being able to do simple

things like buy groceries. After that she began the fingernail thing and about 3

months into the fingernail growing she cut all of them except her middle ones

because that met her fancy. Then she got a perm but decided that she was a 2

sided person and wanted to emphasize the duality within her by getting

dreadlocks on 1 side. Over the next month she got perm after perm to make her
hair curl into smaller and smaller balls until she had an afro on one side and long

greasy locks on the other. Sam had no idea when she stopped shaving her legs.

Andrea had fallen into the illusion that being different means you are

braver than those 'stuck up' forty year olds. She would often make out with girls

at parties, and when people would leave the room she would scoff, writing them

off as close-minded. The thought had never occurred to her that, maybe these

people aren't avoiding you because they're afraid of what's different or

lesbianism. Maybe it's just that you're being a rambunctious bitch. No, Andrea

believed in the same illusion that many marijuana addicted, counter-culture

hipsters believed: that writing other things off because they're “close minded”

doesn't make you open minded. Hardcore liberal college kids often have this

view as well. When you see a 19 year old with dread locks and Birkenstock

sandles, ask him/her what he/she thinks about fraternities. Undoubtedly, you'll be

in for a nice long rant about how they are very very very close-minded and have

no respect. Chances are you'll hear the word “fuck” quite a few times. Then,

when you ask them about politics and how we should interact with each-other be

ready for a nice 100-mg dose of hypocrisy as the student tells you about “love”

being the only answer and “acceptance” and “peace” and “harmony”. Be ready

for quite a bit of idealism; lots ends with no means to get to them.

Gray smoke slowly curled up from Andrea's lips and curved around her

perfect face until it scattered around in her tornado of hair and eventually

disappeared into the dry air above. The sky was black except for scattered stars

and a yellow moon. Beneath it were a couple bright street lights that lit the road
the Milton cafe was squeezed into. Sam looked down onto the same view that he

had seen so many times of the street, lit by buzzing signs and car headlights,

slowly driving down with the crackling gravel sound that they make when they're

pulling out of a parking spot in a dirt parking lot. The stop light turned red people

began to walk to both sides of the street and then walk perpendicular to each

other like charges on a dipole. A grocery bag sauntered back and forth, up and

down in the warm wind that blew languidly through the silence. A hobo teetered

down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street and put his hands on his

knees in front of a middle aged couple just leaving a restaurant. The hobo looked

as if he was out of breath, coughing. The couple tried to say something to him

and when he tried to reply he coughed up something like vomit or a massive

loogy onto the middle aged man's nice button up short sleeve shirt who then

shouted in frustration. His wife tried to calm him down and pulled him away

from the hobo who was now coughing up little goodies with his face up as if to

shoot them as far as possible. The couple ran away in a muted echo from the

white noise of the wind and cars. The light turned green and the cars began to

move forward again slowly, cautiously. All was calm tonight.

“AUUUUUUUUUUUGH!” Andrea screamed at the top of her lungs and

ran down the street at top speed in her glossy orange high heels, showing off the

calf muscles underneath her thick leg hair. The 1st thing Sam could think to do

was run after the fucking girl, wondering if she'd gone loony or something. So he

booked it, taking smaller strides than would've been optimal to keep his tight

gray jeans from ripping. She kept going and going until she got to an oriental
exchange store and ran in. When Sam caught up he put his hand to the door,

pausing a moment for breath. Suddenly the door shot open and a gorgeous Latina

girl with a half afro, half dreadlocks burst out with a ninja sword in hand, pointed

toward the sky vengefully. She looked at the moon, yellow like it had been

stained by caught pee and again screamed “AUUUUUUUUUUGH!” Sam bolted

to his side and fell trying to dodge her abrupt charge forward with the sword. She

kept running, passing buildings that shot by her bloodshot peripherals like they

were squares molded together. Sam ran after her in excitement and nervousness.

She finally ran straight into a window, the sword in her hand cracking it and then

bending and bouncing back, sending her flailing in the air for a moment and

falling onto her back where she hyperventilated and began whipping her hairy

limbs about and crying. Sam grabbed her arms and looked at her, trying to calm

her down, wondering what the hell in Buddha's name was wrong with her. She'd

never done anything like this that he'd known about. I mean, she liked to look

weird, but Sam had always thought that her eccentric appearance was an attempt

at compensating for a not quite eccentric enough personality. Then this shit.

What the hell? Andrea began to cough and scream simultaneously which was not

very pleasant for Sam who was in the perfect zone to have these piercing sounds

whomp against his ears. He could feel her heart beating unnaturally rapidly and

thought that she had been having a heart attack or something. Andrea stopped

flailing her limbs and lied supine, staring at the stars with a worried face and

tears streaming from her eyes. Her heart was still going crazy.

“I can't do it anymore!” She let out between rapid breaths.

 “What do you mean? What's wrong?”

Andrea looked at Sam for a second, opened her mouth, pushed out her

tongue and bit it. Sam realized what was going on. Being a shaman, he saw that

she had smoked an evil batch of Marijuana which had released an evil spirit in

Andrea and she had to overcome it somehow62. When the owner of the

laundromat looked out his store's newly cracked window he saw a 25 year old in

horn Rim glasses and tight jeans, ripped at the crotch from being stretched,

chanting ohm in a meditative posture above a girl who was shaking and

coughing up blood onto herself. There was a ninja sword at her feet.

8.8

When Phil was 10, he had met a 40 something year old online through a

high IQ society that they both belonged to. This man always watched Phil's

online blogs and sent responses to them that often showed Phil that he 1. tended

to use big words before he fully knew when to say them and 2. tended to make

assumptions and generalizations in his philosophy. The great thing was that this

guy was never rude though. He always had advice and supported Phil's

endeavors. Often times they talked over email, sending 20+ page responses to

each other. When they talked about physics they video chatted, placing their

62 What had really happened was that Andrea had a panic attack from the marijuana spliced in
her cigarette (often called a spliff when the 2 are mixed together). The weed had been soaked
in hashish and was so potent that when it entered her brain it caused a sudden shift in the
hardwiring which caused her synapses to go haywire and all her body to go at a rapid speed
so as to metabolize the stuff more quickly. The rapid synaptic out-spurts caused rushed,
confused thoughts and a panic attack in which Andrea had hoped to destroy the moon.
computer cameras in front of white boards so that they could write equations and

compare them. They talked about anything from physics to economics to

philosophy to literature.

Phil didn't know that Wen was from Las Vegas but knew that he was a

proponent of teleological utilitarianism. Such were the directions of their

conversations. Wen Phil and Wen talked about economics Phil learned about

Wen's knowledge of how to fight the Lucas paradox, but never heard about Wen's

Swiss Ponzi-scheme that had been running for 8 years and accumulated over 1.2

billion dollars. Wen co-wrote computer programs with Phil and sometimes sent

messages in binary code. The 2 of them learned Mandarin Chinese together in a

month and spoke only Mandarin with each other for another month, after which

they decided to learn Arabic.

Wen's drug dealings were more of a side note of his life. Most of Wen's

business was a side note in his life. He put so little thought into all of the crooked

ways in which he got money that he felt as if that wasn't really a part of him, that

his effect on the world had more to do with his intellect than his actions. He had

a dualistic reputation and, quantitatively, it gravitated more toward his monetary

dealings, but qualitatively, his reputation was that of a scholarly man,composed

of many fecund thoughts63. He was indeed one of Phil's benefactors, offering

advice regarding the editing of the particle accelerator throughout the arduous

process of its design. His time was allocated in a manner that was much more

intellectually oriented than monetarily.

63 In English: most people saw him as a slimy dealer but the relationships he held most dear to
himself were those with people that thought he was smart and a good affect on the world.
 On September 26th some time in the afternoon Phil flicked on his

computer screen and pulled out this little round camera to set atop the computer

for video chat. Little sun beams fluttered through the window into a room that

was filled with gadgets and wood and books and dust and cheetos. Phil sat on a

bouncy ball and pulled out a 24”x24” dry-erase board. The screen buzzed and

crackled for a moment as the photons began to emit with the increase in energy.

Phil typed for a couple moments and found himself on video-chat with Wen, who

also had a 24”x24” dry erase board in his hands, and was in a large marble

courtyard with a small fountain. The 2 exchanged equations for a moment in a

serene silence, as if words weren't necessary to communicate these thoughts.

Wen kept turning to a calculator to check Phil's equations and then checking off

the numbers or proofing another answer. This went on for a couple minutes, and

finally, when they had finished with Taylor series and net time derivatives of

momentum64, Phil set his white board down next to his plans for the compacted

supercollider.

Wen then asked Phil if he'd looked into the romantic era like Wen had

asked him to.

“Yeah. I really got into William Blake.”

“Ohhh, the ultimate spiritual guide of the romantic period. The man that

saw angels expel themselves from a tree outside his window at repast.”

“Well, it's interesting to read him, being one that has no belief in the

spiritual realm. I find it an odd investigation of the human mind. So entangled

64 Essentially, force. Phil had a poster in his room that said “May the net time derivative of
momentum be with you”. In the case of a supercollider, force- which usually is equal to mass
times acceleration or the net time derivative of momentum- would not be measurable, because
photons don't have a mass, and photons would expectantly be released from the collision.
was his imagination in his life that he believed it to manifest itself corporeally.”

“Here's the thing. Blake believed in vision beyond the eyes. That the eyes

were a hindrance to one's sight because they make you too entangled in the

empirical. Something that he dissented throughout his life. He, instead, promoted

the inner sight and vision that creates a connection with the universal spirituality,

which I see as imagination, as you do too. Therefore, through nothing more than

mild insanity, he felt himself connect to God and the entire spiritual realm. Yet,

when you read his poetry and look at his paintings, it's easy to see that he was the

bearer of a strong and passionate imagination mixed with a prodigious intellect,

and though he created a beautiful escape into a world of his own creation-

perhaps the origin of science- fiction- he failed to put his intellect into any

practical matters.”

“Mmhmm.”

“It makes me wonder if he really contributed to humanity as a whole, or

if he was simply a pariah that people worship because he held extremely refined

skills in an art that is glorified. Poetry, however beautiful, will never feed the

needy. So why is it that the refinement of that skill is so much more important

than the magnificent work of a blacksmith?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Blake took all of his abilities and did something socially acceptable with

them, even if it was counter-cultural at the time. True rebellion is never found in

the counter-culture, and Blake fell into the illusion that it is. He reminds me of

Don Quixote. All this brilliance chasing a dream that is completely unattainable.
The only difference is that no one would confidently go out and proclaim

William Blake an insane man.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, we all support Blake's illusion. That's what I meant with

counter-culture. Everyone believes that there is this utopian ideal that we can

somehow reach if we work hard enough. So we escape into the arts, because that

is when we are able to discard reality and believe in this absolution, in this

perfection. Blake was not a prophet and his poetry was not fecund. Sure, it may

have contradicted the hypotactical era that preceded him, but he was doing the

same thing that all the other poets before him had done.”

“Thrown away his talents?”

“For a dream. He believed it more important to escape into the fantasy

world than to actually live one's life. He said life was like a cage that trapped us.”

“So, instead of trying to break free from that cage, he just closed his eyes

and pretended he was free. Yeah, Okay.”

“And, yes, sometimes the situation calls for that. But to live based on a

known falsehood, I can never support that.”

“What do you mean a known falsehood?”

“Phil, you bring up a good question. Are you thinking of the question of

'what is reality'?”

“Yeah. I mean, how do you know that the dream state isn't reality?”

“I've always found that gratuitous. For example, this might all be illusion.

I might be in Plato's cave65 at this very moment, only experiencing life through

65 Kinda like the matrix. Plato's cave is the theory that we're all really in a cave and
my imagination, but that doesn't change the fact that, if I pinch myself, it hurts,

and if I murder someone, I'd go to jail for a long time and suffer. So, even if this

isn't reality, it is experienced literally and therefore should be treated as reality.”

“But what if imagination was Blake's reality?”

“Have you read Don Quixote?”

“No. Why?”

“Never-mind that. Look at Blake's poetry. He has too much of a

connection with the corporeal to actually live beyond it. To me, it seems that he

is just reveling in the empirical and how it affects him personally, calling that the

spiritual. Do you really think that he would have said he'd seen John Milton's

spirit enter his left foot66 if he had never heard of Milton?”

“I'll read Don Quixote this week so I know what you mean, referring to

that. I feel you're right to a certain extent. He lived a humble life because of his

love for literature, but I feel like that may have been the illusion's power over

him. Perhaps he was caught between 2 realities, constantly attempting to fight

one off and embrace the other, never realizing that the 2 work in conjunction.”

and etc.

experiencing reality as an illusion, kinda like Wen said. The problem is, what difference does
it make if we're constantly in the illusion?
66 Blake literally said this, however, whether it was the right or left foot is debatable.
Unnecessary information, but still very debatable.
Chapter 9

“I don't really know what identity is but I know that I dent titties.”

It is ridiculous to say that man, in his most free state, is a monster. People

run to violent anarchy only because they lack true freedom. There is a false

dichotomy that has been built between societal privileges and freedoms. One

who has to go to work so as to maintain the necessities of life is not free, for

there is no choice there, (the work is mandatory for survival). True freedom, of

course, is unattainable. It is when one has the ability to make any decision and

have no different consequences, for consequences are chains holding man back;
keeping him from freedom. If there were complete freedom though- no

consequences for actions- mankind would have no need to choose a side.

Morality wouldn't exist because no choice would be the better. There would only

be the choice. The paradox is- though- with no outcome, there can be no choice.

It's like saying that there can be no child without a parent. Therefore, true

freedom is the absolute lack of choice, because choice itself strips man of his

freedoms.

Because of this, there is no freedom, but there is an approach towards it,

which has nothing to do with one's situation. The real determinant of freedom of

mindset. On The 15th of November Prat Ped turned in his orange suit and put on

the pair of jeans he had been stripped of 6 months prior with a mindset so free

that his parole, debt, and criminal record seemed to be nonexistent. The prison

bars opened him to a world he had never seen before. Of course, it was the same

desert that he had looked out to every day from his cell, but now it glimmered

with hope- and not just dream like hope. He was now awake and a part of that

dream.

Prat's feet crunched on the rubble that was scattered about on the street's

melting asphalt. His shadow stopped the sun's melting of the road where he stood

as he looked out, waiting. He put his hand above his eyes to block the sun's glare

and saw Norance speeding towards him in a Ferrari. In a Ferrari? What the hell

was Norance doing in a Ferrari? Norance came to a screeching halt and jumped

out of the red car with extreme exuberance.

“You're out! Finally! What's up man!” Norance wore a sincere smile as

he hugged Prat.

“Fuck nigga! How da fuck did you git a fuckin' Ferrari?” Prat patted

Norances back reluctantly, knowing that he would be riding in a car that was

funded by bullets and drugs- or at least believing so. He didn't think that a 12

year old genius had anything to do with it.

“It's a long story man. I had a deal that had an unexpected turn for the

gooder. Man, I just been comin' out on top. I'm outa' da' drug shit now. I'm jus'

done wit' all that work man. It's been a nonstop party at my place nowadays Prat.

I moved too. My new cribs fit fo' a fuckin' king.”

“Where'd ya move to?”

“Fuckin' penthouse in da Veer Towers man! It was 1.2 mil fo' that shit!

You gotta see it man! Let's go.” Norance laughed and Prat let out a strained

smile.

Prat thought about where the money could have come from. It had to be

that Norance had shot a dealer and taken the money and the drugs. What else

could it have been?

“Norance, did you fuckin' kill Wen o' what?”

“Ha! Prat, Wen's healthy as a...Well, he's really healthy and fine and good

man. I got all this from him as pay for my last deal.”

“Which was also yo final deal?”

“Yeah man!”

“Well, how da fuck did you get millions from a single deal? No

transporter ever gets a milli.”

 “Well, I didn't even end up sellin' da drugs I was supposed to be sellin'

man. I just got lucky, ya know?”

“Norance, I got no fuckin' idea whatchya talkin' bout. Just start from the

beginning and tell me what da fuck happened.”

Norance laughed and looked at Prat in the passenger seat. Prat's face was

serious. He was concerned about his involvement with this level of illegality, of

the entire situation. He was afraid of Norance's ignorance. Didn't Norance realize

that this kind of wealth would inevitably drive him to more deals. Where there is

no wisdom, there is greed.

Norance explained how he had been paid 5 million dollars cash by Wen

because of his single serendipitous mishap at the gas station. Prat sat in silence

and shook his head. He tried to piece all of the horrors together and looked at

Norance differently. He no longer saw his old buddy but instead, a monster.

Norance was a monster, not only because of what he had done at that drug deal,

but because he also celebrated it. He truly had no remorse.

“Da fuck is wrong wit' you? Why'd you even- I just can't get you man!

Do you not realize what you did!”

“Man, relax. We're fuckin' rich now. We've got 4 mill and the rest of our

lives in fronta us. Man, chill! Aren't you happy to be outa jail? You oughta be

celebrating!”

“Celebratin' a funeral? How could I celebrate with money that came from

a fuckin' funeral,” Prat screamed truculently at Norance, pounding his fist on the

dashboard. “You let me live wit' you cause you said what I said fuckin' changed
ya but you'se all words. How fuckin' ironic. You was the shyest mutha fucka in

Las Vegas but you just all words like the rest o' them empty liers! I don't wanna

be livin' off that money. That's blood money,” and as a side note Norance asked

“and how da fuck did you spend 3 mill in- what- 2 weeks? You realize if you be

livin' like dis, you'se gonna be broke in 2 months, 3 at most.” Norance clenched

his fists trying to tenderize the vehemence surging throughout his veins. He

wasn't going to get through to Norance like this, but how was he? Norance was

sincerely happy about what he had done. There was no remorse. What if he just

ain't a good person? I mean, dat bastard's smiling. Aight, aight, calm down.

Whataya gonna do? I gotta talk to Wen and see if he's still got this thing. No, he's

got this thing. I just gotta talk to him. No, I gotta find out what this thing is. Shit!

I need a list!

Prat exhaled, “Norance, you got a piece of papa and pen in here?”

“No.” Norance said placidly, removed, and numbly. He had been

frightened by Prat's anger but figured that he would get over it once he saw the

penthouse. “I'll stop by a grocery store so we can grab them. You just keep in

mind, I givin' you a house- a fuckin' nice house- food, and everything you got

now. You oughta be thankin' me Prat.”

“Everything I want, I got in that prison” Prat replied languidly.

A couple blocks later Norance parked the car in a grocery store lot and

swung open his fly door. Prat struggle out of the Ferrari as quickly as possible as

though gasping for air and ran into the grocery store. Norance stopped for a

moment looking at his car and smiled, rubbing his hand against it. He slowly
followed Prat fingering the wallet in his back pocket. After Norance had bought a

notebook and package of pens Prat sat down and began to write:

1. Find out what it is

2. Talk to Wen

3. Talk to Norance

Prat looked at the paper ponderously. He had been so overcome by that

animosity that he wasn't able to simply put 3 priorities in order without writing

them down. That writing stood as a manifestation of hatred's blinding power. He

asked himself how many battle stories were the result of prevarication, that is,

after they had already been equivocated by perspective.

Prat spent a moment collecting himself as Norance tapped his shiny new

shoes on the pavement in eagerness. “First things first. Let's get you some new

clothes.” Norance grinned and his crooked teeth emerged from his lips.

“I'm fine in what I'm wearing.” Prat muttered.

“Prat, the fuck is wrong wit' you?”

“I started lookin' at things Norance. That's what. Let's just go home. I

need to look something up.”

As Norance and Prat drove into Las Vegas the sun began to fall. It's

orange glow shined on the metallic buildings on the strip. Prat dropped his head

against the window and looked out to the city. When Norance pulled the car into

the Veer tower parking garage Prat pulled open his door and followed Norance

towards an elegant, marble, elevator. Norance pulled a key from his pocket and
turned it in a slot that said PHS2.

“It stands for pent house suite 2.” Norance said excitedly.

When the door opened Prat was blasted with the sun's glare through the

massive glass walls of the suite. Norance didn't seem to notice. In fact, he

seemed to be basking in the heat's stench. Prat dismally searched for a switch to a

fan. His eyes grazed past white marble walls, naked, stolid.

“Norance, where's da switch to da fan?” Prat asked in incurious defeat.

“Switch-Oh yeah...There's no switches. There's a remote for everything.

It's fuckin' sick dude, isn't it?” Norance asked in a manner that seemed less a

sincere question than a longing for Prat's reaffirmation.

“It's too much. Where's da remote?”

“Let me give you a tour first.”

“No, this heat's fuckin' killin' me nigga. Just turn on da fuckin' fan, and

close da windows! I can't handle all this shit.” Prat clenched his fists. An anxiety

began to crawl through his veins.

“Aight, aight! Chill out man.” Norance ran over to the couch which lay in

the center of the penthouse and picked up a remote. After fidgeting with it for a

couple prolonged moments, the fans started up and eventually thin shades began

to drop covering the windows, yet the stifling heat and light still seemed to fester

within Prat's new home. He wiped his forehead and beads of sweat plagued his

shirt sleeve. He looked into what seemed to be a mirage. He was surrounded by

things all new, the black leather couches, the big screen TV, the fountain to the

left of the entrance, the granite countered kitchen. There was nothing but wealth,
it was completely sterile, no spirit, no posters, no enthusiasm except for the alien

thread of elegance that was so foreign to Prat. He didn't want this, he simply

wanted to be happy. To escape.

“Let me show you your room.” Norance led Prat into a large room with a

fat couch and silk sheeted bed. Prat set down his bag and sat down on the couch

silently. He pulled his hands up to his forehead and saw that they were trembling.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't bare the backdrop thought, that insisting

knowledge of what had been sacrificed for his sitting on that couch.

“Norance, I'm sorry. It's nice of ya to try an' keep me here wit' ya while I

be gettin' on my feet, but I can't do this. I gotta... I don't fuckin' know man. I just

gotta see where life takes me, but I can't take this.”

“What do you mean?”

“You just don't fuckin' get it. I thought I coulda changed you but you's too

gone. You ain't got no regret fo' yo actions cause you don't think bout anyone

else. When I went into jail, I fuckin acted tough. I thought I was the baddest

mutha fucka on earth but I knew that other niggas had lives. That's what people

fuckin' do. They live, just like you, and you ain't the only fuckin' person that

mattas. You so fuckin close eyed that you don't see that. All you see is- fuckin'

nothing! You don't even see yoself. You just closing yo eyes and runnin' round.

There be things you can't turn back and there's people that you can't change. You

ain't gonna change if you ain't even lookin' at the world!” Prat broke out rapidly.

“Prat, the fuck are you talkin' about? I gave you a fuckin' house and

you...You...What's wrong with you?” Norance's lips twisted into a crooked

grimace and his eyes dropped.

“What's wrong wit me? You.” Prat, gaining a rush of adrenaline from his

new bravery and ability to let himself loose without a filter, picked up his bags

and calmly walked to the front door of Norance's penthouse. He opened the door

and looked back at Norance. Norance's eyes were shimmering with impending

tears and his arm reached out to Prat in confused misery.

“Why am I just not good? I can't do nothing about it! I don't feel nothing

but pain all the time and you act like I can do something, but I can't.” Norance

said grabbing a lamp and throwing it against a wall. The light shattered and

fragments flew all about the empty, marble floor.

Prat stepped back into Norance's apartment and looked at Norance

sternly. “You don't control nothin. Tha's what be wrong wit you. You think you

tha only person who miserable in da whole fuckin' world? Look around you! You

got it betta than anyone and you feelin' sorry fo' yoself! Tha's why you so

miserable! Cause you only think bout yoself and you hate yoself!”

Norance charged at Prat in blind anger pouncing on him and bludgeoning

him with his over sized fists. As the fire consumed all of Norance's existence, he

searched desperately for the closest thing to beat Prat with. Prat lied bloody and

battered on the ground, screaming out a surge of blood and screech of pain. His

face looked as if it had fallen in on itself. Amongst his terror Prat though to

himself.

I shoulda seen it. This is how it ends? That's why there's so many of us.

Each new life is anotha chance. He felt that he was getting somewhere with that
thought- somewhere that he would want to be when he died- but forgot his path

as the stinging throughout his body consumed him.

Norance, finally, felt his hand clasp around the pole of the lamp he had

thrown, and smashed it down on Prat's body, twisting his fingers upside down,

shattering his ribs, and causing dark red ooze to seep out from his battered body,

Norance became so enthralled with the swinging of the metal rod in his hand that

he did not notice that he was now beating a pile of bloody, mashed, pulp. When,

at last, Norance dropped the pole from his hand and fell onto his back, gasping

for air, he blinked and saw not his best friend, but a completely distorted image

of a corpse- it was not even a corpse, but a gruesome heap of meat. There was no

life in it. Norance wondered how there had ever been life in it. Prat had been so

fragile, but not as fragile as Norance.

Norance looked down at himself and saw blood smothering everything.

He ripped off his shirt and pants and locked his door and ran to the bathroom. He

turned the shower on full heat and began scrubbing himself, scratching, gnawing

at the blood which had seemed to become entangled with his skin. He began

ripping at himself, scratching and scratching until his skin gave way and his own

blood began to emerge from his arms and chest and legs and face. liquid poured

down his face.

It was not just Prat. It was that boy too, that girl, their families. There was

nothing in him that restrained him before it was too late and even then, regret

doesn't mean that you'll stop, it simply means that you'll feel worse doing it next

time. Norance realized this and trembled, feeling the burning heat of the water
falling onto his shredded skin.

Then the doorbell rang.

Chapter 10

October mornings in Colorado make waking up at 6 A.M. worth it. As I

peeled my eyes open and looked out of the windows beside my bed I saw a

golden sun rising across a field of trees and grass. Clouds hung in the air like
pink and blue cream or a color swirl of cotton candy. The trees' leaves had either

drifted to the ground or were hanging, illuminated golden from outstretched

branches. A car drove on the road past my house and I listened to its tires

crunching against the leaves on the pavement. It was covered in brown, crusty

earth as all cars in Colorado are.

I rubbed my eyes and sat up on my bed fighting the forces of gravity and

tiredness with excitement for the day. After yawning and scratching my back a

little I finally mustered up the will to push myself up and went downstairs for

breakfast. Neither of my parents were awake yet so I was quiet through

breakfast. Afterwards, I got all my stuff for the trip gathered up, hugged my

parents goodbye, and left to pick Phil up.

When I got to Phil's house I laughed, seeing that he was sitting outside

waiting with overwhelming eagerness. We had planned to drive half way to

Phoenix, Arizona on the first day then on October 26th we'd get there by noon and

be able to get Phil's stuff set up for the fair with plenty of time to spare. What I

had forgotten was how we were going to carry Phil's particle accelerator. I hadn't

even seen it yet. Now that the moment had come, I realized, I didn't have nearly

enough room in my little 93' Toyota Camry to carry Phil's stuff, my stuff, and the

particle accelerator. My parents, treating me as if I was responsible for the

entirety of the situation had left me to remember all the things I had forgotten.

Luckily though, Phil had remembered that fact and had gotten his parents to rent

a U-haul van for the week. His dad, without asking Phil what it was for, called

one of his employees and told him to rent Phil a U-haul. Phil, at the time, had
been so overjoyed with the prospect of his going to the national science fair with

an 18 year old that he payed no attention to his father's inattention. When I saw

that Phil had remembered a U-haul, I sighed with relief and parked my car.

“You know, I'm not insured on that thing. If we get pulled over, I might

lose my license.” I smiled to Phil.

“Then don't speed!” He laughed.

I grabbed my bags and opened the back of the U-haul van, looking onto a

big, rectangular, wooden box with a handle on the front side. That was it. A little

box that contained the answer to a question that has been driving scientists to the

brink of insanity for who knows how long. It wasn't even strapped in. I laughed

at how Phil's brain worked. He could create something after school that a team of

100 scientists, working full time couldn't even make without taking years and

miles upon miles of material, yet Phil had completely forgotten to protect it with

straps or padding in the U-haul, which would have rendered all his work useless.

Oversight of the smallest details always seems to have the largest effects on the

world. I strapped down the “box” and smothered it with blankets that had been

provided by U-haul then threw in my bags. Phil seemed like he was about to

explode with anticipation and I laughed inwardly, thinking that the car ride

would be anti-climactic for him. Here he was, completely free, in the air of day,

outside, shaking with hopes of getting in a car to be boxed in and forced to sit for

hours on end. When everything was ready, Phil tossed me the keys and we got

into the front of the car. As the engine ignited, I asked “Ready?”

I looked to my right and Phil was buckled up, hands clasped, nodding his
head vivaciously. I put the car into reverse and we were off. The beginning of a

road trip is always overwhelming to me, but in a good way. It seems that you're

about to begin a journey of sights, an elongated, silent tour of a minute part of

the world. As we crossed through preemptive, morning traffic within Denver,

Phil looked out his window in silent awe. I tried not to fade from my

concentration being centered on driving, but seeing Phil's revering Denver

opened up a portal of beauty to me. I caught myself, numerous times, losing my

eyes to the windowed buildings, shooting up towards the rising sun, leaving all

the streets in a cool blue shade. People walking down Broadway in jackets

emitted steam with every exhalation due to the cold morning splendor. The

sidewalks were different than those in Suburbia. They were a darker gray. It

seemed that they were the product of experience contemplated, and thus

transformed into wisdom. As we passed the central section of downtown, Civic

center park I looked at the browning grass that lay steady beneath passing

footsteps and stone paths, skated upon by 13 year olds on their way to another

day of middle school. The whole place was bustling with a beautiful, coalescent

vitality. It was as if we were another cell, passing through a massive, living

organism, encapsulating all within it.

“When was the last time you went to Denver?” Phil turned to me and

asked as we passed the massive stone court house.

“I think it was two weekends ago. I went down here for a date. I go to 16 th

street mall a lot just to escape the monotony of suburbia. It's sickening to live as

a clone. Our neighborhood has no special aspect that allows it to be

differentiated. It's just another mini-mall filled with chain stores and a Wal-mart.

Denver breathes originality and individualism. That's something I think we all

need to escape to once in a while.”

“I've thought about that too but I think that the contrast allows for Denver

to be even more spectacular in your eyes now, yet if you were to live here you

would lose the ability to enjoy it so thoroughly every day if at all. Attachment

breeds memories which can be good, but when the memory of habit is

intertwined with a location, that location is correlated with the dreary boredom of

that habit, and thus, you'll come to be disenchanted, even to abhor that place,

whether it be a cramped basement apartment or the Taj Mahal.”

“But we create synaptic nexuses in our minds which allow to form

patterns. So, what if-instead- you woke up every morning in awestruck

splendor?”

“I guess that's a pretty prolific paradox. We can aspire to habitually

maintain happiness but that repetition is the source of a frustration which would

then separate us from that happiness that we are trying to contain.”

“But does joy every really become boring? True joy finds love for

repetition.”

“You know, I guess the real culprit here is embrace. If you were to

approach everything with a positive perspective, regardless of its monotony or

scrutiny, you'd be able to find jubilation within yourself and experience that in

different ways. When we are given less, we're not meant to become bored and

want more, but appreciate the microscopic details of what we do have. If, that is,
we approach our situation in that manner. That would allow you to find new

aspects of old things and avoid the boredom of repetition altogether.”

We passed Denver and drove South into the flat planes of Colorado,

passing wheat fields and road sign, road sign, road signs. Everything began to

mix together into one bland, elongated view. The sepia toned nothingness

extended out toward the pure blue sky. There were no clouds; only a giant yellow

dot up in it. The median lines flickered beneath us over and over and over as we

drove straight. There were no other cars or buildings for miles in any direction.

No mountains. Nothing. Inside the car, the heat was blasting on 2 boys that had

packed only hoodies and were cranking up Journey's “Any Way You Want It” on

the radio, dancing as much as possible while still driving. I bounced my head

from left to right while Phil sang along in the same octave as the singer and

drummed on the dashboard, often pumping his head up and down and

accidentally smacking the glove compartment box open with his hands'

percussive contributions to the music.

“What do you think about how art and science interact in culture?” Phil

shouted as the song died down and a radio DJ began to talk about how he had

once skied naked in a bass voice that sounded oddly irreverent.

I smiled at his question, knowing that this was going to become a good

conversation67, turned off the radio, and replied. “I think that there is a great

duality in almost everything. To white there is black and to nothing there is

everything, and as is the case in nature, mankind has two sides to his societal

67 Good conversation in the opinion of the narrator. I, myself, find this conversation kind of dry
and I had to look up a couple of Phil's words which makes me feel like the narrator is just
being superfluously ostentatious with obfuscating erudition.
approach; namely, artistic and scientific. I feel like they're the yin and yang of

our life but they don't get along very well.”

“Why don't you think they get along very well?”

“Well, they're opposites like I just said and they act so differently. Some

people were just wired to think in a scientific sense while others were only wired

to think artistically and the two don't mesh because they are the epitome of the

two sides of humanity's approach to life.”

He smiled and asked, “so you don't think that they can work together?”

“I think-well, at times they do. Like architecture. But when you get really

intense in either aspect, the other doesn't fit in well.” I felt myself slipping from

logic and failing to support what my convictions. “I don't know, what do you

think?” I asked Phil.

“This next semester I plan to go into the study of philosophy and physics

which seems inherently self-contradictory due to the intermingling of art and

science with this, but nothing could feel more natural to me. Every day I struggle

to articulate the unification I feel regarding the rational, logical, scientific aspects

of life (which physics serves as my main outlet of) and the spiritual, artistic,

expressive aspects (of which philosophy serves as one my numerous outlets on

this front). These two sides have driven a dichotomy into society, separating the

dominantly left brained and right brained people of the world but neither side is

truly right in its myopic prevarication of life. For me, personally, life is not even

finding the middle ground between these two concepts and trying to compromise

the ideals of both sides to obtain a consensus that leaves me mildly happy and
mildly frustrated on both fronts. It is, instead, about recognizing how the two

work together and define how I am supposed to live life.

Recently I read what is now the equivalent of my new bible: Einstein's

"Ideas and Opinions" which elucidates elaborately how science and religion

work together to philanthropically serve man. Einstein exposes the traits that

define the actions of religion and science as such: Science is our form of

interpreting the realities we encounter in life and analyzing them. It is the

forming of connections and expanding of the objective laws of existence. In

essence, it is our form of reading the phenomenological aspects of life like a

book. Religion is the obtainment of knowledge regarding morality and the

predicaments of life that have an emotional tie (i.e. the subjective). When these

two are placed together in harmony we see that they enhance one another by

broadening our paradigm and giving us a full view of life. They are mutually

dependent and therefore neither should dominate in any realm.

How is this applicable to reality though? I mean, conceptually, it's nice,

but life is about application, not incessant secluded thought. I can only begin to

answer this question through the means of my personal plans. Pursuing the path

of engineering will be science intensive and rational but the actions I take will

have a large affect on the future, (or at least I hope so) and only with a spiritual

knowledge that guides me to make the right decisions will I be able to apply my

mathematical knowledge to a truly beneficial cause. The first step to doing what

is right is knowing what is right and the obtainment of the latter has been a

controversy among the spiritual leaders of the world for centuries if not longer. I
cannot personally gain a complete understanding of what I should do and what

will be best for mankind because I am not omnipotent, but I can get a

fundamental basis of knowledge regarding what should be looked at when

considering the ethics of choices to be made in my future.

There is, however, an objection that can be raised to this postulation of

the similarity between art and science. What is pragmatic is not always aesthetic

and vice versa. We have integrated technology into our lives which has

resultantly ripped the sanctity of nature from numerous forests out by the roots.

This is a main concern of mine but I think that this objection is being looked at

through the wrong lens. Science has obtained a new front recently and is now

driven by the necessity to preserve the aesthetic naturalism that is inherent to our

planet while simultaneously enhancing it through the means of scientific systems

such as botany which is perfect for the exemplification of the evolution of left-

mindedness forming a nexus with the right-minded side of life.

There is a science to art and an art to science. Spirituality and artistry are

the expressions of the reality that we interpret through science and, thus, the

mixture of reason and emotion come together and form the magnificence of life.”

He replied rapidly.

“So really you think that they're two parts of the same thing?” I asked.

“No, I think they're bits and pieces of a larger entity that we have labeled

as two separate things.”

I couldn't help but agree with what he had said here. As we drove along

we saw a hitchhiker on the side of the road. Phil shook my shoulder and told me,
“pick him up!”

“You don't know if he's gonna be a robber or murderer though.”

“Statistically, there's less than a 1% chance of that actually happening, so

I say we pick up any hitchhiker we can. Plus, I've never met one before and I bet

he has a great story or something.”

“I've picked up one before and he was piss drunk.” I looked at Phil but

his excitement could not be undone by my cynicism so I pulled over and

reversed a little as we had already passed the hitchhiker a couple seconds back.

The hitchhiker jogged towards us and Phil jumped into the middle seat so the

new passenger could enter. This new passenger was a scroungy looking man of

about 5'8” with long, scraggly brown hair that came to his shoulders and a thick

black, wavy beard that was nearly 6” long. He wore a caramel brown jacket with

stains on it and stained painters pants. His hands were worn, his fingers were

stout and his fingernails were crusted with dirt, but had recently been cut. He

carried a backpacking pack and asked us if we could open the trunk for him to

throw it in in a raspy voice. We figured that there would be enough room and

pulled open the trunk. His crystal blue eyes glowed clearly as he looked at the

wooden box in bewilderment.

“Now, what you boys got in there that got you driving cross Colorado on

a weekday mornin'? What day is it anyways?” He spoke in a low smokers voice

that had a tinge of worn out wisdom in it.

“A particle accelerator” Phil replied in a squeaky voice that he had

altered, trying to be goofy.

 The hitchhiker laughed at the ridiculous response that he had received

and looked at me for a serious answer, passing Phil off as a youngster joking

around with words he'd just learned.

“No, it really is,” I confirmed to the hitchhiker in a slightly embarrassed

tone, “I'm Nate Arthorr.68”

He looked at me with a sly smile holding out his tan, leathery hand. As I

took it, he shook with a firm grip and responded, “Call me Hitch. Due to my

current situation, that's the nickname I've developed and I've taken a liking to it,

so it's just Hitch.”

“I'm Phil.” Phil eagerly put out his hand to the new acquaintance and

received a firm handshake as well. I could tell by Phil's cringing face that the

firmness had been a bit too much for him as a matter of fact. We got into the car

and there was silence for a couple of minutes. I could tell that Phil was feeling

nervous, wanting to talk to Hitch, but couldn't think of a first thing to say to him

past the shallow greetings. For a couple minutes Phil began to drum with his

fingers on his cheeks, then his nose, then he broke into a solo all over his body

and ended up hitting me and abruptly stopping. I was on the left, driving. Phil

was in the middle, crunched between Hitch and my shoulders. Hitch was looking

out of the passenger window longingly, or so it seemed, and seemed to not notice

Phil at all. Slowly the drumming began again, picked up again and this time he

hit the radio and quickly ceased the beating. Silence...PBLT PBLT PBLT. Phil

began to flick his finger up and down his pushed out lips making a PBLT sound.

Hitch turned and looked at him which caused Phil to stop mid PBLT, put his

68 Nate Arthorr- The narrator

hands in his pockets and slump down defeatedly. I looked at Hitch and asked

“What's your story?”

“Whatchya mean?”

“Like, your life's story. What brought you here, hitchhiking on a weekday

morning in Southern Colorado?” I looked at him and he looked at me

contemplatively, then to Phil. Phil's eyes had lit up and he was looking at Hitch

in eagerness. Finally Hitch cleared his throat.

“It's a long story.”

“Where are you going to?” Phil asked.

“Anywhere the road takes me and there's work.” Hitch replied.

“Well then we've enough time to hear a long story.” I told him.

“Alright, alright. Eager little guys, ain't you? Well, I'm kind of a drifter. I

go around the country looking for work. I've been doing it for something like 5

years now. No, no, not even close. It's been 9 years. Yeah, 9. Well, I've been

living off the grid- if you know what I mean- for the last 9 years just going here

and there doing this and that. I've worked on farms, in diners, the works and now

I'm headed Southwest towards my hometown, Tucson Arizona. Of course, I'm

kinda going everywhere around there right now though. I ain't in a hurry, but

that's the final destination at this point. I'm kinda on a buncha- a lot of little trips

with one final destination but once I get there I start another, another journey. So

I work for a little and then pick up my stuff and head out to a new destination

until I'm to a new corner of the U.S.”

Hitch stopped. Phil and I sat waiting for him to go on and when he didn't
I asked “So why did you go off the grid?”

“Let's just say there are some things in the past that, if I could take them

back, I would. I made some stupid things- er, I mean, I did some stupid things

when I was younger and I been paying for it ever since. Let's just leave it at, stick

with science kids and stay away from liquor,” Hitch took a deap breath and

looked at me seriously “kid, when I was your age I was boozing every night and

snorting coke. You don't know how good you got it staying in school. You're

gonna have it good if you stick with what you're doing, and you better. Drinking

and that shit just leads you down a path you don't wanna go down and sometimes

it's a path you can't never go back down so you get trapped where you are. 9

years ago I had a wife and a beautiful daughter and a roof to sleep under and a

job and now I have nothing but my backpack and the freedom the roam the

country. See, in the early 80's I was a teenager living the glory days and I was

drinking and doing anything I wanted. Having sex, partying, you name it. I was

living high and mighty. I was one of them teenagers that everybody's telling to

chill out and recognize that they're not invincible but I thought I was so I did

everything I wanted to; dropped out of school, left my parent's house, got my

own place at 17 and jumped from job to job cause I couldn't keep a single one.

When I was 19 I got a girl pregnant and married her and had a baby. We moved

out to Detroit and I went and worked for Ford doing auto shit in the factories up

there. I kept my job there and settled down a little but I didn't stop anything. I

had a baby but I was still doing blow and that shit on the side but of course I

thought it was gonna be fine. Everyone of them dumbasses thinks he'll get away
with it. Every guy thinks he'll be fine doing drugs and still live normally but

everyone brakes sooner or later. I, I did really good. I lasted 15 years with my

daughter and my wife, drinking half the nights, smoking on the other ones just to

fall asleep or get through the home life. Honestly, I loved my little Isabel with all

my heart and I wanted to quit every day, but I couldn't. Man, this is weird telling

you guys this. I talk to people I drive with every day but I've never told anyone

this part of my life. It's weird, like I'm more comfortable with some kids than my

own kind.

Sorry, anyways, where was I?”

“You loved your little Isabel with all your heart and wanted to quit every

day but you couldn't” Phil promptly answered.

“Oh, yeah, yeah. You got a good memory on you kid,” he rubbed his long

dark beard and stared with his crystal green eyes out to the stretching road before

us “so I loved Isabel-that's my daughter. And I kept trying to quit but I never

could and of course she found out about my doing stuff besides drinking when

she was getting into her teens and it tore her apart. She was scared of me and

honestly I was kinda scared of myself too. Shit wasn't going good. Shit wasn't

good at all. I just felt worse and worse so I smoked more pot and drank more to

deal with everything and it just got worse like I was in quick sand. So I kept

getting sucked in further and further and kept getting further and further from

Isabel. Then Isabel started making mistakes when she was- say- 13. She stopped

hanging out at home and always seemed to be out with friends and started getting

in trouble at school and all that. I felt like I was watching my own childhood all
over again but I was set on not making the mistakes my parents made so I tried

to talk to her but she wouldn't ever listen and talking was hard. It was weird. I

felt like I was condemning her or something like that and I loved her and I

wanted her to know that more than anything but I couldn't tell her that I loved her

and, at the same time, tell her that I didn't trust her, cause honestly, I wasn't

trusting her anymore.”

“Wait, what do you mean the mistakes your parents made?” Phil

interjected.

“Phil, that's a really personal thing to ask. That's really rude.” I looked to

him embarrassed and tried to shrug it off to Hitch like “I would never do that”

but Hitch didn't seem to mind the question and he began again but at a different

point.

“When I was a kid my dad was a heavy drinker and used to lay down the

belt on me when I got home and he wasn't having a good day. So I got scars all

across my back and got used to getting bruised and taught myself to fight to

defend myself and to stand up for myself. So when I started doing speed and

smoking and all that he would hit me harder and say he knew what I'd been out

doing and then he's lay down the fist and we'd end up fighting all the time and

the second I had enough money to get my own place I got the hell out of there.”

“So were you too afraid of being overly firm with Isabel that you were

overly nonchalant and ended up supporting her treading down the wrong path in

life?” Phil asked.

“Hmmm, I guess that probably was it. I was so hung up on trying to not
be like my dad that I ended up not being much of a dad at all and just kinda gave

up on holding Isabel to any standards and I let her go out. Then I pretended like I

knew what she was doing but I didn't care. And really, what could I say? I was

still smoking and drinking and I was supposed to expect her to do something

different? Really, parents need to change themselves if they wanna change their

children, but anyways, I started letting her have parties at the house cause she got

2 M.I.Ps 69when she was 14 and we just couldn't afford her to get caught. Plus

she'd gotten alcohol poisoning and I had to pay for her medical bills, so I figured

it'd be safer and cheaper to let her have parties at our house since she was gonna

do it anyways.”

“And what about your wife? Where did she stand in this whole thing?” I

asked.

“She kinda went along with everything I said, but, you know, we didn't

get along very well. She let me do what I wanted all the time and then bitched

about how it was my fault when anything went wrong. So me and her would

fight a lot but I almost always got my way. She didn't really care most of the time

with Isabel though. She was snorting a lotta blow by the time Isabel was 15 and

she was kinda gone. That answer your question?”

“Yeah, go on.”

“Alright. So I was letting Isabel have parties at home, right? And now

she's 15 and she has a party and I was drunk and my wife was drunk and there

were a lotta kids at the house getting drunk too. I was upstairs watchin' tv and I

69 Minor in posession. Given to anyone under 21 who is drinking. Charges run from around
$400 per ticket to $1000.
went to look for my wife cause I hadn't seen her. So I didn't think she was home

but I was drunk so I went downstairs to ask Isabel anyways and when I got down

there a teenage boy, one of Isabel's boyfriends, was slapping my wife in the ass

like hitting on her. I'd had something like 15 beers or shots or just drinks by that

time so I was really drunk and I went up to that kid and grabbed him and pushed

him against a wall, grabbing his shirt with my fist, trying to be a tough shit, you

know? So the kid starts trying to punch me but he's piss drunk and I got all mad

cause he was trying to fight I thought. So I started hitting him and punching him

in the face and my wife started screaming at me and trying to break the fight up

and the kids were just thinking 'woaah!'. So my wife runs upstairs and I was still

fighting the kid, and his face was all bloody and shit cause I had him against a

wall, and, and. So my wife's upstairs and she calls the cops on me, cause she's all

drunk and who knows what else. Then some other boys that were that kid's

friends started trying to hold me back and I started wailing at them and they

started trying to kick me and punch me and then a kid started swinging a baseball

bat all over the place and just ended up smashing it into a wall and falling onto

his face cause he was drunk. Then my wife runs downstairs and tells me the cops

are coming and I'm in disbelief so I ran to my room, grabbed my gun and a

couple things. Then I heard sirens so I smashed my window and started running

with all these random things I'd grabbed in my arms like my underwear and a

pipe and some bleach and a towel. Random shit. The last thing I remember is I

was running and then I black out and wake up the next day.

So then I realized that, if I went back, I'd be going to jail for sure so I
decided that day to live on the road. And ever since I've been living off the grid

trying to get by on side jobs. I spent my first 2 years just on the road, living off

the people that gave me rides. Then I spent a year or 2 in Utah living in a cave

and stealing food from garbages. You'd be amazed how much good food you can

find in dumpsters behind restaurants and grocery stores. Then I spent a year in

the South around Mississippi, Louisiana, and Arkansas working on oil rigs and

doing construction. Then I went to the mid-west again and spent some time in

Iowa working on farms and in Nebraska doing the same. Then I went to

Minnesota and now I'm here.”

Phil clapped his hands with entertainment. “What an amazing story!

You've had so much experience it sounds like. How old are you?”

“Well I was born in 66, so you do the math.”

“What're you gonna do in Arizona?” I asked.

“Don't really know,” He answered with a depth that made his unsurity

sound sure.”maybe more work. Whatever the future's got in store I guess.”

“What happened with drinking and everything? Did you stop?” Phil

asked what I had really been thinking but ahd been to afraid to say.

“It's funny I didn't tell you about that. It's been a big part of my life since

I left home in Detroit. When I went onto the road I didn't have any chances to

smoke or drink or anything so I ended up being forced out of all that and I loved

how I felt but at some times I would get the chance and I would binge on alcohol

or weed, you know, just whatever I came across with the people that picked me

up. It was really uncommon though and the longer I stayed clean the more I
started to open up to life. It's like there was this whole new side to me that I'd

never known was there before and what was even better was that I also saw this

whole new side to the world. I'd been living clouded by that stuff- what's the

word when you are all closed in your mind?”

“Myopia?” Phil chimed in.

“No, I ain't never even heard that word before. It's...Narrow. There we go.

I had been so narrow minded or myopia like you said and when I actually saw

the new side of the world my life got a whole lot better. I started feeling this

connection with nature and loving the adventures in the outdoors. That's why I

went to Utah and lived in the cave. I was on a journey to become completely

clean and I spent 2 years staying in nature, kinda like a hermit, finding myself

and figuring things out. It was a long time ago and the days all seem to melt

together but I remember a lot of good things that I learned when I was there like

realizing that I don't have the freedoms of living in a house and working

wherever I want and just buying a car and having a license and all that but I'm

more free because of that because I'm not held down by any of that. So often, the

things we use to raise the standard of living lower our quality of life. We cling on

to these things that trap us and consider them freeing where as when I got off the

grid I realized I was truly free. Of course, my prison dodging had a lot to do with

a lot of those thoughts but I still think they're valid.”

“Wait a second though,” Phil threw in “We have industrialized society to

expatiate the technological advancements of the past and create a more favorable

future. All those things that you described as bogging you down have helped lift
me up and brought me to a more meaningful existence. For example, my being

within a stable housing structure that protects me from the wages of mother

nature has helped me easily build a particle accelerator.”

“Yeah, but then what does that do? Where does it end?”

“Well, with the particle accelerator, we'll be able to learn the composition

and fundamental principles that affect the structure of an atom and that could

lead to new technology, perhaps sources of energy that don't dissipate any

pollution or other things.”

“See, but that's just tying yourself down with more knots. If you weren't

caged in by your dependence on technology already you wouldn't need the

particle accelerator that you made. You'd just be happy with where you are. We're

so focused on possession in American. We take and take until we have less than

nothing, and we rack up debt and dig ourselves into holes and invent new

technology to save ourselves from the problems were caused by technology in

the first place.” Hitch replied.

“It does seem a logical error to think that factor x would cancel out the

original effect that was caused by a different version of factor x. Either way, it

shares the fundamental qualities of factor x and will thus have the same

fundamental effect. Yet, green technology is equivalent to a completely different

variable that only shares certain effects like needing resources to create it, but all

new things demand resources. Although, we could recycle old technological

products to create new ones and then you'd totally avoid using up any new

waste.” Phil began to think aloud to himself.

 “I'm not just talking about the environment though. I'm talking about

people in general. I'm talking about how we cage ourselves in with this

technology and these things things things that we constantly- we constantly, um,

cram into our lives. We just keep needing more and more and we get so focused

on having everything that we don't appreciate having anything.”

I responded“I got ya. I kind of agree, but in another sense, you're still

dependent on other people having cars and technology that you use to survive.

You didn't make the clothes you're wearing or grow the food you'll eat tonight.

You're free to a certain extent by escaping the monotony of living in the suburbs

like I do, or just being on the grid, paying taxes, checking your mail, dusting the

living room. It seems, like Phil here was saying earlier, that we really need to not

go to extremely in either direction which is what people are doing.”

“Why didn't I think of that! Exactly!” Phil jumped into the conversation,

becoming more and more loquacious as the morning progressed. “We need to

find the balance between nature and technology, between classical and romantic

paradigms. Why not create technology that emulates nature? I mean, they are

constructing bio-technology at the present, but why not base the basic laws of

technology on those of nature so that the 2 will coincide?” Phil pulled out a

notebook and a pencil from the glove compartment that he had put there in the

early morning and started writing and sketching graphs and drawings of what

looked like bio-mechanical objects. I looked down and laughed to myself at

Phil's brilliance. Hitch smiled at the outcome of the conversation and looked

back out his window in contentment.

 “What ever happened to your wife? Do you know?” I asked.

“No idea. Probably still in Detroit doing the same ole same ole.”

“Why don't you go visit her and see if she's alright? See Isabel if you love

her so much and ask for her forgiveness.” Phil asked.

Hitch's face went bright red “Look! It's my life and you ain't the one to be

telling me what to do! You're 12! What do you know!?” He spat out losing his

temper.

“I'm sorry, I just. It would be the best thing to do. I know it'd be scary but

she's your daughter. My parents don't really tell me they love me or hang out

with me that much and sometimes I feel really bad about it and just cry because I

wish I had normal parents that love me.” Phil said in a very languid and forced

voice.

Hitch sighed and put his hand on Phil's shoulder. “Look kid, I'm sorry.

You might be right. It's just- you don't understand what it's like to've been gone

this long. It's almost as if I can't go back cause I'm a different person now. I'm not

the guy that raised Isabel and I'm sure she's not the girl I knew. We would have

nothing in common. I wouldn't know where to start.”

“Start by telling her you love her.” said Phil.

Hitch grumbled in a caved in agreement feeling a tinge of

floccinaucinihilipilification70 toward

Phil's statement, disregarding it as an oversimplification of a serious situation.

Phil's thought process at the time, as he explained to me later, was that the

simplest route is usually the best one to take and that people too often go through

70 What the fuck?

indirect routes to circumnavigate the heart of the matter which causes

interpretive misunderstandings and then complicates the situation even more.

What it is in people that makes them want to talk around everything will always

perplex me, like when you get a text that says “hey” and you respond with a

“hello” Shortly thereafter you get a call from the person who texted you. It's as if

this person was sticking a toe into the water to check its temperature before

jumping in. But this water is in a pool with plenty of other people swimming in it

on a hot summer day. So then the person calls you and says the same thing he

said when he sent you a text message, like “hey” or “what's up”. And all you can

respond back saying is “hey” or “yo” as well unless you want to be zany and talk

about how that person greeted you on the phone saying, verbatim, what he said

in the text. But then you risk looking like an over-analytical wierdo which will

hinder you from actually getting to the meat of the conversation, which is going

to happen inevitably by some means. Most often it's the person letting out a big

exhalation as if relaxing himself or displaying that it's been a tough day, when in

truth, it hasn't been an exceptionally tough day today, but there's nothing really

more to excrete from one's mouth at that time that's socially acceptable. By this

time you know that the person has called you to make plans for this evening or

some time in the near future but he is too afraid to just go out and ask if you want

to hang out tonight so he dabbles around the subject, dipping more toes in the

water:

“Hey, so, what's up?”

“Not much. You?”

 “Not much, not much...Yup. So.”

“...”

“You, uhhh, what're you doing?”

“Nothing really. Just chilling I guess.”

“Cool, cool.”

(It's odd how people repeat the same neutral word in awkward situations

or wordless situations.)

“Yup.”

“So you doing anything later on?”

“I don't know really why?”

“Oh, you know, just wondering. I, uh...Like anything tonight man?”

“Not yet man. You?”

“Nope. No. Negative.”

“Yup.”

“Nothing.”

“...”

“So, do you wanna hang out tonight then maybe?”

“Yeah, sure.”

At this point it has taken 5 minutes and many awkward moments in

which you are staring at your toenails wondering when he's gonna pop the

question like you're about to get engaged when it could've been a simple “Wanna

hang out tonight?” Why all the circumlocutory idioms and mannerisms. It's

ridiculous to me how illogical manners are. It's as if we're programmed to emit

certain phrases when things happen. Our reactions are set into us so often that we

often times lose sight of ourselves in the mess of trying to mix in with others. At

the next road stop we took a break and Hitch got out, thanking us tremendously.

The sun was in the middle of the sky which was now a bit gray from clouds but

there was a comforting color in the air that drifted about ethereally. After we had

escaped the silence that proceeded Hitch's grunt that followed Phil's love

comment we struck up a conversation about cars in which Phil learned,

surprising me with the fact that he didn't already know, what cruise control was.

Then Hitch and I learned about how the man that invented the looped entrances

to highways had committed suicide after realizing how many deaths his creation

had caused and that it went both ways because the guy who invented TNT had

also felt so bad about his life when a periodical accidentally published his

obituary before his death, ragging on his terrible additions to the world that he

created the nobel prize with the fortunes he had left to try and undo all the harm

he had put into the world.

“Phil, you're just filled with random little facts ain't ya?” Hitch laughed

with the sound of a rumble in his chest.

“I used to google random facts all the time. Did you know that the tongue

is the strongest muscle in the body? Or that an ostrich’s eye is bigger than its

brain? Or that the man who dissected Einstein's brain lost his medical license

afterward? Or that low fat ice cream has about the same nutritional value as

sugared cereal? I always try to tell that to my mom but she still won't let me have

ice cream for breakfast. It's odd how we sink into these culturally composed
habits and act illogically based on what we've been taught as opposed to

formulating opinions of life based on the objective truth...”

And from that sprouted the telephone conversation analogy that I told

Phil and Hitch who seemed fairly entertained71. At the rest stop, Phil and I went

to the bathroom, stretched a little bit, gave in to doing some yoga with Hitch,

gave up at yoga quickly which is much more difficult than it appears to be, ate

some food, threw our wrappers in the U-haul behind the super-collider, and

headed back out onto the road.

I think it was around 1 P.M. Now and we'd stopped at a roadside diner

that passed the perfect cliche` rural diner test. It was composed of that one long

bar where old, wrinkled farmers ate and a series of booths that sat next to the

windows in which the day's gray light shined into the fluorescently lit place. As

we stepped in Phil noticed a black guy sitting alone at a booth, reading Kate

Chopin's “The Awakening” and ran over to him, knocking into a hostess who

almost spilled a tray she was carrying with 3 plates of burgers and fries on it. The

solo negro young adult looked up from his book to see a 12 year old, olive

skinned boy staring at him panting.

“Can I help you?” The young man responded putting a bookmark in the

book.

“I- HUFF- I, loved that book! How far in are you?” Phil expelled wetly.

“Well, I've already read it but I'm about half way in right now. She's just
71 This, however doesn't mean you need to be. I, for one, was not. That analogy lacked insight
and would be more humorous if performed with silly voices. It still, however, would not be
sufficiently entertaining to put up with the entire thing when there are so many other, better
things to do like read a book or call a friend.
moved into her own place.” Sarel responded, losing grasp of his bewilderment to

excitement for another person that had actually read the book. He was, however,

hesitant to discuss this with a 12 year old, thinking that maybe Phil had gotten

the book mistakenly and read it without really understanding it. He looked at me

looking at him and wondered who I was and why I was with a 12 year old in a

diner on a weekday afternoon during the school year. I blushed for no reasonable

reason and let my hostess lead me to a booth while still keeping my eyes on Phil

and the man at the booth. Phil was now sitting down, catching his breath which

he had lost in the mere 3 second bolt from the center of the diner to one end.

“Oh good! I wanted to talk about the end with someone but I've never

known a person who's read it, not even my English teacher has!” Phil excitedly

went on “I looked at the book phenomenologically and, ostensibly, Chopin was a

feminist ergo the suicide was commendable but then I looked at it from a reader

response view and considered that the suicide was really immature. Chopin was

especially detailed in describing the Edna's impetuosity throughout the book

which raises the the question as to whether she was commendable or

condemnable. Perhaps she was just opting out of all her problems instead of

embracing them and overcoming them.”

Sarel sat awestruck at the precociousness displayed by Phil, which was

starting to seem like it would get frustrating being him, always looked up to but

never really connected with like a doctor who people always complement on

being so smart but never really talk or listen to because they're too scared to

actually hear him out, and responded “I've thought about that too but I talked to
one of my old professors who pointed out a bunch of points in the book that

make sure to clarify the point that, even if her decision seems selfish, she's really

just leaving a world that will get by without her. Like her sons being completely

content away from her for such a long period of time. It's funny that she's the one

who ends up missing them and having to go to them as opposed to it being the

other way around, which usually is the case. Then you have her husband which is

the final example of all those close to her being far from her in reality. He's

constantly gone and sees her as more of a competition of dominance than a love

and integral part of life. You know?”

“Yeah! Yeah! Hey Nate! Come sit here! We're having a good

conversation!” He shouted, verbally grabbing me and dragging me over there. I

reluctantly sat down beside Phil and looked at the Negro across the table from us

who was wearing baggy jeans, had corn row hair, and a giant brown hoody. He

looked like the epitome of sketchy and I wanted to get the hell out of there, in

depth literary analysis or not.

“I'm Sarel By the way.” He held out his hand.

“Phil.”

“Nate”

Phil jumped back in: “So do you think she's a heroic figure then?”

Sarel replied“I think the real question comes in there. Did Chopin intend

for her to be heroic? I mean, it looks to me like she did but it's funny how I

totally see it the other way. To me it's like she caged herself in and could've

gotten free since noone really cared about her like I said regarding her husband
and kids and stuff. So she really has nothing tying her down except for this

illusion of what she thinks is tying her down and she's too weak to overcome

that-”

Phil jumped in “But what if Chopin was trying to create a new kind of

hero? One that gives in instead of fighting for an unobtainable goal?”

“But that would just make everyone who gives in a hero and there's

always a chance, no matter how bad shit seems.” Sarel said in a definitive

manner with surety and an inexorable look. Phil rubbed his chin thinking. Sarel

looked at me for a moment and then back to Phil who was now trying to swat

flies on the window with backhanded slaps. I finally conceptualized what Sarel

had been saying and entered the conversation.

“But don't you think there are certain situations, like being a torture

victim in North Korea, that are inescapable? Situations that noone can have hope

within and it takes a true hero to embrace what's going on and give up. So like, I

haven't read The Awakening but, based on its name, it sounds like this girl is

experiencing a disillusionment and then being heroic for embracing reality and

giving up as opposed to chasing false dreams.”

On May 27th the year before Sarel Ped72, Prat Ped, and Norance Igman

were walking down Las Vegas Blvd. on the corner of Flamingo Rd.. Ahead of

72 Sarel Ped- Relapsed

them was the Bellagio and Aria Resort&Casino. Aria, when looked at from the

sky of someone flying over Las Vegas at a low height, looks like a massive

window pane that has been shattered in the middle of a bunch of legos. It twists

in numerous directions and glows with a radiant light like a jaunty genie smoke.

Sarel and Prat and Norance, however, were not looking at the modern artesque

architecture of the Aria. They were walking down, through a tunnel of people

that crowded from sidewalk side to sidewalk side looking ahead with the facade

of confidence and cool. Sarel and Prat stood at least a foot bellow Norance who

more tromped about bow legged in his oversized jeans that bagged at his feet and

were held up by his left hand on a belt loop right beneath his hip.

“I think that you'd be surprised by how everyone has a chance and so few

take it. You're right in that that's probably what Chopin intended but I think

Chopin totally missed the boat on that one.”

“Then why are you reading it?” Phil asked.

“Hoping that it'll be different this time.”

Prat sneaked behind a lady in front of Sarel who was trying to cover the

view up from anyone who might notice this theft in the middle of the crowd on

the sidewalk. Prat grabbed the woman's purse, trying to pull it from her arm or

pop the strap so he could run but it had been new leather and when the woman

turned around to face Prat a pacific little grandma did not meet Prat's eyes, but a

transvestite body builder that stood above 6'5” in his 3” high heel shoes which
rocketed up to kick Prat in the crotch. Prat made a run for it, trying to escape

through a scattering crow, pushing bodies aside, knocking people into the street.

The 6'2” transvestite kicked off his shoes and went darting after Prat, knocking

all those in his way aside like a professional football player. Sarel was chasing

after the transvestite, trying to knock him over to save Prat's ass which was now

being grabbed by the man whose wig had flown into the air and drifted down

into Norance's face which had spaced out, looking at the Bellagio fountain show.

“So what brings you boys together and onto the road today?” Sarel asked,

setting the book inside a backpacking pack he had rested to his side. The waitress

brought our sodas.

“I'm taking Phil to a science fair in Arizona. We have English together

and he needed a ride, so long story short, here we are.”

“Wait, Phil, you're in this guy's class? How old are you?”

“Almost 13. I will be in less than 2 months. So, yeah, practically 13.”

“And how old are you?” He looked at me.

“18. What about you?”

“19. So I take it you're quite the grade skipper. I actually skipped 2 grades

myself. Not quite as big a jump as you though. How many is that for you?”

“Well, next semester I go into college so that'll be 6 grades.” Phil said

proudly.

“That's cool. That's cool. So what're you bringing to this science fair?

Something pretty amazing I suppose.”

 “A 6x6x6 super-collider.”

Sarel laughed, “If you're serious, that's awesome man.”

“I am. What brings you here? It looks like you're just passing through

too.” Phil asked.

The transvestite got a complete grasp on Prat's ass and dragged him onto

the ground, slapping him. Sarel screamed at Norance who looked up from the

wig, across the field of recently toppled over people, and started running toward

Sarel without a thought as to why, still holding his pants up with a single hand

clasped around an empty belt loop.

“Fuckin' save Prat man!” Sarel screamed at Norance. Norance looked

where Sarel was pointing, 20 feet in front of them and saw an oversized

transvestite on top of Prat, still bitch slapping him. Norance ran over and pulled

the clawing tranny off of Prat who was panting. People around had turned their

attentions from the Bellagio fountain show to the uproar on the sidewalk and

were forming a circle to see, guffawing and hooting.

Sarel pushed his way through the crowd and helped Prat up. Once he had

composed himself Prat ran at the tranny full boar, screaming something

completely incoherent. Sarel jumped forward to pull Prat back but ended up not

being able to pull him down and just caught on Prat in an awkward, crooked

piggy-back-ride as they collided into the transvestite who was trying to fucking

claw at Norance.
 “Well, I was living with my brother in Nevada this last year but he went

to jail and I wasn't able to make rent anymore on my income alone, so I'm

moving back up to Detroit to save up for a while and get back on my feet with

my mom.” Sarel said. I looked at him perplexedly, wondering why such a great

mind was scraping for funds so badly that he'd have to move in with his mom.

Perhaps he was an agoraphobic and could no longer handle the stress but then

again he probably wasn't. A million possibilities fluttered through my mind.

“What'd your brother go to jail for?” Phil asked.

“I have to say this first. Don't judge my brother based on why he's in jail.

I've visited him a lot and he's changed his ways 100 percent. Trust me, his crime

is not reflective of who he is at all. He was the victim of a spare of the moment

circumstance and didn't truly intend to be something that he'd become. And now

he's looked at himself and completely changed his ways.” Sarel said.

“So what'd he do?” I asked somewhat overcome by excitement.

“He shot a police officer. He'd been running from him and just lost

himself in the moment like we all do. He just got a little too lost at too critical a

moment if you know what I mean.”

Phil looked at Sarel and nodded with a face that said 'I don't know what

you mean but go on'.

“Well, I mean, so before he went into jail he wasn't exactly a good guy,

but he had good intentions. Like someone who's constantly frustrated with
themselves for being someone they don't want to be but can't change it cause

they're stuck in a certain mode of thought. He kinda dragged me down too and

since then has tried to repair everything. Like, in all honesty, he was the reason

that I dropped out of college after my 1st year but every time I visit him he cries

and tells me he's sorry and will pay for me if I go back. He just wants so bad to

fix everything he's done but the world isn't ready to give him a 2 nd chance yet

because he's a special circumstance; someone that changes their ways so rapidly

and realizes what they were doing wrong like that, like a snap of a finger. But it's

because my brother was always quick and knew in the back of his head that he

was doing something wrong. So don't think that he's a bad person. And I know

that this is weird to say to strangers but I've needed to vent this to at least

someone and thank you for bearing with my rambling. He's changed a lot

though, trust me.”

Prat and Sarel toppled over on the transvestite and Norance. Norance

slammed his head against the concrete sidewalk as he fell and was knocked out

from the collision while he padded the fall of the tranny who was now being put

in a choke hold by Prat who was being pulled by Sarel. A siren went off in the

background and Prat finally gathered himself together and released his hands

from the tranny's neck. Norance woke up in a sea of tingling dots before his eyes

and distant sounds of screams. The crowd of people encircling him swirled for a

single soft moment like an ebullient ocean. Then reality began to kick in and he
realized where he was. The black and white melted into a color filled reality. He

felt a tug at his arm and realized that Sarel and Prat were trying to pull him away

from his current position. He stood up, mesmerized, and began to follow them as

they ran off, Prat with a leather purse in his hand that the transvestite had left

when he ran away from the cop siren. The crowd of people did nothing to stop

the 3 men from fleeing the area. They just dumbly watched, mouths agape,

exclaiming how horrible the spectacle had been.

Prat rummaged through the purse and found $809.

“Yo man, itsa be a good fuckin' night tonight boys. Fuck nigga! We got

like 800 big ones on us from dat shit. Dat was fuckin' worth da chaos an' all, ha!”

Prat laughed.

“Prat, why'd you try to steal from a giant body-building tranny? Aren't

there enough whores in Vegas to snatch a good purse from?” Sarel said in

frustration, picking at the cut that he had gotten from the tranny scraping him as

he (the transvestite) had jumped up and ran away from them.

“Fuck man, didju see dat crowd? Shit was tight an all I saws was a ho and

I wasn't really lookin' at da specific shit man. I saw a short skirt an high heels, a

lil too high, yaknow? So I jus went fo it, not even thiking nigga. The fuck you

doggin' on me fo about dat anyways? We got away didn't we? Fuck Sarel, just

chill an be glad we gonna cop some hot shit tonight!”

“But he was fucking like 6'5” and had giant muscles. How did you not

notice that?”

“I wasn't fuckin' lookin man? Aight? Get da fuck off my back about it
nigga. Whas yo problem tonight? Jesus Sarel!” Prat pushed Sarel. They were

inside a dark casino, the name of which none of them knew. Sarel fell back and

toppled into a craps table, snapping the stick that the Casino worker used to

collect the dice. Norance laughed and high-fived Prat, who snickered and turned

his palms up and lifted his shoulders toward Sarel, picking himself off the floor.

“So you ready ta shut da fuck up an enjoy yoself tonight lil' bro?”

“Do you think you're gonna go back to school then?” Phil asked. The

waitress brought us burgers and fries. Sarel methodically poured some ketchup

onto the corner of his plate in a suspended silence as we waited then lifted his

bun, stuck some of his french fries in his burger, put the bun back on the top of

the burger, looked up to us and responded.

“I've reapplied to Syracuse but I'm having trouble getting back in. See, I

somewhat gave up my second semester there and it's hard to explain what my

situation at the time was to the admissions staff. All they see is that I was a black

student that rapidly declined academically and then dropped out, so of course

they're thinking 'drugs' and it's really hard to explain why it did happen. It wasn't

drugs. It was just pressure from my family to stop leaving my roots and none of

the pasty white academics are able to wrap their heads around the fact that some

people aren't born into the world on a pile of hundred dollar bills. I've written an

essay about what happened and how things have changed and everything but
they denied me and when I called them and tried to explain that my grades would

be back up and that it wouldn't happen again they told me that I was too much of

a gamble as a student. None of my old professors will email me back or answer

my calls either.

I just have this feeling though. This premonition. Like it doesn't matter

that they keep saying no right now because I'm gonna get in either way. I mean, I

have to get back in. If they actually tried to see it from my side of things they'd

immediately understand, so that's what I'm trying to do.” Sarel finished.

“Have you thought about applying at other places?” I asked.

“I've applied at 5 other schools and all of them had the same response.”

“No?” Phil asked.

“Yep. But I feel like I just need to explain my situation more copiously

they'd understand and accept me. It's incomprehensible to me that anyone could

be so myopic as to think that I'm incapable of change. Who could be that cold?”

Norance stared out at the city lights from behind a squeaky clean window

pane than cascaded all 10 feet from the ceiling to the ground of the dimly lit

orange hotel room above Las Vegas Blvd.. Car lights floated by, boring the hell

of him. He turned around in anxiousness. He looked, from behind the curtain

which he had wrapped around himself, across the room to Prat and Sarel. They

were talking about something boring which was confirmed in Norances mind

when he saw Prat put his hand on Sarel's shoulder. Norance was pissed off by the
fact that Prat had just taken Sarel along for the night with them. Usually they

were a duo, he and Prat. Sarel was intruding, breaking the dynamic or something

like that. Plus, he was being such a pussy. Norance didn't care if Sarel had moved

in with Prat. He also didn't give a shit whether or not Prat and Sarel were

siblings. That didn't mean Prat had to let this little cock-sucker ruin their night.

For christ's sake, Norance hadn't talked to his sister in years and he didn't give a

shit. Why should Prat? Sarel was saying something about how he felt like he was

on the edge of a cliff or something and what they were doing was like teetering

or some gay shit like that and Prat was just sitting there listening, rubbing Sarel's

back. What fags! God, fuck this! I'm gonna go do something. The only good

thing about Sarel was that he worked at the Flamingo hotel so they were able to

sneak into rooms that hadn't been taken by the people who reserved it for some

reason and take them for the night. But even that wasn't that cool. Fuckin' Sarel!

“What about you guys? Where are you going to college Phil? And what're

your plans Nate?” Sarel asked, taking the 1st bite of his burger after talking and

talking and letting it get cold while he rambled on for something like 10 minutes.

I was chewing and trying to swallow when Phil said “University of

Chicago. Physics and Philosophy. I'm really really really excited but it's gonna be

scary. I have to live with my aunt out there cause I'm too young to stay in a dorm

room and it's gonna be weird being with a bunch of adults. I mean, it's daunting

being with a bunch of people that are 6 years older than I, but these people are
gonna be like real grown ups and it's gonna be really weird being with all of

them all the time and then my aunt who I've never even met. Plus I'm gonna be

away from all my stuff at home and just Colorado in general. And- And-And!”

Phil jerked out in sobs. He began to kick his legs against the booth and slap his

arms against his chest with loose flailing wrists. Tears were pouring from his

eyes. The waitress looked from behind the diner to me and Sarel. Sarel looked

from me to Phil to me in awkward confusion with a mouth half open, frozen in

motion. Phil began to scream and pound the table. Everything seemed to get

sucked into a 2 part motion: the high pitched exhaling screams and the sucking in

of air that sounded like a bouncing raccoon. I finally took Phil by the arm and led

him outside. The door jingled behind us.

Sarel looked through the window to see the backs of 2 boys; the older one

with his arm around the younger one who was sobbing voraciously. Sarel looked

around the diner to a bunch of old people that were obviously attempting to look

at him but avoid his noticing that they were looking at him. He took a bite of his

burger and realized that he had no appetite right now. Chewing very slowly,

feeling the mush become mushier, which made the burger even less appetizing,

Sarel glanced back out the window. The younger back had calmed down and was

apparently trying to blow his nose on his shirt while the older one was trying to

stop him.

I ran back into the store, grabbed some napkins and ran back out to Phil.

It was too late though. Even though I'd tried to stop him he'd blown his nose onto

his shirt and was now moaning and groaning about the mess of green on his
sleeve. I wiped the napkin on the sleeve, cringing, and collected the specimen.

When I'd thrown the napkin in the trash I sat back down with Phil, who had now

progressed to the sniffling stages.

I tried to think of something of comfort to say but I couldn't think of

anything. So we sat there and looked around in front of us. There were 4 trucks

parked in front of the diner and our U-haul. The parking lot was made of gravel

and beyond that was a faded yellow color of some type of crop. There was a gas

station to the left of us and a McDonalds to our right. Amidst the yellow of the

crops, way into the fields, I started to make out the top of a house. Phil's sniffling

slowed down but it was really starting to get on my nerves, so I decided to go the

the gas station and get some chew73.

Sarel saw me stand up and start to walk away. Phil was still on the curb

collecting himself which made Sarel think that he ought to go out and talk to

73 So I know this seems out of character for the narrator, but keep in mind that he's a wrestler
and that wrestling season is about to start. This may not mean anything to you, but know that
high school wrestlers (not the WWE shit. Real wrestlers) have to be under a certain weight
limit and the majority of them lose between 10 and 15 pounds to go to a lower weight limit.
The limits are actually called brackets and they call losing 5 lbs. “dropping a bracket” To do
this, many high school wrestlers pick up chewing tobacco which is a diuretic and dehydrates,
meaning lots of weight loss. Nate is a wrestler and picked up chewing tobacco while
wrestling. If you were to ask him if he's addicted he'd say “No. I just do it with the boys after
practice sometimes or when I'm really stressed, but no, not at all. No, I'm not addicted.” Of
course, in his mind he'd be constantly telling himself denial! You're addicted! In reality, he
stands in the middle somewhere. He's not physically addicted but he doesn't want to go
without it for extended periods of time and he often turns to it in times of stress. But who
gives a shit? This doesn't really add to the character. I mean, it's nice that I planned Nate's
being a tobacco chewer, cause that plays into his going to the gas station in this scene, but the
fact that he chews shouldn't skew your view of him at all. He's still a nerd. Nerd's still chew
tobacco.
And by the way, this is not reflective of myself in any way. I am neither a nerd nor a
chewer of tobacco. I mean, I had some friends who chewed. Fuck it, I have some friends who
still do chew, but they're all jocks and not nerds. So really, regarding that statement in the last
sentence of the previous paragraph, I have no evidence to back it up; I'm just saying,
hypothetically, it's possible. I mean, nerds can do most anything. Yeah, but can a nerd be
cool? This kind of stuff keeps me up at night. See, if you have a cool nerd, he's no longer a
nerd. He's just nerdy as a fashion statement which is cool and ends up contradicting the entire
definition of nerd. It's a paradox to meditate on.
Phil, which he did. When the bell clanged as Sarel stepped out Phil lifted his

head up to see Sarel and then realized that I had started walking to the gas

station. He looked at Sarel for a moment and then to my back, then back to Sarel,

caught in between the urges of what to do.

“Nate!” Sarel shouted.

Phil was still sitting, vacillating his gaze between me and Sarel, starting

to stand up and pausing half way with his hand pushed against the concrete in an

awkward angle which made his wrist sore.

I turned around. “What?”

“Where are you going? You just gonna leave this kid here crying or what?

Come on man, be an adult.” Sarel shouted.

My face turned red getting called out so candidly on my thoughtlessness

by someone that was almost a stranger. I tried to cool my face which I could feel

the heat it and looked at Sarel. He was standing with straight legs coming out

like a triangle from his hips, palms upturned in that “What the fuck?” position.

“Sorry man. Phil, I'll be right back. Is that okay with you.” I tried to lower

my inflection on the you to make it seem more like a statement of “this better be

okay with you”. I was starting to get extra antsy and now felt an even better

reason for getting the chew. It was like an epiphenomenon: Phil's crying caused

stress which caused Sarel to cause me even more stress. Fuck man!

“Y.....Y...Mkay.” Phil pouted, his head held up by the fists at either side of

his forehead. Sarel sat down next to him as I left and went into the gas station.
 Prat held both his arms up in celebration cheering “Fuck yeah nigga!”

with whiskey stained breath. His black corn rows wobbled in the back where

they hung as he beated his head up and down to the music. The sub-woofers

were turned up to maximum in Bud's car which made the music sound like a low

rumble that cut out every few seconds for the bridge of the song. Bud was

laughing too loudly at something that the girl in the front passenger seat had said.

Norance was in the back right seat, looking out his window, curving his back and

still being crammed against the ceiling. Sarel was in the back left seat looking

out his window, tapping his finger against the glass nervously. Prat was in the

middle seat, bouncing up and down with a whiskey bottle in hand, rapping to the

music at the top of his lungs to show everyone in the car that he knew this song,

no matter how underground it was; that he was west coast local and wasn't

fucking around with the rap scene like them lil' Wayne kidz and whatnot.

Bud turned down the booming and looked back for a second as they

stopped at a red light.

“Yo, so where you wanna go guys?”

“Le's pick up some fuckin' bitches.”

“Ha!”

Fuck yeah!”

They girl in the front passenger seat looked at Bud through bloodshot

eyes. “Le's74 smoke some mo' weed Bud” she said in a crumpled, languid voice.

74 Le's, short for let's, short for let us, short for let it be that we shall, also sometimes known as
 “Girl, don'chyou worry bout dat. I'll got you covered.” Bud responded.

Sarel cringed at Bud's grammar and tried to distract himself. Prat handed

Norance the whiskey who pulled a straw from his pocket and sucked whiskey

out from it through the straw, all the while, trying to look like a badass.

The girl turned around in her seat, half leaning on her window and

laughed at Norance's drinking whiskey with the straw in slow exhalations

through her nose. “What da fuck's you drinking from a straw fo' boy?”

Norance looked up at her with his timid green eyes and hid the straw into

his pocket abruptly.

Prat responded for Norance “Mudafucka's scard'a herpes. Da nigga says

he ain't got no S.T.D.s and he ain't gonna get none never, so he done all dis crazy

shit alla time. You gotta love da muthafucka!” Prat smiled and took the whiskey

bottle back, throwing a swig back and handing it to Sarel.

The girl scoffed and said “The fuck's wrong with him? You don't get

S.T.D.s from a fucking bottle Sasquatch!” Norance Punched in between her seat

and the window, hitting her in the face directly. Her screams almost overpowered

the low rumbling of the sub-woofers.

“Yo, fuck you!” Norance shouted.

The girl started trying to kick back at Norance through the crevice

between the seat and the window but her leg got caught. She started to flail her

arms, hitting Bud and screaming “The fuck kinda friends you got bitch! Get

these fuckers out!”

“You really think dat Bud's gonna kick us out just fo' some caramel cunt

let it come to pass that we...

you fuckin' dyke?” Norance shouted in a tone that seemed to resonate with the

wub-woofers. Bud screeched the car onto the side of the road. The car behind

him honked and the car behind that honked. The girl kept screaming and

slapping at Bud who started to hit back at her.

Her nose was bleeding.

Norance Opened his door and pulled open hers, prying her out. She

clawed at his face and he spat on hers then slapped her and threw her into the car

behind them, jumped into shotgun, and slammed the door. Bud stepped on the

peddle. The tires screamed against the ass-fault and left clouds of smoke behind,

where to girl pulled herself up from the hood of another car, watching the

Chrysler 30075 accelerate away.

Sarel was looking out his window, silently crying behind the thumping of

the bass.

“Um, yeah. I'd like, um, what flavors of Skoal chew do you have?”

The gas station attendant looked at me in boredom. He had jowls that

hung down like they were from a cartoon and I couldn't stop looking at them.

His face was all wrinkled as saggy. His whole body moved as if every motion

was way too much effort. I could tell that I was an annoyance, but I wondered

what I was keeping him from doing. He stood in front of a library of tobacco

75 With fly doors, installed by Bud, 12” sub-woofers, and turbo boost, also installed by Bud
(who was an auto-mechanic by the way. The guy didn't have a lot of money but what he did
have he spent on his car.)
products that I was so eager to by one of and show off my being 18 and chill out.

He turned around and read them off to me “Mmmmm, vanilla... cherry,

mint, natural... wild berry, potato, mango, ummmm... let's see here... Citrus,

beans, bananas...Yup. That's what we got of Skoal.”

“I'll, ummmm, I'll take the mint.”

“Mkay. I'll need to see an I.D.. That'll be $9.”

I pulled out my I.D. And debit card. He studied my I.D. Thoroughly and

looked back up to me with an expressionless face.

“Just turned 18 didn't you?”

“Yup.” I said.

“Yup, just 18 recently. Like a newborn.”

I nodded and looked at him wondering if he was gonna let me go or if he

was just going to keep making me feel uncomfortable.

“So....” He exhaled as if letting go stress and then tapped my I.D. Against

the counter.

“Yeah?”

“So....How you doing?” He was holding the I.D. With both hands. I

stared at him in silence thinking what the fuck?

“Phil, when I left for college I was the youngest kid there and I felt like I
was the only person there that was under 18. I was really nervous when I came in

at first and was in a dorm room and everything. Trust me, you're lucky that

you're gonna be living with a relative. Cause a roommate that's 2 years older, or

in your case, 5 to 6 years older than you, is not a comfortable situation. My

roommate was a big partier and I wasn't.”

“Uh-huh” Phil sniffled, still looking at the ground, crumpled into a ball.

Norance, Sarel and Prat were in a club. Prat knew the name but Sarel

could only make out “Scoodisc!” or something when Prat yelled the name of the

place into Sarel's ear. The bass throughout the club vibrated ferociously, shaking

their jittery drinks. Sarel watched as the girl next to him scooted closer and

closer as she took drink after drink. Norance had lost himself to the 8th shot

within 10 minutes and was incoherently mumbling to the girl to his side, looking

up toward his lazy eyes with a weaving head. Prat had his arm around some girl's

shoulder and was vacillating between taking snorts of something and licking her

neck. Outside of their tall, cramped booth, bodies ground against other bodies

under epileptic lights. Sarel tried to scoot out of the booth but the girl to his left

wouldn't let him out. Prat mouthed “What the fuck?” to Sarel with big eyes,

symbolizing that Sarel wasn't being smooth.

Sarel had had it. Fuck this. He pushed off the hand of the girl that clung to him,

stood up, and walked. Norance watched him as he stepped away, his eyes blankly

following Sarel's fading silhouette. There were people everywhere. They weren't
quite dancing as much as just rubbing up against each other. Sarel pushed a man

in a button up shirt aside so he could squeeze through the crowd and get out. The

man yelled something at him that was muddled by the music. The walls vibrated

and jiggled. It was almost as if there was an earthquake being caused by the sub-

woofers. Sarel could feel the rumbling in his chest with the beat. He wanted to

get out and feel his own heart's beat, but there were too many people.

I stood there in silence looking at the guy behind the cash register. He

was giving me a feeble smile. A bit of dribble flowed down from the left side of

his mouth. It started to smell like sour milk.

“I guess I'm doing pretty well.”

“Mhmm. Interesting.”

We looked at each-other in silence for a couple more moments.

Sarel was now looking back into the diner.

“I guess it's not just college fear, and it's not even being young. Its this

moment right not. I've lived my whole life as an outsider.” Sarel nodded like he

understood. Phil went on, “When you live in your room pretty much you never

come to understand what true experience is. It's like my whole life has been this

slow recursive meta-existence. First I analyze how I live my life, then I start

analyzing my analysis and I just keep going on and on until the actual living part
is so far into the past that I've forgotten what experience was like in the first

place. Then I get here, like some arm pulled me out of the depths of this fractal

pattern that I've been caught in, and plopped me back into existence on a

physical level. No more looking at why people interact how they interact, just

interaction. And it's scary.

“When you start living and stop looking at how you're living, it's really

scary, because it's a gamble. It's like diving into the ocean for the first time and

hoping to God that you can swim. Even if you've learned all the techniques and

strategies, you may not be able to keep afloat. Meta-cognition is so much safer.

It's objective. You never have to worry about whether what you're doing is right

or wrong, it's just a question of whether your answer is right or wrong.

“I mean, science and math and grammar and defined by absolutes. When

you know how to structure a sentence, you can do it perfectly every time. But

pleasing people, interacting. It's different. It's like you have to throw this facade

on so that other people will like you but not everybody will. You can't always be

right in the pure existence because of conflicting opinions. We're all so scattered

and have all this conflict as a result of simple misunderstandings or tensions

between opinions when in reality, we all just want the same thing: to be accepted.

“We fight day in and day out to get friends and keep those friends. To get

a wife or a husband and a family, to create a group that can stick together. Cause

that's practically what family is. A little clique. But we connect and then

constantly compromise ourselves to have these other people to fall back on. And

we compromise so much that we lose ourselves. And it's almost as if you can lost
yourself to analyzing yourself, or lose yourself by trying to live without analysis.

But no one just knows who she is. Why do we think that constantly asking is

gonna answer that?”

Sarel nodded.

“Let me tell you a story”

The door was locked. Behind it there were noises of gasping and puke.

Norance turned up the music to muddle out the sounds. Prat was with the girl

from the club in the hallway, his hand a little too high up her skirt for the couple

in room 407 to be comfortable as they had to hop over the groping bodies on the

floor. There was urine in the corner of the hallway where Norance had pissed

while the girl took pictures. Neither of them remembered where they got the

camera from, but it was gone the next morning either way. Sarel opened the

bathroom door feeling much better than he had right before he'd puked.

The Flannigans had come in late because of a plane delay in Florida only

to realize that they had completely forgotten to make a hotel reservation for this

evening. When they arrived at Las Vegas, looking at the broken shards of glass

that made some hotel on the strip, they took a cab to the Flamingo, hearing that it

had some open rooms and got room 407. The fact that Prat had no pants on

wasn't very consoling either.

Sarel stumbled toward the dresser, ignoring the thumping in the bed
where Norance's ass could be seen flinging itself up and down. Between his two

enormous legs Sarel saw one of the girls little feet barely sticking out, as if she

was a little girl compared to him. Sarel's stomach knocked into the dresser,

causing a couple bottles to topple off the sides. He watched studiously as the

vodka that had fallen off of the dresser slowly drained out of the bottle and

spread out like a lake on the pink carpet. His hand lifted itself onto the dresser

and grabbed at a bottle that hadn't been knocked over. As the rim of the Jim Bean

bottle touched his lips, the door creaked open.

Mr. and Mrs. Flannigan stood frozen. Mrs. Flannigan dropped her bag

and opened her mouth in a wide O shape. Mr. Flannigan just stood there with

nostrils flared in disbelief. They looked at a young black man, lips touching an

empty bottle of Jim Bean. On the bed there was an enormous naked man

humping a girl who looked to be asleep. The naked man didn't even look up. The

only sound was the squeaking of the bed from Norance's pounding up and down.

Sarel charged Mr. Flannigan, pummeling him like a football player,

shoulder to abdomen. Mr. Flannigan flew backwards and burst into a wall. The

collision had been inelastic, so when the connected Sarel and Mr. Flannigan

broke through the dry-wall on the other side of the hall, they went through

together. Sarel began flailing his arms around, smacking Mr. Flannigan from

time to time but what Sarel didn't know was that Mr. Flannigan had actually

been coach Flannigan until this last wrestling season when a high school

wrestling match had turned into an all out battle. So sober Mr. Flannigan was

quick to flip Sarel onto his chest and crunch his arms behind his back. Prat
remembered being startled to attention by the sound of Sarel screaming and some

popping noise. Mrs. Flannigan was cheering Mr. Flannigan on, who had

dislocated Sarel's shoulder and was shouting at him about American pride or

something. Anyways, Prat came running toward it all, screaming for Norance's

help and smacked Mrs. Flannigan in the face, knocking her over and causing her

suitcase to pop open, spilling socks and 50 year old woman underwear all over

the hall. Norance was still thrusting his hips up and down.

Prat jumped up and tried to do a ninja kick into Mr. Flannigan's face but

ended up jumping too high and smashing his leg through the wall. Mr. Flannigan

looked up to see Prat's hamstring protruding from the dry wall above him. He

grabbed at Prat's leg, jerking him down. Prat's leg ripped through the thin strip of

dry wall between where his leg had gone through and the hole from where Sarel

and Mr. Flannigan had gone through. The leg swung around with momentum that

was much greater the second it broke from the dry wall, rotating at an angle that

drove Prat's heel directly into Mr. Flannigan's nose.

Prat kicked Mr. Flannigan over and over asking “You done yet nigga?

You fucking done?”

Unfortunately, battles of pride are not easily won when you're up against

a wrestling coach, and poor Mr. Flannigan kept on shouting “Fuck no!” until he

wasn't able to move his mouth anymore. Mr. Flannigan reached up to try to grab

Prat's leg and knock him down but passed out from the pain. Mrs. Flannigan

cried. Sarel screamed and kicked at Mr. Flannigan's sleeping body.

“Fucking bitches! Ya'll think ya gonna get in our business an' be fuckin'
wit' us? You obviously don't know who we is, aight?” Prat yelled at Mrs.

Flannigan.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Sarel shouted. His arm extended

out behind his back. It had clearly been removed from the socket.

“Yeah! You don't know who we are! So don't be hatin' muthafucka!” Prat

spat.

“I don't think you know who you are either. So how would I?” Mrs.

Flannigan muttered between tears.

Prat and Sarel were silent. They looked at Mrs. Flannigan, tears rolling

down her old saggy cheeks and dropping from her jowls. The only sounds were

her sniffling and the squeaking of the bed.

“Yeah, so could I get the Skoal chew or what? Umm...”

The old man handed me the tobacco and my I.D. Slowly, “You know,

people are very afraid of being direct.”

“What do you mean?” I was tapping my fingers against the counter,

looking over my shoulder to see that Sarel and Phil were still talking. Sarel

looked like he was telling Phil a funny story cause Phil was no longer crying.

“Why didn't you just ask if I would give you your I.D. back?”

“I, umm...”

“Did you want your I.D. back?”

 “Well, yeah.”

“Then why didn't you just ask for it?”

“Well, why did you not just give it back?”

“I wanted you to stand up for yourself in a true way.”

“What do you mean a true way?” I started tapping my foot. I wanted back

out but this guy seemed like he had something interesting to say. I could smell

alcohol on his breath and his eyes looked droopy and red.

“Not like in a fight. Any man can fight against another man in a brawl,

that's just being afraid of backing down. Being afraid of being week. The fear of

having fear. But to stand up for something you want, to just ask for it, screw the

consequences. That takes balls young man. To say 'this is who I am and this is

what I want' is something that we've lost the ability to do lately. We think we

know what we want, cheap thrills, money, whatever. But when you want

something that manners have told you you shouldn't want and you go for it

anyways, that's true bravery. That's standing up for yourself. To go against

whatever culture or whatever you're a part of and say that you want something

different. To just ask for your I.D. back and the chew so you can. So you can be

on your way. It seems rude to just ask for them but why?” He looked out the

window and exhaled a big breath.

“Alright, I want my chew and I.D. and to go.” I said.

He handed me the two and I walked out, thanking him. He replied

“What're you thankful for really? What'd I do for you that constitutes you

needing to thank me?”

 I walked out shaking my head and headed toward Sarel and Phil 76. Little

clouds of sepia dust puffed up into the air with every step I took on the gravel

road.

Chapter 11

“Um, well, I think your identity is like based on where you are. It's like

how you react to your surroundings cause, um. Well, wait... So, yeah, it's like

how you reflect the world in different situations, cause no one acts the same

around different people. Er, um, it's just that no one is the same in 2 different

situations cause every different situation calls for a different approach, you

know? I guess what I mean is, you change all the time because the world around

you changes, right? So like, your identity is what about you changes and what

doesn't.

76 Why do we define the importance of things based on the situation surrounding it and the
credentials of those involved in the experience. The content has nothing to do with the creator.
Would the Mona Lisa be less a work of genius if a 5 year old had painted it?
 I heard this metaphor once that was like, your identity is a river. It flows

in different directions but it keeps its original flow all the time. It's like there's a

part of you that never changes and that's your identity. I mean, that's good and all

but, um, I think your identity is more. Like it can be apparent in every situation.

That your reaction is who you are. I think that like people get too wrapped up in

thinking that who you are, or no, like your identity, is all wrapped up in your

actions alone; like when you're in charge of the situation. Does that make sense?

Like when you have an idea and want to do something or you come up with a

thought that is original, that that's your identity or whatever. But I don't think that

is. It's weird, cause I've been thinking about this since you asked me, I seriously

have. And I've like realized that your identity is who you are and that everything

you do defines that. And it's super weird, like I got into this tangent about how

you see yourself versus like who you really are cause I was thinking about how

like, you know when someone smiles at you and you think they're faking it or

something and but they're really happy and you just interpret it wrong? It's

probably like that with yourself too. Like, when you look at yourself, you take in

the wrong influences and think of your identity differently than it actually is. I

was thinking about how I was raised Catholic and through my whole childhood

masturbating was a sin. So I would jack off until I was about to cum and then

just fuckin' stop right before I jizzed. And so I got really used to getting blue

balls all the time and then I started to think that sex was gonna like be painful

after a while and like it really isn't, and masturbation isn't actually bad. So like, I

wasn't a bad kid. I was just like any other horny middle schooler, you know? I
just needed to jack off but I kept on thinking that I'm a bad person cause I was

told that it was bad.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that, we make judgments about

ourselves all the time and they're almost never right. Actually, in my business

ethics class this year we read this little like piece of philosophy by Hume, I don't

know if you know him, but he said that reaction forms judgment and that

reactions are always right but judgments aren't. It got me to thinking, why are

reactions right? Cause reactions form judgments, so there has to be a wrong and

a right reaction. If you wanna live and your reaction to a knife coming at your

throat is to extend your throat, is that right? Or if you react to a friend hugging

you by fear, or I mean, like by being afraid. Is that a correct reaction? How can

the judgment be wrong if it isn't anything more than like just a reaction put into

action, you know what I mean? So, when you react and judge yourself and stuff,

you don't know if that's the real you. Probably, no, definitely, there's no way you

can actually like know your identity straight up cause your judgment gets so

mixed up from cultural influences like the fucking Catholic church with me.

Shit's messed up.

Dude, for your last question I came up with the sickest analogy. So I was

sitting in my Econ class and we were talking about Keynesian theory and we

were going over the business cycle and asymmetrical shit right77? So I was like

77 This random monologist is actually referring to the business cycle that was created by
Sismondi who said that economics in countries oscillate up and down like a sine wave
between recessions and periods of economic growth. Keynes did create cyclical asymmetry
though, which posits that it is easier for the cycle to gravitate toward the recession area of the
cycle and needs exterior influences (in his case he proposed governmental help) to pull it out
of the slump or else it will just stay there. It's funny, he's thought a genius for, in essence,
saying “Shit ain't gonna fix itself”
thinking that your identity is um, it's like your economy. So you know where

your economy is and what's all is going on and you use that to figure out kinda

where you are on the business cycle which is like telling you where your

potential is right? So it's like, your identity is everything about your potential but

you also go through phases so you don't always just have the same potential,

right? I don't know, I thought it was pretty cool78.”

It was dark outside when I got out of school, just like every night after

wrestling. December 1st, the year before. I drove back home and ate some food

with my parents and then went into my room to study. I had to do some pre-calc

homework but I wasn't that interested. Plus I was supposed to read something for

my English class, but I knew I wouldn't have to actually read it, cause it wouldn't

be for a grade. I sat down at my desk and opened up my pre-calc book and then

my note book and pulled out a calculator and a pencil and sharpened the pencil

and adjusted the light on my desk so that my shadow wouldn't cover the pages

and then looked at the pages blankly for a moment. I wondered if I would be able

to get an A without actually doing this homework. I knew how to do this. This

was just busy work. This was gratuitous. Pre-calc was fucking stupid and

everyone knew it. I was 17. I looked at my calculator and thought about whether

or not I could get a B in this class and still get into my 1st choice college. I

couldn't. I had to do this. But I didn't want to. I pulled out my phone and flicked

through my contacts and texted a girl that I had gone on a date with the week

78 I don't. I know I sound like a cynic, but that analogy sucked. God, I need to stop using frat
boy business majors as the interview subjects in the beginnings of these chapters.
before. We had hooked up while watching a movie at my house and I wanted to

do the same thing this weekend. I sent her a text that said hey. I wanted her to

distract me. I wanted a good reason to be distracted. I pulled my i-pod out of my

pocket and flicked through the songs, looking for one to listen to and finally

chose one. Then I turned on the screen to my computer and opened up facebook

and looked to see if I had any new messages or anything. There was nothing. The

girl texted me back, saying hey what's up. I put haha into my response and

looked at people's pictures on facebook while listening to the song79. The song

ended and there was an emptiness that seemed more emphatic because of the

contrast which made me nervous. I looked at the 1 st problem I had for homework

and then turned to my i-pod to put on another song. My computer made a noise

like a bubble popping meaning that I had received an instant message and my

phone started to vibrate with a text. I sighed deeply.

On December 2nd of the year before somewhere around 6:30 I was sitting

on a bus. It was dark out and I was looking out the window, resting my head

against it trying to relax but the bus kept bumping and smacking my head against

its side and making me sit up. I was in my wrestling warm up suit with a

79 By his own fault, in an attempt to be more literary and stylistic, Nate has not described why
he was acting so out of character at this point of time except with a single sentence that I don't
expect you to catch on to. He was 17. Also, it was Dec. 1st, so he hadn't quite hit the
transitional period yet. To be laconic, he was kind of your stereotypical spoiled kid that
couldn't focus on anything because he was given everything. This footnote is, unfortunately,
so thorough that it pretty much sums up the next couple phrases in the actual story, rendering
them useless, so you might as well skip them and go to Dec. 2nd cause literally nothing new
happens. I mean, there are a couple more texts but nothing good. I really wasn't feeling
creative when I wrote this part, so honestly don't expect anything of any worth.
wrinkled, smelly athletic bag at my feet that contained a singlet and headgear 80

and a water bottle. My leg was bouncing up and down with apprehension. I was

sitting to the left of Billy Obourne who was staring in front of him with a blank

face. He had a face that kind of resembled a monkey with lips that protruded and

a flat nose. His eyes were small and his eyebrows looked like a Hippy's armpit

with bushy hair flinging itself in every direction. His eyebrow connected

between his eyes in a unibrow that he seemed to not notice, though, he didn't

seem to notice much at all. He almost always stood or sat placidly. In front of us

were Tegan and Kyle. Tegan was slapping Kyle. Kyle shouted at Tegan to stop.

Tegan told Kyle that he should be glad it had been Tegan's hand and not his cock.

Coach Weston told Tegan to shut the fuck up. Kyle laughed. Alex, to the left of

Billy was sitting watching a video on his i-thing with Jake. They both had one

ear bud in and were constantly turning around to tell Daniel and Kintal, who

were in the seat behind them, to shut the hell up. Daniel and Kintal were trying to

suppress laughter as they kicked they seat in front of them and squirted water out

of their water bottles across the aisle in the middle of the bus at Holly and

Anderson. Anderson, who was sitting further from the window and was thus

getting the brunt of the water squirted on him was trying to punch a laughing

Kintal. The bus driver shouted at Anderson to sit back down right as he jumped

up to punch Kintal harder. Anderson sat back down and got squirted in the face

with water again. Daniel cracked up and slapped Jake in the back of the head.

Jake turned around and slapped Daniel in the face. Kintal squirted Jake in the

80 Head gear is pretty much guards for the ears of wrestlers since they are very prone to getting
cauliflower ears, constantly smashing the sides of their faces together in matches.
face with water. Alex shouted “Hey, watch it. I've got a fucking i-pod you

fucking dumbshit!” Alex was a freshman.

In the back of the bus Huntson was telling Watts and Amir about how

he'd fucked some girl anal and how right after this other girl gave him a blow

job. Of course, both of the girls were from out of state and he had met them in

Mexico or some foreign place and didn't have their numbers. Huntson was full

of stories in which he went to a foreign place and did something that he thought

the other wrestlers would consider completely badass like when he kicked a

gangster's ass in Texas after the guy tried to mug him, or when he had sex with

the 2 Russian supermodels in Alaska, or when he'd smoked weed with the

Senator of California whose name and party affiliation he didn't actually know

but he said he totally had and he got way blazed and then the senator had to give

a congressional speech and then he got a blow job from the senator's wife while

he was giving the speech. The freshman in the back of the bus were listening

with wide eyes, hearts thumping, thinking that, somehow, just simply being an

upperclassmen entitles getting laid every weekend and smoking weed with

senators.

Daniel and Jake were now full on wrestling in the aisle, slamming heads

against the floor and seats, getting arms caught in bags that were on the ground,

twisting and writhing and both trying to grunt as little as possible so as to appear

to be putting in a minimal effort. Coach Broyles Jr. walked back and grabbed

Daniel, pulling him out of the arm bar that he had on Jake and threw him into a

seat alone. Jake pantomimed himself jacking off and ejaculating onto Daniel as
Jake sat back down. Coach Gulchin told Jake to stop being a god damn perve.

Derrick was spitting into a cup and wearing 3 coats to try and sweat off the extra

2 ounces that he had to lose to make weight. My heart thumped in anticipation.

Finally the bus pulled into the Gor Turpay 81 high school parking lot. The

tires let out a shot of air which buses always seem to do and I can never figure

out why. One by one the boys filed out followed by Coach Broyles Sr., Coach

Broyles Jr., Coach Weston, Coach Gulchin, Coach Flannigan, Coach Chittinger,

Coach Hengles, Coach Doppler, and Coach Easton. There were around 60 boys

on our team, most of which were underclassmen because most kids don't make it

through wrestling all 4 years. Actually, we had started the season with 80 kids

but due to a somehow very surreptitious outbreak of mono, which was the best

way to bail from the team, 10 wrestlers had to leave early. Oddly enough, none

of them showed signed of having mono when I saw them at school. Another 3

had dislocated their hips which meant that they had to take it easy for 3 months.

2 had developed skin rashes that Coach Gulchin couldn't see and no, they didn't

have a notes from their dermatologists, but it was bad, trust them. And 5 more

had sudden outbreaks of HIV or some other disabling virus that they had

contracted from some beautiful girl in Cancun and amazingly didn't have when

you saw them the next Friday and they were hitting on a girl, telling her that you

were joking when you asked if the HIV is getting better.

The 60 of us and the 9 Coaches marched into Gor Turpay high school.

Chins raised high. Laughter made extra loud to show that we were nonchalant

81 Gor Turpay- Purgatory. Sorry, I couldn't think of a more realistic anagram. Just think of it as
Swedish or Basque or some other exotic language that you don't know well enough to be able
to tell when a word belongs to it.
about this match. Backs erect. The squeaks of wrestling shoes and rustle of

polyester.

No one drank water unless he was a freshman or sophomore. You could

always tell the varsity players because their eyes were red and their mouths were

filled with sticky white foam that congealed around the corners. I blinked, trying

to moisten my eyes and licked my lips. I rubbed my palms together and felt the

dried, cracked skin on each one chaffing against its counter part.

We walked straight to weigh ins. Derrick was now running throughout the

school in 3 coats, spitting on the floor whenever he could and heaving breaths

back and forth. We all sat down on benches and got naked. No one cared if he

was seen with a small penis. Penis size, the epitome of importance regarding

masculinity to high schoolers, is completely overlooked in weigh ins because

you gotta be naked to make it most of the time and making weight means you get

to wrestle and not making weight means you get to do 500 push ups, sit ups, and

jumping jacks and then run until you puke for Coach Hengles and then you get to

clean up the puke. Derrick is in the bathroom with a finger in his throat, dry-

heaving.

I got onto the scale: 144.87 lbs. I stepped off, wiping my forehead and

letting out a deep breath. The boy I was going to wrestle was an Asian who wore

glasses and had bulging muscles. He was about 2” shorter than I but his arms

looked a lot stronger, like he was a lifter. He got onto the scale right after me and

came up 144.97 lbs. I went back to put my singlet and warm up suit on. Once I

was dressed I opened my cooler and started eating. In my cooler I had a turkey
sandwich, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, 2 Gatorades, 2 chewy bars, a

banana, some celery, a piece of string cheese, and some beef jerky. Making

weigh ins always called for a feast. I sat next to Daniel who was eating a power

bar with xxxtra Prrrrrotein! and Huntson who had brought in McDonald’s and

was eating a 2nd chicken sandwich.

After everyone was done weighing in we went to do warm ups and sat

down on the stale bleachers in a giant over-sanitary school gym. The walls were

bleached white except for the eagle logo that was painted on above the basketball

hoops on either end. There were 3 giant mats with big circles on them that

signified where the wrestlers were able to wrestle. I never really knew the jargon,

which I got made fun of for profusely. I just called the inside of the giant circles

the in zone. The mats were a sanguinary red and smelled stale, like rotting flesh.

That however, did not alter any of the wrestlers' appetites. Across the gym we

saw the other team on the other bleachers eating, looking at us like we were

pussies and fat asses, just sitting there eating.

“Look at those fatassed pussies, just sitting there eating. We're gonna

school those motherfuckers!” Huntson said as he chewed a double cheeseburger.

“Shut up! Be polite Huntson!” Coach Chittinger shouted. We sat there

bored in anticipation. A few kids from Gor Turpay that didn't wrestle had shown

up, and some family members were scattered about the bleachers. For the most

part, however, the gym was a vast empty space. The 1st mat was for the

Freshman/Sophomore team, the 2nd for J.V.82 and the 3rd was for varsity. I was

going to be wrestling on the 3rd, and with a team of 60, that was pretty good. I

82 Junior Varsity
had wrestled Cane for the spot and gotten it even though I was a junior and he

was a senior. The team was good this year so I was always nervous at matches

cause I was 1 of 3 juniors on the 15 man Varsity team. The other 2 juniors were

only on because there were no seniors that could make the 95 lbs. Or 103 lbs.

Bracket so juniors were put on.

I was known as the take down kid. I would grab an opponent's leg, knock

him onto all 4s and then let him back up to do it again. I was never a good pinner

and Coach Easton always worked on cardio with me to keep up my strength

through the match to keep up the take downs. Coach Weston always tried to

work ground moves with me and get me pin-savvy but I never did very well with

it83. Derrick is sitting on the toilet with a red face, squeezing as hard as possible,

trying to get something out.

Finally the matches began. With 3 at once, wrestlers had to be attentive

with the whistles because if you stop when another wrestling match is over and

get pinned, that's your fault. And if you keep wrestling when your whistle is

blown, that's your fault and the other wrestler gets a point. Varsity went up in

weight as it proceeded through the night which put me in the 2nd half. I sat there

watching as the 103s wrestled. They were always the most entertaining. Our

varsity 103 guy was Peeds, a short skinny kid that jumped around the mat.

Noone really watched the J.V. or Fresh/Soph mats except the coaches that were

stuck with those teams for the night.

Peeds grabbed his opponent's leg and lifted up. The other kid tried to

83 None of this is symbolic regarding Nate's technique. It's just kinda preemptive information for
the match. In fact, you can skip the next paragraph if you want to just get to the action. It's
pretty boring.
straighten his body and escape but Peeds was too strong and pulled the kid

toward himself. He shot around the kid and pulled him back until they both fell

onto the mat. The other kid jumped over, eschewing at all costs getting trapped

on his back. Peeds was on top of the kid who was now on his knees which meant

2 points for Peeds for a take-down. Peeds wrapped his leg inside the other kid's.

The opponent did a donkey kick and freed the leg then tried to jump around and

sit on his butt but Peeds span around with him and used to momentum to knock

the opponent onto his chest. The other kid tried to push himself up onto his knees

and wrists but Peeds slammed the inside of the kid's left elbow and knocked him

back down. Coach Broyles was screaming with spit shooting from his mouth

“Half nelson Peeds! Get him in a half!” Peeds put his arm underneath the other

kid's arm and then wrapped it on top of the kid's neck to pry him onto his back

like a crow bar. The other kid slammed his arm against the mat which bruised

Peed's arm and as he later found out in an x-ray, put a slight crack in his ulna.

Peeds finally flipped the kid onto his back and everyone started shouting.

I cupped my hands and screamed “Get on his chest! Keep his chest down

Peeds!”

Everyone on the other team was screaming “Bridge up! Bridge up

Caster!” like he didn't know exactly what to do. The 2 of them hung there for a

suspended moment that lasted like 20 seconds, neither really able to move. Peeds

trying to get the kid's shoulders down and the kid trying to arch his chest. The ref

blew the whistle. The 1st round was over. Our coach jumped up and went to shout

at the ref about how Peeds had clearly pinned the kid and that Broyles had seen
both shoulder blades against the ground for all 3 seconds if not like 10 seconds.

I felt a hand grasping at my shoulder and turned to see my impending

opponent looking at me with an amiable gaze. His skin was pale like concrete in

the morning that has that thin layer of frost crust on it but it was one smooth

color84. I looked at him for a moment in the stillness of a silence, looking for

some greeting to grasp onto and spit out my mouth but finding myself swimming

through a sea of possibilities too infinite and giving too much thought to the

other possibilities to grab a single statement and spit it out.

“Hey, we're gonna be wrestling. I'm Dan Crents85. You're Nate Arthorr

right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Well, it's just, I was looking at our state rankings cause I usually do that

before a match to know if the person I'm gonna be going up against is like in my

same league or whatever.”

“Oh, okay. So what's up?”

“So you and I are actually tied right now for 20th. I just thought I'd tell

you, cause like, just saying this'll be a good match. I'm just psyched.”

I felt a little pang inside of me like a rattle that started shaking a beat that

I had never felt before. It was like some archaic nexus between the 2 of us at that

moment took a percussive form in my heart's palpitations and I recognized the

brotherhood amongst us. Dan and I were both here for the primal love of

84 This metaphor's a bit vague and by a bit I mean, James Joyce is toddler toys compared to this
metaphor. Not to say I'm better at metaphors than Joyce. I'm just able to make way more
obscure ones, or willing, cause truthfully it's not harder at all. Let's just say the sentence that
this footnote is based on is based on his physiognomy and not anatomy.
85 Dan Crents- Transcend
testosterone's escape via wrestling and the competition was more of a uniting

force than a chasm. The game was the release of the spirit and the strategy was

the refinement of the game, to enhance the experience as opposed to simply

winning. I finally got it. The competition has never been about winning. It's

about experiencing the force that drives one to progress.

“I'm psyched too man. Here.” I started to walk away from my team mates

who were giving me the bug eyes for talking to this kid. We went down to the

side of one of the mats and I started up again.

“Hey, I've got an idea for this match.” I said.

“Yeah, what?”

“So what if we both told each other our strategies before the game so we

can work off that and like alter our approach.” I was having trouble articulating

the simple thought that caressed my mind teasingly.

“I don't get it.”

“So like, I tell you I'm a take down guy so you know preemptively to

watch your legs and avoid being on our feet but now I know you know that so I

might switch up my game plan too and it'll be like a whole new game.”

“Oh, I kinda get what you mean. Like tell eachother our strengths so we

can no how to deflect stuff before it happens and try new stuff. It's like Ubuntu.”

Dan said, his eyes looking across the vast expanse of mats and whistles behind a

pair of rectangular glasses.

“Ubuntu?”

“It's that African philosophy where you become yourself through others.
So personal gain is only possible through relations with the whole. So like you

can't develop yourself without contributing to others.”

“I like it.”

“Yeah. I'm an adaptive guy by the way and I ride legs. Plus, I'm always

thinking on the mat and basing my moves on your strategy which is kinda funny.

It's like this but I learn as we go along, so funny enough, this might not help me a

lot except for maybe the 4 points you'd get if you took me down at 1st 2 times or

something.”

“Yeah.”

“But yeah, I'm gonna get back to my dinner. I'll see you soon.'

“Alright, peace.”

Peeds was on all 4s trying to bump his opponent off of him and spinning

rapidly. Finally he got loose and got an escape point. The 2 of them maneuvered

around the mat with legs that twisted like a crab crawling along a beach. Peeds

grabbed his opponent's neck and threw him to the ground, grabbing his back. 2

points.

The night swung by in sweeping storms of sweat and stinking socks,

bloody noses and little cotton balls that got stuffed up noses and began to melt

into red as a new one needed to be inserted. It swung by in a myriad of screams

and hoots, stomping and clapping. It swung like a pendulum between whistle

blows and high pitched grunts. It swung in and out like the gasping breaths that

heaved from bouncing chests made more pale by the fluorescence in the

prodigious gym. And finally I was up.

 I unzipped my sweat suit and rolled my neck around and bounced up and

down a little in my little singlet.

Dan and I walked from opposite corners of the mat and met at the center,

looking eye to eye with those giant puffy ear guards around our heads and little

spandex suits around our disproportionately shaped pubescent bodies. A suspense

hung about the atmosphere like a ribbon closing in on the 2 of us, squeezing us

tighter and tighter. The ref shouted some inaudible muffles and we shook hands.

Then the whistle was blown and the percussion started again. The ribbon was cut

and the internal percussion began to pound as we circled about in the ring of red.

Dan's hands twitched as if he was about to make a move and I jumped back but it

had been nothing but a somatic prevarication, testing the waters to see how deep

I would swim if he put a tow in. I faked a grab towards him and he dodged the

phantom attack to the left, my right. We were moving about in sporadic vectors,

shifting shuffling feet back and forth and side to side. I finally grabbed his head

and brought it toward mine. We were now head-gear to head-gear, locked up

with eachother's arms clinging ferociously to the other's neck or shoulder. Our 8

ligaments started to twist and bend into a maze of pulls and pushes. There was

some shouting in the background that was muffled by the sound of deep breaths

and aortic thudding. I twisted my leg behind his and shifted my weight forward,

toppling the 2 of us over. Our heads flew down to the ground in the shape of a

negative exponential equation. Dan's body twisted to face the ground and he

extended his arms to absorb the impact. My arms were wrapped around his chest

and elbow so I clang to his spinning body as we collapsed against the ground in
a dull thud that sent a tingle through my neck. I lengthened my body and pushed

my chest against his back so that he couldn't grab my leg and topple me over to

get on top. 2 points, take down.

I wrapped my right arm in between his right arm and his neck and half

nelsoned him. He swung his arm out which flung mine out. I immediately went

for a head lock and extended my arm again to get it around his neck but he

pushed back and spun out from my grasp. He stood up. 1 point, escape.

He jumped toward me and grabbed my leg. I hopped back as fast as

possible but he had me and bent me down by the joint so that I fell down and was

on bottom this time. I tried to collect my breath which was pumping out of me

like a panting dog but I couldn't get my energy back. I groaned and kicked my

leg out but he wrapped his leg inside of my extended one and flattened me out.

My jaw collided with the mat with a loud thud and I could hear all the spectators

verbally cringing. 2 points, take down.

I whipped my hips around so that I was sitting on my butt and got out

from the leg lock. Dan knew what was coming and kicked his leg out again,

trying to wrap it around my chest but I span around again and got a head lock on

him86. 2 points, reversal.

We both stayed still, catching our breaths and making little motions to not

get stalling penalties. The whistle blew. Round 1 was over.

Nate Arthorr: 4

Dan Crents: 3

86 Now, if this is hard to visualize for you, just look at this entire scene as 2 boys in lasciviously
tight spandex rolling around and kicking and swinging at each other for what's been about a
minute and a half now.
 The next 2 rounds were packed with action that amazed everyone who

saw and blew the socks off of some guys that thought that wrestling left them

jaded. It quite possibly changed lives but I feel like I went into too much detail

on the 1st round so we'll skip the next 2 and just explain that at the end of the 3 rd

round the score was 11 to 11 so we went in to a 1 minute over-time period, after

which the score was 14 to 14. Then we went into double overtime and the score

at the end was 18 to 18. Derrick is running up and down the stairs of the school

with 2 more jackets that he stole from the locker room, trying to sweat off that

last ounce.

Triple overtime means that you can't breath or see straight. Standing up

straight alone burns. Every muscle in your body is on fire and your bones all feel

shattered. It is like having the worst flu of your life. Tears pool into your dry eyes

and you feel like you need to vomit. Your coach puts another nose plug in your

left nostril to stop the bleeding while you put your hands over your head to open

your screaming lungs. You sound like a smoker with mucus trailing up and down

your throat as you suck air in and squeeze it out. All sounds are elongated and

fuzzy like they're floating away in some cloud puff that perplexes you. At this

point you start to experience mild synesthesia and blink hard to recollect

conscious control but you are still toppling amidst an ebullient froth of colors

that is converging at the center of the mat as you wobble towards it. At this point

you've forgotten the score and the first take down wins the match. You grab onto

the opponent to rest your weight on him because you can't hold yourself up and

wonder, why do people do this? Is this fun? Thoughts float about freely,
percolating in little tracks that bubble into eachother. You wonder where you are.

Coach Easton asks Coach Doppler where Derrick is.

Dan and I slipped off of eachother's arms as we tried to grab at eachother.

There was no friction possible when we were both covered with a gooey layer of

sweat, feeling like a snake in the amazon. I moved about the mat, more hobbling

than anything on a left leg that was cramping up like hell and a right knee that

felt like it was about to go out. Dan was hunched over and trying to keep his

head up but it was low, so I swung at it to try and pull him down by the neck.

Instead I saw my arm flop upward toward his face with a trailing image slowly

following my half opened fist. My knuckle was facing up as it collided with his

nose and sent his face bouncing back. His neck extended and pulled his entire

body backward. As he whopped the ground his head bounced upward and

smacked a second time. Dan's eyes were closed and there was a small smile on

his upturned lips like a baby finally cooed into the peace of a dream state. I fell

on top of him and half-consciously pressed my chest against his and extended his

arm to make the fact that he was on his shoulders, in a pin, more emphatic. The

ref blew the whistle before I could fully clasp his wrist in my hand and I feebly

fumbled to my side, trying to climb to my feet, thinking I had won.

“Red card! You are disqualified for inappropriate conduct on the mat.

Hitting will not be permitted in matches as long as I am a referee!” The swirl on

black and white lines shouted at me and I limped toward coach Broyles for some

water. Broyles threw the bottle down and screamed something at the ref about

validity and take downs. I sat down on the edge of the ring and looked out
wearily as 2 beer bellied 50 year olds screamed at eachother, red faced, over the

pacifically resting body of a buff, pale Asian boy. I fell over to my side and

stayed there for a minute, parallel to Dan who was opening his eyes wide now,

waking from the concussion and looking around. Derrick is trying to claw off the

5th jacket that he's put on himself, trying not to overheat.

The Gor Turpay wrestling coach started shouting at our coach and the 3

of them are standing around Dan, screaming and spitting. Dan tried to crawl out

from under them in a half brained mess but was kicked by his coach

inadvertently. The coach did not notice. Broyles was stomping against the ground

and the ref was pushing his back. Dan was trying to crawl out again between the

ref's legs. I crawled toward him. Coach Easton Had thrown his clip board aside

and was running toward the center of the varsity mat. Coach Chittinger was

trying to call a time out in the J.V. Game. Coach Flannigan was throwing his

chair to the side, screaming on the side of the mat across from me. My

teammates were staring, rooted into their positions like they were statues of

marble frozen amidst the passing chaos of a moment. I got to Dan and pulled him

out from the triangle of carnage. Easton was running directly toward us at a

speed he couldn't control and he jumped to dodge us but ended up smacking into

the Gor Turpay coach. The ref punched Broyles who was screaming a saliva

heavy rant with the words “fuck” and “incomprehensible” throughout. Hunston,

who had been out for a drink of water in the hall, saw the mess and immediately

ran toward it, figuring that if he wasn't going to be able to wrestle tonight 87 he

87 Huntson was in the 160 weight bracket for varsity and since the night proceeded by going up
weight he hadn't gone yet. So when he saw that there was a quazi-riot going on he figured the
matched would have about a 0% chance of proceeding through the night.
was gonna at least fuck some shit up. Little freshman/sophomores charged in

after Huntson, not knowing what was going. Gor Turpay wrestlers starting

pouring down their bleachers like ants scattering from a kicked ant hill. I put my

arm under Dan's and pulled us off the mat. Derrick is leaning against a locker

tearing at the 5th coat which just won't come off.

A tsunami of kids in red and orange spandex charged onto the mats,

punching, pushing, pulling. Hair was torn from scalps. Our heavyweight Junior

jumped onto a cluster of kids and broke a boy's fibula. There was screaming and

howling. I saw For Turpy's 95 bracket sophomore get thrown over a crowd of

fists and heads into the bleach white wall. For a moment I was consumed by this

overwhelming disdain for Dan. I felt this sudden epinephrin rush which flushed

out all the pain. I clenched my fist until my knuckles were white and turned

toward Dan, trembling. His face was bruised from my accidental slap/punch and

he was writhing in pain, grasping at his ribs which had been stepped on by his

coach. He was too easy. He was too innocent. I slowly stood up and rushed into

the crowd wish swinging fists and a teetering body. I was sucked in like it was

quicksand and immediately knew that what I had done had been, perhaps, the

worst decision I'd ever made. I was pinned between bumps and thuds that came

from every angle. There were no allies here, or teams. This was beyond anarchy.

I tried to push my way through, getting punched and kicked. Finally I collapsed-

not in a physical form though- I started punching back at the fists that butted

against me and swinging my arms in every direction, feeling my face getting

bruised and more bruised and I was sucked in further and further.
 I felt myself at the epicenter which was distinguished, not by the intense

rage, but by the fact that the veil of rage had been cast aside and all that remained

was fear. Fear and pain. I climbed on top of a cluster and tried to crowd crawl my

way out but was pulled down by a freshman I knew, Hendricks, and punched in

the throat. I was soaked in splatters of blood, most of which was not my own. I

pulled at Hendricks' leg, knocking him over and crawled back out as fast as I

could. The sprinklers went off and the school's fire alarm system began to

screech. Derrick is passed out halfway down the stair case with a temperature

well above 100 degrees Fahrenheit and a big bump on the left side of his head.

I finally squeezed out, head 1st from between the legs of fury in sobs and

blood. As I became fully liberated I looked up and saw Dan. He was sitting

against the wall crying. I crawled toward him and collapsed onto his leg. I tried

to push myself off of him for fear of personal space but my muscles were spent,

done, kapoot. All I could do was cry and let out, in a dry crusty tone, “I'm sorry.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry” over and over and over like it was a chant that I was

beginning to lose myself inside of. I was being consumed by the repetition of

those 2 words, those 3 syllables, over and over, again and again. And I couldn't

stop.

“Why?” Dan cut me off mid phrase and I lied there wondering where

those words had originated from in that moment.

“For going back in” was all I could say. I didn't really know what I meant

by it but it came to my mouth. Dan sat silent. I closed my eyes. The grunts and

screams slowly subsided, leaving my ears thudding from what was now the
silence of the siren. When I opened my eyes there were cops everywhere

interviewing the boys about what had happened. The Denver Post was there, or

some reporter from the Denver post. Huntson was telling the reporter that he just

wanted to stand up for his team mate Nate and his coach who the ref like fuckin

just punched. Broyles was handcuffed on the ground facing me screaming about

how I fought for my win and he was proud. Derrick is in an ambulance. All of

the coats have been cut off him and he is being covered by ice-packs. He never

even made it to weigh ins.

Chapter 12

A list of some of the mini-epiphanies that Phil had while trying to fall

asleep in the motel 8 on October 24th:

I am not an internal cacophony conflicting with itself, but a singular

entity, unchanged, that interplays differently based on the notes around me. I am

not harmonious with all other notes without intense work as is needed to create

something like a 12 tone88. Yet, even with all the work I do, I will always strike

discord with some melodies.

88 12 tone songs are songs that include every single note in a musical scale in every single key
possible. It's kind of like musical enlightenment, unifying every note into one melody.
 Never burn a bridge. Even if you never plan on using it again, others may

want to cross it.

The quote “Never say never” is flawed. It uses never twice. It should be

“Don't say never unless you are regarding how often you should say never”

That last statement was flawed.

Home is not a matter of location but rather dependent on the experience

of the moment.

Philosophy, to be put back into societal function must be presented in a

less erudite manner- one that is more entertaining- and regard applicable

circumstances. It should be a compass as opposed to a mind questioning

direction itself.

Okay, maybe philosophy was never very voraciously functional in society.

“What is the purpose of questioning?” is a really really silly question.

(giggling)

We are constantly stuck in a battle between our wants to walk in a

straight line and our wants to walk around freely.

 I know a poop load about people walking freely for a straight-line kind of

guy. That's weird.

Do I really know a poop load about freely walking people? Wait a

second! Would they even be free walkers? Aren't those people who try to walk

about freely trapped in their wanderings?

Never try to solve the logic of a philosophical problem through an

analogy. Analogies are for clarification clarification, not invention.

True happiness doesn't have to come from personal accomplishments.

Maybe nature is smarter than man. It never takes more than it needs, and

it's not the one destroying the world. We put ourselves above everything else

because of the ability to question, but how does that really make us better? Are

we not the bad-guys?

Maybe being a villain is just doing a lot of small things out of ignorance

or apathy that add together to be something really bad.

Oh man! If you're graphing -5 to the power of x you'd have points for all

the odd values of x and could form a best fit line with the limits!
Chapter !

On October 25th at 4 P.M. Sammy H. K. Rutt stopped at a gas station

somewhere in the southwest corner of Colorado, pulling over her car to go to the

bathroom. She put on the E-brake looking with interest at the two U-haul trucks

that had been parked next to each-other but one was from Nevada and the other

was from Colorado. She walked to the building. As she opened the front door the

bell connected to it jingled with a high pitch ring that slowed relative to her

accelerating heartbeat as she saw a long black gun pointed straight between her

eyes. Behind the gun stood a massive, Native-American man with an awkwardly

large jaw. Sammy Dropped to the ground and rolled into a corner

hyperventilating and sweating. Norance pointed the gun back at the cashier who

was taking the money from the register and putting it in a bag with a carton of

cigarettes, some Cheetohs, and a home living magazine.

“Excuse me sir” a boyish, squeaky voice came out from the beverage

aisle. Norance leaped up and looked around, glaring at a young boy- he must

have been 12- with wide shoulders and olive skin.

“I'm Phil, hi.” Phil put his hand out to shake Norance's. Norance looked

at Phil perplexedly with a growing chimera that this boy was going to somehow

put him in jail. He tried to ignore Phil and turned back to the cashier.

“Hurry the fuck up,” then turned back to Phil “and shut the fuck up!”
 “Now hold on a second,” Phil interjected. “I just want to talk for a

minute. Look, I'm not trying to get you busted. I'm just- I'm just wondering, what

are you doing? What in your life has dragged you toward such immoral actions?

To rob a gas station in the middle of the day on a weekday; how does one fall

into such a pit? I can understand that you may have personal predicaments but to

expand them and drag other people into your them as opposed to utilizing others

as a tool of escape from said problems is completely illogical. Now, granted,

you're in a time of emotional overflow which kind of blasts logic out the door,

but can you see my point. Why don't you put down the gun, get out of here and

try to start out through a more beneficial path?”

“Phil stop!” I whispered at the top of my lungs.

“Listen to your friend kid. Shut it.” Norance spat at Phil.

“No, seriously. Let's just look at this fro-” Phil began, but before he could

finish his sentence Norance had turned the gun toward him and pulled the trigger.

Bits of Phil's brain splattered out of his head and collided against the beverage

aisle. As he dropped backward, he knocked over a shelf of light bulbs that

shattered into little bits and covered his dead body as it met the ground with a

crunch of his skull. Blood pooled out like spilled tomato juice. I screamed but

nothing came from my overly-tightened throat. Norance turned around and

scattered out leaving the bell pacifically jingling behind him. Sammy ran toward

me and hugged me in tears.

“Are you okay? Are you gonna be okay?” She asked me with deep

sympathy. I tried to respond but only let out a sob. Sammy, a complete stranger
held me in her arms while I poured tears onto her blue shirt.

The cashier looked at us and let out “What the fuck just happened?”

I looked outside and realized that I had left the keys in the ignition and

that the car had been unlocked; that the car was gone.

Norance had mistaken my U-haul for his. He was now headed toward the

Arizona state line at 80 miles an hour with a particle accelerator in his trunk and

in front of the gas station lay a U-haul with $1,000,000 in cash in the back.

Sammy lifted my chin as I began to regain myself.

“It's going to be alright. I'm Sammy.” Said Sammy89.

I regained my composure slowly and picked myself up wiping the tears

from my eyes. I looked down and abruptly looked away from the bloody mess

that had once been the smartest person on Earth.

“His name was Phil” I said to Sammy. I didn't know why exactly it was

that I did, but that was all I could think of saying to her. She let out a forced

smile to try to relax me.

“And what's yours?”

“My what?”

“Your name.”

“Nate.” I replied90 picking myself up and trying to look away and get out

of there. I still had to go to the bathroom very bad and Sammy was still ravaged

by hunger but neither one of us felt up to doing anything. We were still so

absorbed by the shock that we found ourselves standing side by side, staring at
89 Why would you not know that this is Sammy? Would the narrator tell himself that his name
was Sammy? This is ridiculous. Someone edit this thing!
90 We've got the same problem that we had in the previous footnote. This narrator is terrible at
this. Good lord!
the glass behind Phil's body wondering what of it was tomato juice and what was

blood. The 2 had seeped together perfectly, almost like a piece of art. I can't say,

however, that Sammy was pondering the same thing. I sat back down and began

to cry silently.

Profound silence and calm amidst the terror.

Beat...

“Sam.” The clerk said. Sammy and I both turned to him. A man with

long, greasy, brown hair.

“Yeah?” Sammy asked thinking that he was referring to her.

“No, my name's Sam. Sam Peleck.”

“Oh, hey there. I was just confused by your name's being Sam and mine

being Sammy.”

Sam laughed a little and blushed. “ It is kinda funny isn't it? What a mix

up we got into there with those names! You know, it's that Sam's a pretty

common name. A lot of people are either Sam or Sammy so it's a pretty- or it's

probably a pretty common mistake, but -haha- a funny one nevertheless!”

 I sat in tears with a corpse inches from me and blood stained all over my

clothes watching Sam giggle about the mix up with Sammy who was caught

between Sam's joy and my sorrow. Sam's laugh slowly escalated to a full blown

cracking up and as he regained his composure he and I both wiped tears from our

eyes and he reached for the phone to call the police. I took off my blood covered

clothes and walked out front to sit on the curb in the mid day heat. The arid air

waved as if to give the illusion of humidity. I could feel the sun burning my bare

legs as I closed my eyes and tried to calm my fluttering heart. As I rubbed my

eyelids and watched the little fractal patterns flurry before me a hand clasped my

shoulder and started rubbing it in an unlibidinous, comforting manner. I opened

my eyes to see that Sammy was trying to comfort me. Sam had also walked out

front and asked me what I had in the U-haul.

“That's not my U-haul. It was the guy's. He took mine.”

Sam looked at me, trying to sympathize and opened up the U-haul to find

100 Kilograms of Hallucinogenic Mushrooms. His eyes opened wider than a

snake that was eating an alligator's mouth and he began to grab bags and carry

them into the gas station. I scoffed at him and he turned to me.

“What? You're not gonna tell the cops are you?”

“Go ahead and fuck up your life on your own.” I replied sinisterly.

He looked at me sadly and then to Sammy who looked at him

dissapointedly but still retained her amiable openess. At that time Sam had never

done any hallucinogens before but he knew that they would be worth a lot of

money. At the time he didn't plan on taking any of them. At the time, he had only
good intentions. At the time he had no intentions of becoming a shaman and

never believed that he would be worshiping asparagus within a year.

Chapter 13

November 16th 4:13 A.M.: Wen Epoh sat in a stale plastic chair with his

legs bent outward. His loafers were speckled with blood. He was wearing the

same dirty khakis that he had been on him the day before. His pink collared polo

shirt was stained brown from blood that had crusted and dried onto it over the

night. His hands were pushed together in front of his mouth like a praying child.

His left leg bounced up and down. A hollow florescent light flickered above him

and buzzed, making the gray concrete look almost pale green. His eyes were

clenched shut and his lips were silently forming words as if he was thinking to

himself voraciously. Behind him was a work bench covered with tubes of liquid,

little exotic mechanisms, measuring kits, scientific utensils, and open books. The
buzzing light expanded like a trapezoidal prism around Wen's curved body and

the chair. There was the faint sound of a fan's hum coming from upstairs. Wen

opened his eyes and looked down onto the corpse.

There it was; that oversized heap of flesh. He stood up and peered down,

looking into Norance's glazed over eyes. There were 3 almost black stains on

Norance's shirt from where the bullets had entered. His mouth was agape and his

crooked jaw hung in a nearly exaggerated angle to the side. Wen pulled out his

phone and searched his contacts, stepping over the body and walking toward the

black, wood stairs.

Less than 24 hours earlier Norance was in the shower scratching at his

skin and trying to scrape it off. He couldn't find the bravery necessary to cry over

his murdering Prat so he had turned the steam shower on full blast to pour

streams of burning liquid down his face, even if they were foreign. He didn't

care; everything was foreign at that point, even himself. The doorbell echoed

through his mind as it rang and he looked up from his balled up body. He froze

and watched as the scalding droplets flew through the air and pounced onto his

skin. There was only the high pitched sound of the pressure in the shower head

and the thumps of the water against the surfaces it hit. The water ran down his

shoulders and thinned out the blood that was seeping from the cuts he had

scratched into his chest. He had no soap. The doorbell rang again. Then again,

twice. Norance reluctantly turned off the water and stepped out of the bathroom.
He stepped carefully to the front door on the balls of his feet, water dripping

from his massive naked limbs. He grasped the handle, heart pounding and then

stopped and turned around. He started to run back toward the bathroom to grab

his gun but his dripping foot slid forward on the marble as it met the ground.

Norance's entire body shot backwards. Water shot out from every flailing limb as

his feet slid off the ground with a small squeak. Norance's shoulders made 1st

impact with the marble and propelled his head into the ground. His hair flopped

up as he slammed against the ground. The cranial collision knocked him out for a

moment and when he cam to he was surrounded by the sound of an echoing

doorbell, ringing through both his ears.

Norance stood up, dripping wet and naked. Flummoxed, having forgotten

everything preceding that moment. He didn't notice the mushy remnants of Prat

that he had pounded into the floor at the entrance; only the ringing of the

doorbell. He walked toward the door, mechanically, stepping in the entrails of

Prat and weaving left and right as he tried to get to the door. He reached for the

doorknob and twisted it. For some reason, his hand kept slipping from it. The

doorbell kept ringing and echoing and for some odd reason the flustered, post-

concussion Norance became euphoric. He looked down and saw an erect, stiff

phallus extending out from between his legs. He looked back up and somehow

grasped the lock, twisting it left. There was now pounding on the door; Norance

mistook this pounding for his heartbeat. In the moment that Norance twisted the

lock above the handle, the door flung open. Wen, in the rectangle of the door's

entry stood frozen. Norance looked at him blankly, his penis pointing straight out
at Wen's belly button. Wen looked from Norance's naked body to the rotting pile

of guts and bones on the ground and then back. What Wen immediately thought

of the situation caused him to choke for a moment and vomit. Norance was

trying to remember who was at the door, vomit pooling at his feet. Wen lifted his

khaki pants' right leg and pulled out the colt .45 from under the fabric. Norance

looked blindly around as Wen lifted the gun, cocked it. He flicked the trigger 3

times, point blank. Norance's body fell onto its knees and keeled over limply.

A shiver ran through Wen's back as he pulled out his phone and dialed

Ted91. It was as if he had just done something great through a terrible act and

there were these two conflicts within him. Wen had never murdered a man before

and, as his hands shook, he wondered if there was no other way to end the terror.

Was there no way to relieve man of pain but through pain? Could society have

saved Norance. Wen fell into revery, listening to the distant echo of his phone's

ringing. Maybe Norance could have been changed but there was something in

him that transcended nature, that transcended any effect that society could have

had. There had been this deep rooted evil that was inseparable from his-

“Yo, Wen, what's up?”

“Ted, you know how you owe me a favor?”

91 Ted owed Wen a favor so he was going to pick up the body. Unfortunately, Ted didn't know
where to drop off the body, and Wen, being new to the whole violence thing, didn't know
where to drop the body either. So, after an half hour of debate and violent words and a couple
tears and then Ted standing with a cigarette and looking away from Wen, feeling awkward,
they came to the consensus that Ted had fulfilled his filial duty and was now able to go. At
this point the body had been dropped in Wen's basement which brings us back.
 Day in and day out we think we are interacting with this world that is

separated from us. In reality we are just a part of a greater whole. We are like the

molecules that compose our bodies in relation to the universe. We interact with

all the other molecules but it's all just brake down of a single entity. You are not

defined as a person in and of yourself but as a part of a collective whole. Human

kind has no identity or intrinsic attributes. Everything that we describe as being

part of ourselves is dependent on how we react to what is around us. So why are

we not a part of what is around us?

We often separate what is natural from what is man made. And I know it

might be a banal argument, but man is made by nature. Can nature produce

something that produces something that isn't dependent on nature? Of course not.

All human constructs are simply nature manipulated by the human mind. Yet,

since the human mind is nothing but a part of nature, human constructs are

nature that has been manipulated by nature itself. This is the core of the problem.

We are nature. Identity has nothing to do with you alone. Aristotle said that a

man can't be morally judged unless he is a part of society. I would go even

farther. I think that man does not exist unless he is interacting with something
greater than the illusion he defines as himself.

Escape the illusion and you will find who you are. And I know it sounds

new-agey and cliché, but to actually process it. I sit here writing in Costa Rica

and after 18 years it's finally dawned. I began this search one year ago asking

three questions and all the research I did, all the stories I learned really answered

nothing. All they did was present a cluster fuck of opinions that worked with

each-other at times, but more often than not, contradicted each-other. Now I've

come to see that these answers weren't wrong. The question was wrong. We

shouldn't be asking ourselves who we are as single identities. I have no identity

beyond the universe. Nothing truly defines a person beyond faulty

interpretations. If we were to throw all our opinions out the window and simply

live with each-other there would be no factors beyond ability that separate us.

And not even ability, potential, any of that, says who you are or is dependent on

who you are. We simply are. Then we go about asking why and who we are, but

to what end? We've fallen into this abyss of questions and gotten so lost in the

heated debate of the questions that we forgot to look for the answer.

For example, if you were to look at science in modern day, it has done

much less than we think. We can cure diseases and extend life expectancy, sure.

But everyone still dies. It's just a matter of time. And yes, food is more readily

available, but at the cost of taking it from others. Dumpsters are filled to their

brims in America while Haitians suffer from hunger daily. Overall, is the world

happier? People are still hungry and dissatisfied. We just pay less attention to

that. Nature itself is the only true scientific system of genius. It is the only
system that regenerates itself when it is broken, that sets limits to itself. It

destroys that within it that takes too much. Like an animal that kills all the other

animals. It will then starve to death. Why do we think mankind is so different?

The majority of modern technology either contributes to our cancerous

consumption of our own resources or works towards fighting the cancer that we,

ourselves, have created. If we were to throw the debate of science aside and

simply be what comes to us, no social influences, we wouldn't have to worry

about the survival of our children or the fundamental basis of human rights. They

would simply be.

Mankind defines itself as the highest being because of rational, conscious

thought. This is how we identify ourselves, how we differentiate ourselves. We

think that this makes us the higher being? I beg to differ. Only animals with

conscious though act competitively. Plants within the rainforest often share

nutrients through the soil so that all of the forest can survive. It works as a

collective being. Conscience has brought us to the point in which we have

Donald Trumps that have billions of dollars and give nothing in relation to what

they really have to others in need. Greed is the outcome of conscience, not

existence. Greed should not define us. Our presence alone should define us. And

rational thought is something we're capable of, but it has very little application in

our day to day lives. Beyond scientists, the majority of people make the majority

of decisions based on emotions. You want to watch t.v., so you do so. You want

to look good so you go for a run. These actions are both based on urges,

emotional urges.
 Have you ever been in a room with amazing energy? Where all the people

are laughing or speaking with a lot of passion? You become a part of something

greater than yourself. You feed off of each-other's energy, and truly, all that

defines that moment is the existence of the feeling itself which is beyond your

personal identity. It's beyond any single person in that instant while

simultaneously defining every person in that instant. People are just parts of that

moment and individual experience is a faulty attempt at separating pieces of

something that will not function properly if it is broken apart.

When Phil died I was trapped in my own mind, mourning the loss of his

presence in my life. All that I was going to miss was his affect on me. Over the

summer I realized how selfish that reaction had been. Well, maybe not selfish on

my own behalf. But, I've been raised to think that way. To live in my own body

and analyze others through my lens of life. No wonder I've been wondering who

I am. I was taught to be something that I wasn't from the get go by society.

Because of that, all I could see of Phil was this person that had been in my life. I

didn't care about his life and his experience, because I couldn't connect with that.

And it's no wonder I felt really lonely.

I don't know why, but I started talking to Sammy after that and she

always tried to comfort me but I could see that she was afraid of herself. She told

me the stories about Kadijah and Sarel92 but was never willing to talk about

herself. I realized that she was trying to escape the idea of herself and only care

92 Kadijah had told Sammy the story about Sarel's car accident and Prat's death. Also, through
Sammy, I was able to get the email address of Sam who told me about his asparagus phase.
You'll be happy to know that he now knows that asparagus has no shamanic qualities. And in
fact, asparagus caused him a fractured wrist which cost him the rest of the money he had
saved up. He's now back at the gas station doing about the same thing, loving life at its fullest.
about others, but by running away from herself. There was this deep sense of self

hate, like she was afraid of who she might be or that she might be better than

others. No, yeah, it's the second one. I think she was always putting herself down

because she wanted to believe in others. She wanted to think that it was common

for people to be benevolent and altruistic, so she only looked at the best

attributes of those around her and always put herself down. I thought about this

for a little while over the summer and realized that what she was doing, while it's

helpful to others emotionally, is not healthy in any way. She is always running

from the illusion of self that she created. And I told her this. That she needs to

stop separating herself from others through these comparisons. Whether or not

she sincerely feels that she is inferior to others, she lacks a connection because

she never truly participates in the experience with others. People like her are

great to talk to for about a month but then things start to get stagnant. It's like

there's this wall that you can never brake through. Her fear of herself made me

afraid of her and we've broken from contact since then.

At Phil's funeral I gave a speech and Wen approached me afterward. He

took me out for coffee and told me that he had been at fault. That he had been the

person to give the van to Norance. That he had given Norance a million dollars

of ponzi scheme money when he found the particle accelerator because he was so

excited. But he knew that it had been Phil's and that Norance had killed Phil, so a

week later Wen had gone to Norance's apartment, planning on calling the cops

and turning them both in together, but when he had gotten there he'd seen that

Norance, who was clearly on numerous drugs, had been having sex with the dead
body of his best friend and Wen's immediate reaction was to kill him. It was the

first man that Wen had ever killed and he quickly realized that he was a novice at

that when it took him almost a week to figure out what to do with the body. Wen

told me that he had tried the particle accelerator and that it didn't work, but that

he was going to Costa Rica for a year to try and fix it. Also, his ponzi-scheme

had just about run its course and he needed to flee the United States. Also, he had

some beef with a lab in Costa Rica. He kept saying that the lab was what made

Norance Norance. He said that he was incredibly sorry for being the cause of

Phil's death and invited me back to Costa Rica with him for the year. He said that

he owed it to me and that no matter what I actually did do that year, he would be

able to make it something absolutely amazing for a resume.

Trying to defend the memory of Phil I said no, but he talked about how

he had been friends with Phil too. About a week later I called him and told him

that I wanted to go with him. He said “thankyou for forgiving me” and hung up.

So now I'm visiting the village I stayed at about a year and a half ago. It's

around a 30 minute drive from Wen's house where I've been “ raising thousands

of dollars to fight poverty on the eastern half of Costa Rica”93 over the course of

the year.

93 According to his resume. Wen's contributing $50,000 and a website to the newly founded
Nate Arthorr volunteering organization helped Nate's parents believe that this was what he
was doing as well.
 “Yeah?”

“Well I need that favor now.”

“Okay, can I stop by tonight. Er, and what's the favor?”

“I have a body.”

“Jesus fucking Christ Wen! I didn't know you were- no! Fuck no! What

do you even want! Just do some of your chemistry shit on it and deteriorate it or

whatever! No!”

“I know. I know I need to do that, but this guys a big motherfucker and I

need you to help me lift him into a tub and everything.”

“Fuck Wen! Can't you get me to help you with something else!”

“No Ted. I need you to come now.”

“Alright...shit. See you soon.

“Goodbye”

Wen walked upstairs and waited impatiently by his front door. The sun

rays were falling down against the warm Nevada desert. The city lights were

beginning to light up. The glowed feebly with the sun light still spreading out

across the horizon. There seemed to be no contrast of light and dark outside

through the window. The window was squeaky clean and almost invisible, but

when could make out the outline of his reflection in it. He focused his eyes and

started to see himself clearly, all the details of his cheeks, the mole underneath

his left eye, how his hair curled like an ocean wave on the left side of his

forehead. He sighed deeply and tried to calm his thoughts for a minute.
 He hadn't left the kitchen stove on. no. Looking into people's eyes

releases endorphins but we're afraid to do that to strangers. Why? Wen's teeth

were getting yellow and his lips were chapped. He wanted to go to the kitchen to

get a glass of water. What if Ted arrived while he was pouring the water? If he

was in the perfect location and the sound waves didn't cancel each-other out but

doubled the amplitude of each-other while he was pouring the water because of

sheer luck and the shape of his sink, then he wouldn't be able to hear the door-

bell and Ted might leave. His leg bounced up and down.

When Ted finally got there Wen brought him downstairs to see the body.

Ted had been one of Wen's dealers. Wen didn't know if Ted had known Norance.

“Shit man. Alright Wen. So what're we gonna do with this body? Fuck!

What's that smell! Where do we need to ta- eh man, what the fuck! I didn't do

nothing!” Wen pointed the gun at Ted and pulled the trigger.

He pulled his phone back out and made another call, “Hola, si, si, pienso

que voy a visitar ustedes cuando compro mas este verano. Tengo que ver Costa

Rica. He oido que esta muy bonita durante el verano. Si, no se cuanto quiero en

este momento pero sera mucho, estoy seguro. 94”

Wen hung up and dialed another number.

“Hey Bud, you know how you owe me a favor?”

94 “Hey, yes, yes. I think I'm gonna visit you guys when I buy more this summer. I have to see
Costa rica. I've heard it's beautiful during the summer. Yes, I don't know how much I want right
now but it'll be a lot. I'm sure.”