old stories

she cried

I reached out for the door handle and almost got hit when it violently swung open. She had backed into it and now had come full circle around and was staring at me face to face.

She didn't say anything. She didn't mean to look up. It was habit. Instinct because she sensed someone there. Once she looked up it was too late. I saw her face and didn't know what to say.

She had just been crying.

She was almost done, but it was obvious that she had been crying for some time. Her eyes were pinkish and glazed over with warm, sweet tears. She looked nervously down at her hands, back up again, and in a weak, cheerful tone said "hi..."

I went along and answered her. I cracked an award smile, stuck my fists in my pockets and felt like a shit. I made lazy circles with my eyes trying to think of anything to say but 'how are you doing?'

She started to say why she was.... Instead she assured me, "I'm fine." She didn't believe it and neither did I.

I answered "Good," and must have sounded like a liar or an idiot or both.

She said "Bye" to me and ran up the stairs. I could hear her start to cry again.

I said "bye" to myself. She had gone already.

There's something worse about someone you barely know being upset. An indefinable helpless feeling. You can't comfort people you don't know. They can't tell you their deepest problems. So you act like there's nothing wrong, although neither one believes it for a second. And you part.

the Laurie Anderson stories

Sweaters

			I no longer love the color of your sweaters.

			I no longer love the way you hold your pens

			and pencils.

			I no longer love it.

They say it won't last this time, but I know it will. I know it never lasted before, but those circumstances were different. I no longer care about him. I realize this means six of my prime child-bearing years are being thrown to the wayside; but this time I cannot forgive him.

When he lightly held his loose fist to his cheek, to prop his head, lines formed between his little finger and palm on the side of his hand. Lines identical to those made by his half-closed eyes, squinting in the bright morning sunlight. His soft dry hand would slide across the page as he sketched. He always used a number one pencil. They were softer and darker. His sketches did not emphasize clarity. Neither did his actions.

He always had weekend seminars. I always helped him pack. I made sure that at least one of my favorite sweaters of his was left behind so I could wear it and think of him. One of the three with the bright colors. I was wearing the one with the yolk on the sleeves and the vibrant forest green pattern over maroon and beige when he returned. Only this time he didn't return as he left. A lover wouldn't have been as bad. But a wife?

I will never love again a man with bright sweaters and bright smiles. Find me one with sweaters like coffee-stained teeth or sweaters like dirty hands. A sweater with cigar smoke in the fabric.

Born, Never Asked

			It was a huge room. Full of people.

			All kinds.

			And they had all arrived at the same building

			at more or less the same time.

			And they were all free.

Step. Feverishly flustered. Step. Step. Flatulent flattery. Step. Other words that start with F. God damn, can't think of another. Loud, gritty, sandy footprints on these checkerboard tiles. Dark for indoors. Fluorescent probably. Can't tell what's on my hands. Clammy. Little sticky. Maybe from the railing on the way in. Steam rising from collar of my trench coat. My forehead sweating. Ah, last room on the left. Hello. Yes, asshole, of course my name is Bill Lee.

Hello. What was on his hand? Here, put your own name tag on. Most everybody else is glad to be here. Or at least they're being pleasant as they come in. I'm not serving anybody. I'm just as equal as anyone else in here. Exactly as equal. Oh. Keep up with the rush. Hello. Next name tag on the stack.

Hello. I guess you know it's raining. Well, I won't talk about it then. Other things to talk about. Oh he's just the door person. All these chairs? My, that's a lot this year. All those men to sit with. Now what are the chances of another like me? Another Wilma. Or maybe Willamina. I doubt there's going to be a new one this year. I doubt there's going to be a new speaker this year, too. Yes, there he is.

I wonder how long they're going to keep me? I know it's boring to hear the same speech over every year because it's boring to give the same speech every year. There hasn't been a whole lot of changes for us over the last year. Here comes Bill, socializing may be my only way of keeping this annual salary. Chuckle, laugh, mingle. Hmm. Hmm? Hmm!

Our speaker here looks a bit older than last year. A few more gray hairs I believe. Same professorial way of dressing. Hasn't lost his ability to chuckle and act interested, either. I suppose I also look a bit older than last year. No problem replacing me. Here's a whole room full of candidates. Time to start this up. "Hello, and welcome to the Society for men, ahem, persons named Bill Lee."

O Superman

			Hi. I'm not home right now but if you want

			to leave a
			
			message, just start talking at the sound of the tone.

			Hello? Is anybody home? Well, you don't know me,

			but I know you.

Beep. Hello? I think you're listening to me. This isn't fair to your mother and myself, young man. If you decide to come back, though, we won't punish you. You may come home freely. Dammit, child, you can't do this. We didn't spend all those years of our lives bringing you up so you could leave so soon. Click.

Beep. Your father didn't mean to be so hard on you. We both miss you greatly. If you could just get up and talk to us... We miss you so much. At least we know where you are, and that you're safe. Click.

Beep. It's me again. I wanted to say more. Nobody wants to hurt you. There isn't a thing in the world that would want to see you harmed. And if there were, they'd have to go through me first... Oh, God, please come back. Click.

Beep. Hello, I will be helping you out, trying to get your body working again. I am a physical therapist. I know those are big words. I work for the hospital. As your body comes out of these casts, I will be working with you so that you can use it again. Do you like to play ball? Click.

Example #22

			(Your sound. I understand the

			languages.
						
			I don't understand the languages.

			I hear only your sound.)
			
			but I know you.

			Beispiel Nummer zweiundzwanzig

			Lights are going down slowly.

			In the woods the animals are moving.

			In my dreams you're talking to me.

			Your voice is moving through me.

			You talk as if you knew me.

			So pay me what you owe me.

How long have I been asleep? A killer headache. I can feel the rubber air-filled cushions on the headphones attached to my head by time. Like suction cups they pop off.

Where are the pills the doctor gave me, no don't use those unless I have to. Just use some regular aspirin. Here they are.

(you need to wash it down.)

Where is she?

(you need the pill.)

"Water, please," and hurry up. I hate long flights. Anything less than Air Force Three class must be intolerable. I guess I should be expecting more flights this length. Part of the job. I wonder how long I'm supposed to stay put here. Can I travel? Can I go home occasionally?

(here she is.)

"Thank you. We'll be landing soon? Great." Aspirin just doesn't have the kick of what I'm used to. Going to have to do.

I don't know if I can handle this job. Maybe I'm too soon out of the... I shouldn't think about it. That's what they told me. They trained me to handle every situation.

'The plane will be landing now, Mr. Ambassador.' 'Thank you miss stewardess.' God, I could use a pill.

****(you're on your way to ultimate power. our ultimate power.)***

Let X = X

			I met this guy - and he
			
			looked like he might have
			
			been a hat check clerk at an ice rink.
			
			Which, in fact, he turned out to be. And I said:
			
			Oh boy. Right Again.

We went to his home. It was past Christmastime, but he had Holly around his front door. Not the prickly kind with red berries, but the kind with the guitar and horn rimmed glasses. When we got inside it looked like a tomato had hit. Everything was dark red. There was carpeting on the walls and there were things hanging from the floor. We took seats on the ceiling. In Lazy Boys strung to the ceiling with long chains. I started to get mine into a twisting rhythm, side to side, when he said I should stop. Bothers the neighbors.

We played a game. I guessed everything he had in the next room. A blender. I was right. It was the blender room. I saw the plug through the doorway. An old GE one with two speeds, fast and slow.

We jumped off the Lazy Boys and walked around to his back porch. It was when I was able to look out into his back yard that I noticed his whole house was a tree house. It was barely noticeable from the front he said, but from the back I could look down and see his neighbors' roofs. In the dusk they looked a little like placemats on a green tablecloth.

We talked about all the wonderful large and powerful man-made objects orbiting our Earth. How wonderful it is that they are built to last forever and thus don't need landing equipment. I pointed in the general direction of the house of where a future president will be born. We laughed and enjoyed our view and shared it with no one.

It Tango

			He said: Isn't it. Isn't it just like a woman?
			
			She said: It takes. It takes one. It takes one to. It takes

			one to know one.
			
			He said: Isn't it just like a woman?
			
			She said. She said it. She said it to no. She said it to

			no one.

I got out of the Oldsmobile. I was wearing the blue dress. As I walked in, he parked the car in the same space he always uses. On the right side of the driveway, by the backyard swing that hasn't been used in probably sixteen years. I don't need to look to know.

I walked in and removed my high heels. I know he would be expecting a vodka tonic when he came in. He comes in and I hear him fold his coat, the shoulders meeting perfectly behind the collar. He sets it down over the back of the couch in the living room, and sits at the desk. I come out of the kitchen, vodka tonic in my right hand, tom collins in my left. He reaches for my right hand, takes the drink and puts it on his knee. I sit in my loveseat and stretch my legs and point my toes. He doesn't know how much high heels hurt the arches of my feet.

He raises the drink to his lips, leaving a wet ring on his trouser leg. He unconsciously closes his eyes as he drinks. He opens them and they seem more watered over than usual. Deep inside somewhere are mirrors that reflect the light that goes into them. Their dark color camouflages the light well. He raises his drink again and I notice the brilliance and clarity of his eyes compared to the dull, thick, but clear glass bottom of the highball.

He's finished his drink, and I have finished mine. He hesitates before he stands up. I instinctively rise and put the glasses in the sink. We make our rounds in the bathroom. Before he turns out his lamp, he looks over at me. I don't need to hear to know what he's saying.

He turns the light out.

delivery boys

We packed the bag, waved goodbye to Mrs. Werner, closed the trunk and off we were. I guess we both figured she'd want less groceries next week.

"She might not want a delivery next week," said Tom.

"Yeah, maybe not."

We had a twenty minute lunch break as soon as we finished this delivery, so we were in a little hurry.

"We gotta get going. Mr. Montulli is gonna get mad."

"Alright, alright," Tom angrily replied.

Mr. Montulli wasn't very lenient with us being late coming back from lunch breaks; but you'd figure some people could take care of their own groceries once in a while.

"We can pick up some sandwiches at Lupe's on the way back," I propositioned.

"Yeah, okay," agreed Tom, "but I think we better deliver the bag in the trunk first. We don't want any of it to go bad and stink up the car."

"Good point." Tom was the logical type. I was more of a visionary. I looked forward into our futures. I found jobs for us for the summer; I thought it would be a good way to earn money for college. Tom said we could use his Dodge Dart. Together we were a pretty good team. We knew the neighborhood, since we lived there all our lives, and we knew our neighbors. When we reached the top of Coral Road Tom pulled over to the side.

"Kind of deserted, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yeah, I guess it's deserted enough for me."

Even though no one was around, Tom and I weren't scared. We'd been to this part of the bay lots of times this summer.

Tom opened the trunk and called me around to help, "Come on, do you think I'm going to do this by myself?"

I guess I was spaced out for a second, "Alright, I'm coming."

Tom yanked the bag half way out of the trunk before I got there and a leg fell out. It was a big leg. In fact, the whole thing was a little bigger than usual.

I grabbed the other end of the bag and we carried it across the street to the edge over the rocks and waves. One. Two. Three. We threw the heavy bag over the edge, into the water.

Tom said, "Goodbye, Mr. Werner," while I reloaded my handgun.

Boy, was I hungry for lunch. I knew I'd have to eat something to get me through the rest of the deliveries that day.

the orgy

Prelude

"I'm gonna drink 'till I puke, David." Pat says to me as he leans over the dining room chair out on the porch. He proceeds to walk around the chair and let his body fall onto it. I open the screen door wider so he wouldn't walk through it, and shut the glass door to hopefully keep him from coming in.

I turn away from the door and find myself facing Charity, looking up at me with her big eyes.

"I took my bra off." she says.

"How nice for you."

She turns to take a hit from the keg that could make several fraternity members swear off even cough medicine. She closes her eyes to further enjoy the Michelob coursing through her veins and I make a break for the bathroom. For someone her size and proof she sure can move fast, but I'm able to shut and lock the door before she catches up with me.

Part One: Doris Gets Her Oats

Pat returns to his seat with another plate full of clam strips and fries. In Pat's hometown in Canada they've never heard of clam strips. I down a full glass of milk. Bill finishes mixing his clam strip sauce of catsup, mayonnaise, and vinegar.

"If we charge everyone a dollar at the door, and there are forty people then we break even." Bill says after trying a clam strip in his concoction, "If more come we could actually make money."

Pat thinks for a minute, "Or if fifty people come and we charge two dollars, then.."

"Then I call the police." I add. They don't realize the implications of this. After we eat, we have to go out and get the beer, we have to decide how to pay the seventy-five dollar deposit, get ice, figure out where people can go to the bathroom, where to put their coats... There were so many considerations that no one but myself was facing.

"...even if we make as little as ten dollars that's still a worthwhile investment." I hear Bill say.

"Investment toward what?" I ask.

"I dunno," Bill thinks, "...another keg party."

Pat joins in, "A weekly keg party."

"We could be rich and get drunk every weekend. Soon it'll all pay for itself." says Bill. Pat agrees and goes to get a couple bowls of cereal. Bill excuses himself when he sees some members of the women's waterskiing team.

I look over to Cam, who has been quiet all this time.

"I'm gonna die tonight, aren't I?"

Cam almost imperceptibly nods and takes another forkful of spinach salad.

Part Two: Ignored Harbingers

Obviously I am elected to drive.

The Country Fresh is probably the nicest grocery store I've ever seen. There are forty-eight aisles, nineteen check outs, and a real manager's office with a little waiting room. Where most supermarkets have an elevated booth for the manager, this one has chairs and a desk.

I conduct my business in the office while the guys wait for me right outside, by the magazines. The deposit check and my fake i.d. fluttered in my hand as I give them to the manager. He looks down at what I've handed him and pauses. He says nothing for a while and then looks up with a jerk and blurts, "So what kind of beer do you want?"

I don't think he hears me say 'ALRIGHT' under my breath.

The manager calls someone over the intercom. A rather dopey but very industrious looking guy appears within seconds. The manager tells him to fetch me beer. I follow the geek out and try not to thank the manager too many times.

Bill and Pat put down their wrestling magazines and follow me. We make a bee line for the beer section. The geek goes in a door that apparently leads to the beer vault and comes out with a pony keg of Michelob on a push cart. He leaves the gem at my feet and turns to go back into the vault. I figured he must live back there and start to push my new best friend to my car. Pat and Bill are following me like I'm the Messiah.

As we exit through the automatic doors that say THANK YOU - COME AGAIN, I hear another push cart behind me. The three of us turn to see it's the beer geek behind us with another pony keg.

Before I can say something Bill says, "The car's right over here."

I look over to Bill in disbelief and he smiles and whispers "Two for one night at Country Fresh."

I put my keg in the trunk and money-see monkey-do dictates the beer geek's actions. He leaves and we thank him. I reach for the trunk as he walks away.

"Let's get the FUCK out of here!" Pat yells smoothly as he runs to the back seat.

Bill jumps in the passenger seat and yells, "Go Dave, GO!"

The trunk won't shut.

I turn the kegs on their sides while Pat and Bill are screaming for me to get in the fucking car.

The trunk still won't shut and I see the manager start out of the building.

"Forget the trunk!" Bill suggests rather strongly. I jump in the driver seat, start the car and try to pull out of my parking space without being able to see behind me.

I hit the curb and pull forward. Meanwhile the manager starts to run for the car. "I can't get out of here! We're going to get caught!"

Bill grabs me by the collar and threatens, "You get this car out of here now."

I hit the gas.

"I think... we made... a slight mistake here." says the manager somewhat out of breath.

"Oh, what's wrong?" I ask innocently with both my left tires up on the middle of the curb. I have to really step up to get out of the car to give them the other keg back.

Part Three: Beer Muscles

Bill and I carry the keg into the apartment and put it on the hearth. Pat brings a garbage bag full of ice we got from the Heritage Inn vending machine.

"I hope no one at the Heritage wants a drink with ice in it tonight. I think we bled that machine dry." Pat says as he dumps the ice into the tub around the sides of the keg.

"Sheephead saw us, didn't he?" I ask. Sheephead lives in the bedroom directly above mine. His name probably isn't Sheephead, but it fits. He has long black curly hair that covers most of his face and upper body. The guitar amplifier in his room is six feet tall, I've been told. All I know is that it sounds like I live below the subway. Sheephead likes to play his guitar late at night and early in the morning. During the day he is usually sitting outside the apartment complex watching the cars go by. I can all too clearly picture him running after a fire truck going by.

"Yeah he saw us," Bill answers, "but I don't think he'd want to call the police, if that's what you're thinking about."

"The police? I was afraid he might come over."

The doorbell rings.

Pat, as if he didn't hear any of the conversation, runs to get the door. His excitement is not unlike a small child's upon the arrival of Christmas. I hear him greet Charity.

Charity must be less than five feet tall, with big green doe eyes, and a slight French accent. I guess one of her parents is French. She saunters into the living room with a pair of black sunglasses with silver trim that make her look almost evil, and says, "Hello boys." I wasn't sure if she was looking at us or the keg.

Cam decides to sleep next door tonight. However, he comes by every hour on the hour to take a picture of us. He wants to rate the change every hour in our appearance and in how many people were in the picture. In the nine o'clock picture seven of us sit on the couch. There is Bill, Pat, Katy, Suzie, Mike, Charity and myself.

The party is just starting and Pat didn't want to put off anybody and collect money from them right now- especially because Katy, Suzie and Mike probably just came over for the beer. We'd collect later.

The ten o'clock picture is a lot like the nine o'clock one, except Mike isn't in it. He's in the bathroom.

The eleven o'clock has the original lineup, except Bill has his hand in Suzie's shirt, Mike has the tap in his mouth, Pat has Charity on his lap and I've got paper towels in my hand- trying to get beer out of the carpet.

The twelve o'clock picture is lonely. I am sitting on the couch. Pat and Charity are making out behind me. Cam said this would be the last picture, because he was going to bed.

Bill took Suzie back to my room since the last picture. It was beyond my control. Said his room wasn't private enough. Mike took Katy somewhere, too. Pat and Charity were giving each other tonsil baths on the couch. I went into the kitchen to drink a little in privacy.

I decide to call it quits after a few more sips and go to my room.

"Bill. Bill? ...I'm just going to get my pajama bottoms, okay?" I hear no answer. I wait and repeat my message. I decide to enter and leave the lights off. I open the door and see two figures on the floor, rolling around.

"Bill? I just want to get my pajamas, don't worry about me." He isn't.

"Yeah, are you sure you don't mind?" says a voice from over on my bed.

I look up, startled, and see another couple on my bed. I reach down and separate the couple at my feet. Mike and Suzie. I look up and see that Bill is with Katy on my bed. I could've sworn it was the other way around.

"Get the hell off of me!" yells a voice with a French intonation.

Before I excuse myself from the two couples I ask Bill, "Can't you hear each other?"

Bill answers, "We turned the radio up."

I enter the living room to see Charity refusing the pleading offers of Pat. Pat goes outside to cool off. Charity puts on an Aretha Franklin album and wails along at the top of her lungs.

She looks over at me, "Hi Dave. What are you up to?"

"I'm going to bed."

She makes a purring noise and I realize I forgot to get my pajama bottoms. I go to Cam's room and lie down. He took all his sheets off his bed to sleep next door, and all that is left is a plastic cover on his mattress.

Just as I'm starting to relax for the first time tonight, Charity appears in the doorway and asks if we could just sit and talk for a while.

I weakly say, "Not right now, I'm so tired..."

"Good." she interrupts and turns the light off.

I sit up tensely in the pitch black room. I hear her sit at my feet. I hear two noises that sound like her shoes falling off her feet and on to the floor.

"Charity? ... are you there?"

"Uh huh." she whispers.

"What are you doing?"

She laughs. A very evil laugh. I hear her sliding closer.

Just then I hear the door open and shut again.

"Who's there?"

No answer.

I hear a trickling noise like some one pouring from a pitcher.

"What's going ON?" I demand.

"Shh."

It's Pat. And then it strikes me what he's doing, but I still ask, "Pat, what are you doing?"

"Shh!" he answers.

"PAT!"

"Shh, I'm trying to pee."

"You are peeing... ON THE WALL, you idiot."

"Wait a second."

I remember a story Pat told me about the last time he was drunk at home. He was out camping with some friends. They would pee around the edge of the campsite, like a pack of wolves marking off their territory. He also mentioned something about puking on his shoe.

"Charity," I ask, "how much has he had to drink?"

"I didn't think he had that much," she answers, "you stud." A hand on my leg.

I retreat to a safer, drier, living room. Charity follows me, several times slapping my rear. When we get out into the living room I see that her eyes are glazed over and its a matter of sheer will that's keeping her from passing out.

"Maybe it's time you went to bed, Charity." I implore.

"If you say so." She says and put her hand one my shoulder. With the other hand she reaches under her skirt and takes off her slip.

"Why don't you go to Bill's bedroom?"

"Without you?" she pouts.

I nod and push her into Bill's room. I catch Pat going into the kitchen through the corner of my eye. He comes out with a bottle of Bill's Aristocrat Rum. He grabs a chair from the dining room with the other hand. Looking like a man with a cause, he opens the sliding glass door and the screen, sets his chair down and goes back to get the bottle off the floor.

"What are you doing, Pat?" I ask.

I turn away from the door and find myself facing Charity, looking up at me with her big eyes.

"I took my bra off." she says.

"How nice for you."

Part Four: The Day After

I wake up to Sheephead playing selections from Metallica on his guitar. I halfway roll off the couch in the living room and plant my feet on the ground. I take what must have been five minutes to make my lopsided head stand up with the rest of me.

I stagger over to the bathroom, reach for my button fly and realize it's already undone. Before I can find the toilet I see a ring in the sink. A big orange ring all around the edge. I realize what the ring is and try to think if Domino's pizza looks that orange going down.

I decide to try Cam's bathroom. I open the door to his room and it hits something after two feet. Down on the floor is Pat with his pants around his ankles and the bottle of Aristocrat clutched in his hand. I step over him and use Cam's bathroom. Pat might of forgotten to pull his pants up, but he was kind enough to remember to flush last night.

On the plastic covered bed is a small puddle of puke. Way to go, Pat! Lying in the puddle is a bra. I try to remember how long Charity was on the bed last night in the dark. I carefully take the bra and put it in Cam's sink with hot water. I nudge Pat until he mummers and leave the room.

I knock on the open door to Bill's room. Charity wakes immediately and starts to sit up until she realizes her present clothing situation.

"Where are all my clothes?" she asks innocently with the sheet pulled up to her chin.

"I see some of them under the bed... the rest are, well, all over the place."

I leave and finish waking Pat. He pulls his pants up and asks me questions like, "What happened?", "Why were my pants down?", "Did I throw up?", and, "Do you have any aspirin?"

I take Charity and Pat to brunch after deciding not to check what's going on in my room. We are all wearing the same clothes we had on last night. My mouth tasted like I was sucking an inner tube while I was asleep. Pat gets four bowls of cereal after his eggs. Says he's "extra hungry."

Charity sits and looks at her plate of scrambled eggs. She complains about her bra.

sunday drivers

I sit on a cart in my faded and holed jeans, my legs outstretched and my Reeboks resting on a rail, waiting for my father to return. I survey my surroundings. I remember my past; my past is here. I am reminded of my favorite acrostic:

For
Only
Incarcerating
Lunches

My hometown is unique. It is on the east coast, but it is neither southern nor northern. It is fifteen minutes from either a major city or less well known farmlands. People who work for the U.S. Government live here, as well as diplomats from other countries. In this place the filthy meet the filthy rich.

A grey BMW with a bundle of sixteen foot wood trim sticking out its sunroof waits behind an olive '71 Dodge Dart. A nine to five white collar and weekend do-it-yourselfer, on his way to work on his Lakefront house, is hindered behind a Budweiser fan sports widow, who just bought a replacement screen door and knows he has plenty of time to put it in before the 'Skins game. The traffic is bad on route seven because of the shopping district, which is located directly across the street from a large neighborhood of low income housing called Culmore. Strange people are always around here, with their old cars. Years ago when his circus wasn't touring, George Bailey used to take his elephant for a walk across the dirt roads here. So they called it Bailey's Crossroads. It still is a circus.

I get into the passenger seat. We pass the high school.

The nearby high school's football felid was built over what was a Confederate General's camp, later a graveyard. Located directly between Culmore and the Lake, the school's enrollment is 1500 and rising. Forty-eight percent foreign born. A cultural, ethnic, and social diversity not known many other places promotes about as much friendship between the different groups as ignorance and hatred. Of the people who leave this school, about the same amount who go directly to the Ivy Leagues go directly to jail. Some go to jail via the Ivy leagues. The rest more or less stay in the same area. Some because they have to, some because they want to. School officials call it a great melting pot, but they can remember when it was a front.

In the sixties, groups of eight to ten black students would lock elbows and walk down the halls daring any white going the other way to break their "daisy chain." Blacks wore Lees, and whites wore Levi's. It was easy then. Halftime Friday night fights were salt vs. pepper. No knives. No chains. No guns.

Then the seventies came. The rules weren't so easy. The Vietnamese came. So did the Cambodians. The Puerto Ricans. The Koreans. For the first time blacks and whites started banding together. There was a new enemy. It didn't even speak English. They had nunchucks and knew Karate. It wasn't fair.

When the eighties strolled along finally, the new Americans outnumbered the blacks and ousted them from Culmore. So the blacks moved to the Lacy area. The whites stayed around their Lake.

We pass by the Lake.

It was once allowed to fish off the causeway into the Lake. Some would fish for bass. Some for sunfish. Some for dinner.

Three freshmen girls loaded with books loaded with books stand at the causeway waiting for a ride home from school, and count how many upperclassmen drive by and pretend not to see them.

The streets around the Lake are named after people, poems, scenery: Jay Miller, Fiddler's Green, Waterway. There are five beaches. Beaches 1, 2, 3, and 4 are filled with sunbathers during the summer. During the fall, boys play football on the peninsula next to Beach 5. People ice skate during the winter by the footbridge. They enjoy their Lake.

A couple of well-to-do Chinese families bought houses in the Lake community. The Newcomer's Club welcomed them as Ambassadors from the Orient. Not really. Idaho.

One man sold his Alfa-Romeo and bought a Mercedes in the next state so he could avoid some taxes. He had an affair with someone else's wife, whom he ended up marrying after they both got divorces. Had more money than his ex-wife so the kids live with him. She sold the house to some people who lived a few blocks away. Was it ever a home?

We pass by the Lake area. The car stops.

Where are we? There's no lake, no Lacy, no Culmore, no route seven... nothing like that. No hate, no discrimination, no segregation, no pain. No emotion at all. "Excuse me, where is the garden section." "Over there, on the right."

This store is called the "world's most unusual lumber yard." They don't know how encompassing that claim is. The kitchen may be the meeting place of the family, but my community meets in the hardware store. Society I guess. Moved out of the church, out of the town hall. In an area as manifold as this, the hardware store is the only non-religious, non-ethical, non-class place left. Here I sit, the indiscriminating eye, watching the traffic and thinking. I look to the skies. The day is almost over.

Grey clouds sit in the front row to watch the brilliant skylight. At the bottom of the horizon an orange creamsicle melts. A slow motion fire burns in the sky, emitting shades of crimson and cranberry red and pumpkin orange. The trees' leaves have similarly changed color, add the colors of leather: tan, mahogany, cherry. Some trees have no leaves. Their fingers scratch at the sky, trying to poke the clouds out. But they can't reach. The winds blow the clouds around, but they eventually return. Man can travel into space, or dig a hole; but he still can't always see the perfect sunset. Some of us stop to try anyway.