Happy Burger

He supposed it was the sauce, and the way that they cooked the patties, on the uncleaned grill with all the residue from the past. But mostly the sauce. It wasn’t just mayonnaise and ketchup or thousand island like other places, it had some sort of spice added to it, something unmistakable that you never forgot. It had been two months and Russell could almost taste it still himself. That taste had tortured him long enough, the time had come for him to experience it again. He felt he deserved it.
The sign flared from across the street; the orange neon bun, the brown patty, the red tomato, the green lettuce that would burn out occasionally leaving the neon hamburger looking somewhat hollow. Every day on the bus Russell had to look at that sign and he would scowl. He would notice he was scowling and he would look at the people sitting around him on the bus to see of they had noticed it too. He cursed Happy Burger under his breath. He thought about it for a few moments and cursed himself. If he just hadn’t said what he said that night in November, if he could have just thought it, without actually saying it to the counter guy’s face-
It had been a Wednesday night, after a particularly long day at school, one where he had missed lunch because of a test that had gone over. Milo had asked if he wanted to study for an hour or so after their last class but Russell said no, he had to get home to feed his cat. The truth was he had to feed himself. Not having any lunch had left him famished, all he could think about those last few hours was going to Happy Burger and ordering the cheeseburger with a side of onion rings, ranch, and a strawberry shake. When Milo asked about studying Russell felt his stomach hiss and bubble but kept it to himself. At two hundred and forty six pounds he was more than aware that the words ‘I’m starving’ were not allowed to leave his lips.
He had rushed to the bus, building a sweat, and had planned to get off at the stop before his house so he could go straight to Happy Burger. Then his mother had called and complained that she couldn’t find the remote. She accused him of misplacing it, telling him he needed to get his fat ass to the house to find it because she was going miss her show. He protested. He told her he was hungry, but said it in a low voice so the guy in the next seat wouldn’t hear.
“What did’ya eat for lunch?” she demanded.
“I didn’t have any. Class went late.”
“Well good! We all know you could miss a few.”
She hung up and he was so angry and hungry he had felt the tears massing in the corners of his eyes. When the bus passed Happy Burger he looked away. He got off at his stop and walked into the house slow and soft, too hungry to storm in. He found the remote in his room, and he dropped it on the couch next to to his mother where she sat smoking a cigarette. He got back out the door before she could say anything.
By the time he had made it the three blocks to Happy Burger he had decided he was going to have two cheeseburgers instead of the one. His hunger had actually dissipated slightly since school but he felt that he had earned it. It wasn’t just missing lunch that entitled him to two. Riding the bus every day to MJC gave him the right, having to endure the looks and comments and the utter obliviousness of all the girls there entitled him to eat two, one after the other. Putting up with his mother for the last twenty years, that in itself gave him the right to both cheese burgers.
He had stood in line behind three people, trying his best to appear patient. When he got to the counter he looked up at the list written in plastic up on the wall and feigned like he hadn’t made his decision hours before.
“What you get?” the man behind the counter asked.
“Let’s get two cheeseburgers with special sauce. A fries. A strawberry shake.”
Russell had expected a quick confirmation of the order. When none came he brought his eyes down from the menu and looked across the counter. The man behind the counter was older, in his thirties maybe, brown skinned, some sort of Mexican, and he looked at Russell with a vague grin, one thin eyebrow cocked up in judgement.
“Why not three?” the man muttered.
Russell wasn’t sure if he had actually heard him right until he saw the shock spring into the man’s face. It was obvious the Mexican had realized he slipped, becoming too free with his thoughts. Russell looked quickly around to see if anybody else had heard, then glanced down at the floor, catching his own gut and puffy chest concealing his feet.
The son of a bitch. Russel had been coming there for five, six years now, ever since they moved into the apartment eight months after his father died. And this old thirty something loser working at a greasy shit whole for minimum wage had the fucking audacity to make a comment like “why not three?”?
He had to say something, he knew that. There was no way he was walking out of there without saying something. His shrinking stomach sloshing with acids and his plummeting blood sugar demanded it.
“What the hell man!” he said.
He had never really yelled at someone he didn’t know, had never reacted while feeling so perfectly justified. He could have stopped there, just walked away with those few words for the man behind the counter to chew on, but then he said the words that he would regret for the next three months. He had turned to go, only three or four steps to the glass door, then turned around, face red with embarrassment and righteous wrath and bellowed: “I’m never coming back here again!”
He had only just stepped on to the sidewalk outside of the Happy Burger when the regret began to shape inside him. Russell realized he now had to live by those words; he truly could never go back. He went home that night and microwaved two boxes of chicken fingers but there was no joy or satisfaction in eating them. He was still hungry when he was done.
December went by and he was able to distract himself from Happy Burger with sweets and egg nog, but then January came and it got rough. He rode by on the bus and the neon sign glared at him, mocking him. His taste buds ached, some nights he actually woke up and thought of it, imagined putting the buttered bun into his mouth and biting into the perfectly grilled patty. He martyred himself, averting his eyes on the bus and trying to trick himself into thinking that Home Time White Onion, the other burger place in their neighborhood, was just as good.
February finally rolled in and he thought he had it beat. He looked at the neon sign from his seat on the bus and told himself he felt nothing, it was just a sign, and he wasn’t salivating, he was just thirsty. It had been 87 days. He truly felt he had earned it, and really, what did it matter? The Mexican that had made the comment, he probably didn’t even work there anymore, he probably quit, or got fired, or got himself deported. And what was really the big deal about going back? The loss of his dignity? That had gone out the window around third or fourth grade, when he got fat.
So there he was, standing across the street from the neon sign, imagining the sauce he hadn’t tasted in three months. He would get only one burger but he would get the fries and the strawberry shake too. He looked both ways and began to cross. He made it to to the opposite curb before he had a clear view through the glass door, and his heart began to beat against his chest and the hairs all along his neck stood up when he saw the Mexican standing behind the counter.
The man’s dark hair was cut shorter but it was definitely the same man who had made the comment about three burgers. There was something inside Russell that almost turned him, that almost spun him around back home. But no, forget that, he wanted a God damned Happy Burger. In a way it wasn’t even really about tasting the burger again, it was about doing what he wanted, about living his life the way he chose to. He was almost glad the Mexican was there.
It was very unlikely that the man would even remember him, or so Russell thought until he saw the look on the Mexican’s face as he approached. The man’s eyes actually expanded when he saw him, Russell was sure of it, and the man’s posture straighted out. Russell paused at the door and the Mexican stared at him through the glass, looking alarmed. Russell pushed through, wishing there was at least one other customer that night. It was just he and the Mexican, and he could feel the tension hang in the room like fumes from the fryer.
“How are you tonight?” Russell asked.
He hadn’t meant to say anything, he hadn’t wanted to give the man the satisfaction, but the Mexican just stared and Russell felt awkward. Russell glanced up at the plastic menu and then back, only to find the two wide eyes still staring. More than anything it was strange, it gave Russell a bit of the creeps, and this angered him.
“Are you giving me shit?” he asked.
He genuinely wanted to know. The man just stared, and Russell couldn’t tell if the man was mocking him or high or what. Russell had the right to be there, he had the right to eat whatever the hell he wanted.
“I just want something alright? That’s why people come in here, to fucking get something to eat. Do you have some sort of problem?”
The man continued to stare. Russell noticed there were beads of sweat gathered along the Mexican’s brow. The man must remember, he must have been waiting for this moment too.
“I don’t want three by the way, one’ll do fine.”
Russell surprised himself by the rage in his voice. He looked into the Mexican’s face and saw them all; school kids over the years, the teachers, his mother. He had waited three months, he was worthy of it like anybody else. He had the right.
“Are you going to take my order or not?”
The Mexican glanced away for a moment. What in the hell was the prick’s problem? There must have been tons of fat people that came in all the time to get food, people just as heavy if not heavier than Russell.
“I’m n-not leaving until you take my order.”
Russell folded his arms in front of him and waited. Three months ago he had said he was never coming back, now he wasn’t leaving. He was never coming back, but not until he got his burger, it was his right. The Mexican took one step backwards and swallowed. He looked frightened which only made Russell angrier.
“I can’t help that I’m the way I am. It’s my metabolism. Maybe if I ate better I would lose weight. But who has time to exercise? Obviously, you have not gone to school. I’m studying economics. You know what that is?”
Russell could feel the tears in his eyes, all anger. The man looked across the counter at him, more frightened then ever. That’s when Russell heard someone come out of the bathroom.
“That’s enough of this shit,” a voice said.
The man with the pantyhose pulled over his head had a small backpack draped over his shoulder, small enough that it might have been for a child. The gun in his right hand was not small, it was large and silver.
“I told you if somebody come you get the motherfucker out of here,” the man said and pointed the gun at the Mexican.
“Please-”
The man behind the counter had his arms raised, his eyes closed. The man with the mask saw his point had been made and turned the muzzle of the gun towards Russell.
“Now you motherfucker. What the fuck you telling this fool all that bullshit huh?”
Russell was shocked by man’s appearance but wasn’t quite scared. He had worked himself up. He looked straight into the nylon, at the man’s distorted features. His irritation swung from the Mexican to the man in the mask.
“I want a burger,” Russell said.
“I don’t give a shit. Give me your God damn wallet.”
Russell pulled the wallet from the back pocket of his pants but didn’t hand it over. He held on to it, turning back towards the counter.
“I want a burger,” he said to the Mexican. The man’s eyes were wide with terror.
“Hand it over,” the man in the mask said.
He reached for it and the wallet fell to the tiled floor. Russell looked down at it, then back up to the panty hose.
“Stupid fat fuck,” the man said and bent down to pick it up, the gun held at an angle.
Russell looked at the man as he was bent over, the skinny arm reaching out for the wallet, the back of the neck exposed under the nylon. Russell saw bumps along the man’s neck, black heads and stray hairs. ‘Stupid fat fuck’.
As the man brought his body back up, the wallet in his free hand, Russell reached out and pushed. Instinct told Russell to go for the gun but the boiling rage forced him forward, right into the man, pushing the skinny figure backwards. The robber was shocked but stayed upright. Russell threw all his weight forward this time and lost his balance, sending them both to the tile. He didn’t hear the gun shot, the glass in the front of the restaurant just seemed to explode and come crashing down. The deafening sound of it brought Russell’s attention back to the gun. He immediately rolled himself on to the left half of the robber’s body, pinning the gun arm to the floor.
The robber threw the wallet away, reaching his empty hand to get the gun, but Russell’s body was too large and the robber couldn’t reach around it. The man screamed in pain and anger before beginning to throw wild blows against Russell’s side and chest. He was immediately winded, and could only push at Russell, pushing with his arm and his whole body, trying desperately to get free.
Russell didn’t do much, he just lay there, then reached over and pried the gun from the robber’s hand. It popped from the man’s grip and slid along the tile towards one of the tables before the Mexican came around the counter and picked it up.
“Hey man, don’t move,” he said.
“How am I supposed to move with this fat motherfucker on me?”

It took almost twenty minutes for the police to show up. They took a statement from both Russel and the Mexican, who wasn’t actually Mexican, he was Guatemalan and his name was Alex. The cops put the robber in back of one of the squad cars and drove him away, and while Russell and Alex watched them leave a couple of teenagers came in to Happy Burger. The kids eyed the blown out window and the glass that lay shattered all over the tile before looking up at the plastic menu and discussing what they wanted.
“We ain't open right now guys. Come back some other time alright,” Alex said.
The teenagers nodded, then slowly made their back out the door.
“Hey man,” Alex said to Russell. “You still want that burger? It’s on me.”
Russell got the burger to go and made his way back to the apartment. His mother was sitting on the couch smoking a cigarette, watching a talent show.
“Where the hell you been?” she asked.
“I was getting something to eat.”
“Wha’ja do? Walk all the way to China to get a won ton?”
She cackled at her own joke and Russell continued down the hall to his room. He placed the Happy Burger on his desk, next to the computer, and looked at the grease spots forming along the side and bottom of the white paper with the illustration that matched the neon burger sign. He took the burger out, unwrapping it at one of it’s ends, and bit into it. It was good, just like he had imagined it. The sauce was there, tangy, kind of spicy. He sat on his bed and chewed it and then swallowed it. It was just as he hoped but in the end, it was only food.

Part One: Crime SuspenStory

Based on true events.
He sat up straighter in his chair and focused on the arrival entrance again, clearing his mind of stupid trivial thoughts that were beyond him anyway. Like always, he was at work, and when he was at work it was best not to think beyond the matter at hand. He watched an old couple come out of the baggage exit, looking around dazed, then he watched a young private in military garb stride out in his boots and look at the poster of Mayor Gavin Newsom on the wall that read: Welcome to San Francisco. The private sneered and moved on, preparing himself for civilian life.
A man came out of the baggage exit next and Oscar knew it was the man he was waiting for. It wasn’t just that the man was similar to how Pat had described he would look: tall, dark haired, in a grey suit; it was the way he carried himself. There was a pace to the man’s walk that was different from all the other people in the airport. It was exact, with a lightness and a purpose in the stride.
The man was pulling one carry on bag and wore dark glasses. He didn’t remove the glasses when Oscar stood up to approach him.
“Vaughn?” Oscar asked.
The man nodded. Oscar turned around and led the way to the escalator and down to the exit. The wind pulled at them as they made their way through the parking lot to the dark green Cadillac parked in E Section. The man didn’t walk with Oscar, he walked a few feet behind him, and Oscar didn’t like it.
“You have a good flight?” Oscar asked.
He turned his head and looked at the man who stared back through the glasses, not saying a word. They got to the car and Oscar unlocked it, expecting the man to get into the passenger seat next to him. Instead the man threw his bag into the back seat and sat down alone on the leather. Oscar started the car, maneuvered it through the lanes to the exit, then accelerated on to Highway 101.
They had been silent for almost five minutes on the freeway before he looked up into the rear view, catching a glance of the dark glasses again.
“Where you coming from?” Oscar asked.
The man didn’t answer; the head and the glasses turning slightly into the window, looking out at the barren field beyond the freeway and the dark green bay beyond that.
“I said where you from again?”
Oscar watched as the glasses finally turned from the window, looking directly into the rear view.
“Just drive,” Vaughn said.
Oscar felt his neck and scalp heat up. The first words that had come from the backseat sounded less like a request, more like an order.
“Drive where?” he asked.
“The titty club?”
“Which one?”
“The one Leo owns.”
Oscar moved his glance from the rear view and out at the neighboring cars, trying to hide his irritation.
“Leo owns three,” he said.
Vaughn turned his head back towards the passing bay.
“You know which one,” the man said with decreasing effort. “Where the drop is right now.”
Oscar nodded and concentrated on the road, determined to be silent for the remainder of the ride.

Dana and Bianca were dancing together now. Pat watched them do the dance with little interest and the six or seven men that sat around the stage bathed in red light watched with very little interest as well. Dana and Bianca themselves seemed the least interested, weaving around the pole, grinding their bodies together like they were half asleep. Pat turned around in his stool, away from the stage, catching Shari’s eye as she made her way along the bar.
“Double whisky,” he said to her. She tightened here eyes at him and puckered her thick red lips with displeasure.
“Leo’s on vacation. Don’t give me any shit huh?”
He held his hands in the air in protest and she grudgingly turned around and reached for the bottle on the shelf. Pat took another look at the door but nothing had changed. Bill still stood there yawning, watching Dana and Bianca, thinking about something else. Shari brought Pat the drink, he sipped it, checking his watch again. 4:12, the guy should have been there by now.
Someone came through the door and Pat looked up again only to be disappointed to find Marvin Rollins limping across the carpet towards him.
“Pat, why I gotta come all the way over here to make a drop? The Duck’s four blocks from my place,” Rollins said. He laid an envelope on the bar.
Pat sipped his drink, letting the man wait for an answer. He couldn’t stand Rollins. He hated the man’s ratty hair cut, a leftover from some period before nineteen eighty six, the man’s ugly cheap shitty clothing, the man’s smell, God damn, the smell. Everything about Marvin Rollins bothered Pat. Unfortunately Rollins had worked for Leo for over fifteen years and that meant he had to be tolerated.
“None of your fucking business,” Pat finally said.
He swiped the envelope off the bar, shoving into the inside pocket of his jacket. Rollins stood there, still waiting for an answer. Pat sipped his drink, the smell from Rollin’s skin and clothes wafting over to his bar stool, up into his nose. He turned back towards Rollins, ready to reprimand the shit heal again, but Rollins simply scowled and made his way back towards the door before Pat could open his mouth.
As soon as Rollins was out the door another man came in. Pat only needed a glance to know it wasn’t a customer. The man was wearing a gray suit, an expensive one, and had his hair slicked back cleanly, with dark glasses hiding his eyes. Pat waited for the man to approach him but the man stood at the end of the bar. He seemed to be looking passed Pat, towards the office. Pat threw the rest of his drink back and walked over to the man.
“I’m Patrick,” Pat said, extending his hand out to the man.
“You have a package for me,” the man said.
Pat let his hand drop. He watched the man’s face for a smile or nod or greeting of some kind. Nothing came but a cold silence. Pat turned around and strode to the office, leaving Vaughn at the bar.
He unlocked the door and found Dick still sprawled out on the couch inside, watching a soccer match with the same sneer he always had.
“The guy show up?” Dick asked in his slurred Irish mutter, not looking away from the screen.
“Yeah,” Pat replied. He crouched down in front of the safe in the corner.
“What is he like then eh? Big guy?”
“Not really.”
“He must be a tough bugger no?”
“How should I know? He’s just standing there.”
Dick’s head finally twisted around, a perfectly round head, scarred on the right temple and red all over.
“You gonna mouth off to me then eh?”
Pat didn’t answer. He pulled the taped up cardboard box from the top shelf of the safe and traded it for the envelope Rollins had dropped off. He could feel Dick staring into his back. He refused to take the bait and get in an argument. Working with someone like Dick was a series of ongoing and pointless confrontations. Like Rollins, Dick had worked for Leo for a long time and there was no point in allowing it to get to him. The key to Pat’s job was to go along with the program and not care too much. That’s why the drinking helped.
Dick finally quit waiting for Pat to respond, turning his round head back towards the soccer match.
“Aw fuck it. What do I care then? They want to go out of town with it then what the fuck do I care?” he said and went silent.
Pat walked back into the club, down the bar to Vaughn. The man still had the glasses on even though it was dark in the club. Pat didn’t like not being able to see the man’s eyes.
“There you go,” Pat said and handed the box over.
Vaughn held it for a moment, weighing it in his hands, before turning around and walking passed Bill to the street outside. Pat watched the door swing closed behind him, hoping he would never have to see the silent asshole again. He didn’t like him. The man had rushed off without a thank you or a God damned word. Then again, who could blame him? It was depressing being in a place like that in the middle of the afternoon.
Pat snapped his finger at Shari, gesturing for a refill of his whisky glass.

The green Cadillac sat parked on the side of the street and Oscar watched the traffic go by from the driver’s seat. There were tourists wandering through the wind, trying to find those sights in San Francisco that they had seen on postcards and in movies. Young couples laughed together, hand in hand as they Christmas shopped. Oscar had never Christmas shopped for anyone. He had received a couple of presents from a few of his different foster families but he couldn’t remember what any of them had been. The last Christmas present he could remember was a five thousand dollar bonus Leo had handed over the year before, a present that was meant to say he was appreciated and that he had a place in the crew. The bonus had meant he was moving up.
He looked over at the entrance to Paradise Isle, looking for Vaughn to reappear, but there was still no sign. The doors sat closed with the posters of the girls on either side staring out at the streets, the looks on their faces dull but seductive. Vaughn hadn’t said he should wait, Oscar just knew that he was meant to. He had pointed out the club when they pulled up and Vaughn had simply got out of the backseat, making his way across the street without saying a word.
As Oscar watched the entrance one of the girls came out with her bag swung over her shoulder, making her way down the sidewalk, slowly, dressed in one of the sweat suits that the dancers always wore when they were done grinding on men and having money shoved in there panties. Oscar recognized her, he was pretty sure she had been working at Catnip, at least for the last six months or so. He wondered why she would be dancing at this place, and at that time of day? Paradise Isle was a shit hole, many levels below Catnip. He tried to remember the girl’s name: Jackie, or Janie, or something like that. She was a cute girl, very young.
He shifted in his seat and closed his eyes, thinking he may have reached the perfect opportunity for a nap. He was settled in when the back door opened and Vaughn was in the leather seat again with a package under his arm. The dark glasses looked up into the rear view.
“Get going,” he said.
“Where to?”
“Just drive. Go around the block.”
Oscar pulled the Cadillac out and could hear the ripping of tape and cardboard in the back seat. He looked into the rear view, catching Vaughn flip open a cell phone and concentrating on it through his glasses as he waited for it to turn on. They were around the block now. As they came along side Paradise Isle again Oscar spotted Pat walking out of the front door, lighting a cigarette. He was tempted to hit the horn at his friend but knew better.
“Yeah,” Vaughn said into the phone from the back seat “Uh huh. Where’s that? Okay. Do you know who? I understand that, just give me a couple right now. Yeah. Where does he stay? Does your guy know? Okay. Good. I’ll be in touch.
Oscar heard the phone flip closed. There was silence as they continued to circle the block.
“Do you know where Javier Mejia lives?” Vaughn finally asked.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Take me there.”
“That’s over in Daly City.”
Oscar waited for a response but Vaughn had gone silent.. He turned on Geary and steered the Cadillac back in the direction of the freeway.

Claudia sat looking at the different photos on the wall, trying to ignore Dan shifting in his seat in irritation. She was also impatient, and annoyed, and relatively pissed off, but she could at least control herself. Meanwhile Dan kept sighing and looking at the time on his phone, glancing back at the bar entrance. What good did it do? All it did was annoy her, drive her crazy.
Sometimes, scratch that, many times she wished she was alone on a case, that there was no need to drag along a partner that just made thing’s more difficult. She usually calmed down and those thoughts burned away. She knew it could be a hell of a lot worse and when it came down to it, Dan was a good cop. Claudia wasn’t completely sure what his reasons or ambitions were but he was competent. She was also aware that without a partner like Dan, a member of the boy’s club, they would probably not have been given the approval or independence to work the case like they were. It almost balanced out.
She sensed Dan stop his shifting and she looked up to see Judy finally making her way through the door to Skippy’s, slowly, wandering around the bar towards their table. The girl was dressed in a sweat suit, it made her look even younger than she actually was. She reached their table and flopped her bag down next to her chair, sitting down once she had made a quick sweep of the people around them.
“What the hell Judy? When we say four o’clock we mean four o’clock. Do you understand? Not four forty five or any of this shit.”
Dan muttered the words at her through his irritation.
“I don’t think I like this place,” Judy said.
“You chose it,” Claudia replied. “We let you choose. You said you would feel safer here then coming to our office again. We felt you had earned that right. Now, let’s get to work.”
The waitress came over before Claudia could continue and asked if any of the three wanted anything.
“No. Nothing here,” Dan told her quickly.
“I’ll have a jack and coke,” Judy said.
The waitress smiled at her and waddled off. Dan leaned in towards Judy.
“I think it’s time we reviewed a few things,” he said “You are here, out and about, having a drink in a bar because of us. You get that? It is not our job to sit around waiting for you. It’s your job to get here on time or things are going to be a lot different.”
“This is my last day of drinking for a while. I’m taking a break after this,” Judy said.
She sat silently, her face a blank. There may have been some sadness or anger in there somewhere but Claudia couldn’t make it out. The girl sitting next to her looked very different from the girl she had first met four months ago in Interview Room C. The girl that night had been scared, confused, ready to do whatever it took. This girl today was numb, a blank slab who didn’t seem to care about much at all. It worried Claudia.
The waitress brought Judy’s drink over and Claudia hit the button on the recording device that sat snug in her hand.
“We’re not paying for that,” Dan said, nodding towards Judy’s drink.
Judy looked back at him, still blank, sucking coke and rum through her straw. Claudia tried again to get things started.
“Alright, we need to talk about the Christmas party. It looks like we’re going to be setting up a surveillance unit for that night so it’s very important that you are in the group of girls that go in because-
Judy let the straw drop from her mouth and interrupted her.
“A new guy came in today,” she said.
Claudia let her interrupt, swallowing her irritation.
“A new guy? Someone you’ve never seen before?”
“Yeah, he came by and picked something up from Leo’s nephew.”
“What?” Dan asked.
“I don’t know. It just looked like a box or something.”
“Was Leo there?” Claudia asked her.
“Leo’s out of town. He went some where suddenly and I don’t know where.”
The blank look finally broke. Claudia saw an odd change go through Judy’s eyes as she absently pulled the straw back into her mouth, sucking at it.
“How long has Leo been gone?” Claudia asked.
“A few days.”
“And this new guy? You sure you have never seen him before?”
“Never.”
There were only a few people in the bar. The waitress came back to their table trying to earn her tip.
“One more of these please,” Judy said.
“We’re going to have you look at the pictures again and see if you can recognize this guy,” Claudia said.
“I’ve seen the pictures like five times,” Judy whined.
“It wasn’t a question,” Dan told her. “We don’t make requests. When Detective Dela Cruz or myself tells you something that you’re going to do it’s not a question. You’re going to do it. And if you don’t want to do it we can very easily haul you down to Santa Rita and you can spend a few nights there where you’re going to end up looking at pictures whether you like it or not. Your choice. In a nice warm office or in a freezing ass cell where you can-“
The waitress had come back. Dan stopped himself short as the woman laid another rum and coke in front of Judy.
“How’s everything else Judy? Anything we should know about,” Claudia asked her.
Judy rolled her eyes.
“I’m pretty much broke. Now that you got me working at this place I can’t make no where near tips I had at Catnip.”
“It was necessary. Paradise Isle is a base of operation for these guys.”
“What do I care if I can’t eat?” Judy asked.
“That takes me back to what I was saying,” Dan growled at her. “I think you’ve taken your eye off the ball a little bit. I think you’ve lost sight of the fact that we have done you a huge fucking favor. Nobody gets caught with that much meth and that much cash, still walking around like a normal person. You get what I’m saying? Me and Detective Dela Cruz are doing you a huge favor by giving you this opportunity. An opportunity. Do you know what that is Judy?”
Judy sucked her straw, staring down into the table. Dan’s face went red and he sat up straighter in his chair.
“You’re coming down to the office tonight and you’re looking at pictures. That’s the end of it. Or we can just throw you in the car right now and drive you over to Santa Rita. Your choice.”
He was laying it on thick. Claudia tried to balance it out, making her tone tender.
“Are you working tonight?” she asked.
“They don’t give me no night shifts. It’s like I’m starting at the bottom again,” Judy replied, glass eyed.
“Did you tell them the school story?”
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t you do it? Why not enroll? You’re quitting drinking; turn over a whole new leaf.”
Claudia could feel Dan tense up. He could go to hell. His bully approach was going no where. “I got to get going,” Judy said.
She sucked up the last of her rum and coke and tossed her hair back.
“You’re not driving right?” Claudia asked.
“I’ll catch a cab.”
She stood up from the table, avoiding both of their eyes as she pulled money from her purse.
“We’ll see you at midnight on the dot. You got it? Our office at midnight,” Dan told her.
She picked up her gym bag and headed towards the door, not looking back at him or acknowledging what he had said.

To be continued.....

Part 5: The Temptation of Marsha Bates

Five
The country really does look like a quilt through a plane window. There are the squares of brown, red, and green, perfectly flat below us. The clouds are under us too and it’s strange to be above them, in heaven.
“Mrs. Bates, were you surprised by the reaction your debate performances have had on the polls?”
It’s the bald one that asks this time. His face is thin, just a skull, with a pink layer of skin pulled taught around it.
“Was I surprised? No. I guess not.”
“What about Senator Ackley’s reaction? From the ads his campaign already has going in California it seems he has zeroed in on you as his main hurtle in getting the nomination.”
The pretty one asks this time. She’s young but very serious looking with her hair pulled back in a pony tail. She should let it down. Instead of seeing how pretty she is the first thing you notice is her seriousness. She is the only woman of the pack of reporters that have joined us on the plane. Clay has been able to hold them at bay for most of the flight but then one of the fat one’s started asking when they would have access to me (besides the pretty one and the bald one there are four fat ones) so now I’m being held hostage in the back of this small plane, all six of them with their note pads out, scrawling away and smashed together among the empty seats.
“I think the Ackley campaign wanted to play nice. They didn’t want him to be perceived to be picking on the only woman in the race. But now I think they have to react in some way. We’re not playing nice so why should they?”
The words are straight off the page of Clay’s talking points and one of the fat one’s is nodding and pushing out his bottom lip like he’s impressed that I can be so candid. He’s throwing out a question now but I’m not listening, I’m thinking of Will. I’m able to keep him from my thoughts for minutes at a time, sometimes almost an hour, and then he comes rushing back. I just want to know why. Did I do something, say something? Was he frightened?
“Mrs. Bates?”
The fat one that asked the question is staring at me from where he’s roosted high on the back of one of the seats. He’s sweating, I can see the moisture spotting through the armpits of his blue shirt.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat the question?”
“I was just asking if you were aware that you’re going to be on the cover of the new Corner Stone magazine?”
“No, I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Their web-site says they are going to present an in depth profile of you.”
“Really? I don’t see how. The.....man they sent only interviewed me for about five minutes.”
I almost say worm but I catch myself. It seems like so long ago that I sat down with the little bastard but it most have only been a month or so. The fat one with the sweaty armpits shrugs his shoulders.
“Did you see the skit where Tea Leoni did an imitation of you?” one of the other fat one’s asks.
“On television?”
“On the Saturday Skit Show. They have been replaying clips from it.”
“Who has?”
“The networks.”
I catch him grinning slightly but he pulls it away when I give him the dead eyed look. Freaking Hollywood. They can imitate me and laugh about me all they want. Meanwhile children experiment with drugs and homosexuality based on what those sick people feed them. It will all come back to roost. They will realize God isn’t laughing when they try to mock him too, and there aren’t any films or television shows that come out now that aren’t blasphemous in some way. It’s all part of a sick machine and these people in front of me are part of it.
They continue to ask questions and I half listen and half answer until Clay shows some mercy and brushes them back to the front of the plane so I can rest. He sits down next to me and gives me a water. All we have talked about are polls and the debates since he showed up at the airport and I don’t feel like talking now. He starts to tell me about the early numbers in New Hampshire but I don’t listen. I close my eyes and he finally stops talking. I act like I’m asleep and he moves to another seat.

They have the Ronald Reagan museum covered in flags. It’s red white and blue everywhere, and it doesn’t quite go with my turquoise outfit, which makes me feel even more off than I already do. I have never been here before, and I take my time before going backstage so I can look at some of the thousands of framed pictures on the wall. The President with Thatcher, with Sinatra, with the astronauts, with some Arab leaders of some kind, I don’t recognize their names.
Pam is with me in the hall and she follows very slow and gingerly with a bottled water and a bag containing make up. She hasn’t said much since we left Iowa. I think it’s because she can sense something wrong with me, unlike the rest of the staff. She’s been with me a long time, since right after my first congressional race, and she’s a sweet girl despite her weight problem and split ends and the way her eyes are too spread out on her face. I want to talk about Will to someone and if I did she would probably be the one. But I won’t. I can’t. There’s no way.
One of the museum staffers reminds us of the countdown time to the debate and we rush back stage to get ready. We hired a local make up person instead of flying Doris out and the woman talks too much and applies a strange light eyeshadow that doesn’t make my eyes come out enough. I watch Kelly and Birkstand come in together, and then Melvin, and then Hagley who is supposed to be dropping out this week but will be taking up space on the stage anyway. Ackley finally comes in, flanked by four staffers, all smile and orange looking skin. He’s been tanned since the last debate and it’s a TV tan, too much for real life. He searches for me in the room. When our eyes meet he nods and I nod back and I wish I had some sort of fire to bring tonight because I really can’t stand the man.
The audience comes in, the lights are up, and away we go. The moderators ask Ackley about his negative ads towards me and he claims he hasn’t seen them. They turn the question over to me and I repeat the talking point. They dig up a comment I made in passing that he was an elitist and ask him about that. He chuckles and says something folksy. They ask me about it and I repeat a talking point about his time as a CEO and his bonuses. The entire debate goes on like this. There is no life to it, we are all just going through the motions.
Kelly is talking about immigration and I try to look over and pay attention but I am thinking about Will and the fact that he could be watching this on TV. Melvin takes aim at Kelly about his record on immigration and I find myself searching for a way to send Will a message, to show him what he has done to me. I could sit here and fail. I could let the debate go by and not take part. He knows me, he would know what that means.
The moderator turns towards me and asks about Agent Orange and repeats some of the attacks they have made towards me as being homophobic and a hate monger. As she reads from the sheet in front of her I think of the time Will asked me about gays and what I really thought. He had been so wishy washy about it and I’m becoming irritated just remembering. Why question what we have always known? There is right and there is wrong, black and white. The world changes everyday, the status quo is fragile, and when you begin to question what you know is true then the world falls apart around you, does it not? All we know is what God tells us, the world is too confusing already to go against that.
I think about all of this and what I wish I would have told Will something in the motel, something real. The moderator looks up at me from her desk waiting for a response and I look right at the camera and speak to Agent Orange and all progressive bastards directly.
I’m the close minded one? I’m assaulting their rights? My voice rises as I continue and I hunch down over the podium, daring the camera to argue with me. I stand for what God teaches us and will always stand by that. I am a defender of the freedom to believe in what we want and I believe in Jesus Christ who died for the sins of all of us, gay, straight, and all sinners everywhere.
There is loud applause from a certain section of the audience and I look over at Ackley and feel my heart sink. His mouth is twisted, like he’s suppressing a grin, like he’s got me. I don’t care. Freak him, freak these moderators, freak Will, freak the world.

We return to the hotel downtown and I want to go straight up to my room but Clay explains that many of the California team will be here to meet me and I can’t slip away. He is strangely reserved and I know he is unhappy with my performance. He had smiled backstage, said ‘good job’, but there had been none of the usual enthusiasm and I wonder why he doesn’t just come out and say it. We enter the lobby packed with people who applaud as cameras go off and I raise a victory fist and force a smile which almost doesn’t have to be forced.
I’m shaking hands all the way through room and into the hotel bar where the California Team has set up a banner reading Bates 2012. I don’t recognize anyone but I nod and reply, nod and reply, keeping the smile beamed. I’m exhausted by the time I get to the far end of the bar. I desperately search the faces for Clay or Pam and am surprised to come across Frank Wagner, sitting by himself at the corner of the bar, nursing a drink. I almost don’t recognize him without the paintings and stuffed ducks of his living room surrounding us.
“What are you doing here Frank?”
“Fate Marsha. I came out to visit a friend and my star pupil happened to be debating so I stuck around an extra night to watch.”
His voice is soft and tender from alcohol.
“You were in the audience?”
“Yep, watched the whole thing.”
He throws back the rest of his drink, nods at the bartender for another one, then turns towards me.
“What the hell happened?” Frank asks flatly.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. What the hell was all that about the gays and God and all that bullshit? Don’t try to tell me you don’t know better. I know you know better!”
I glance around and there doesn’t seem to be anybody watching or waiting for a word and a handshake.
“I said how I feel.”
“You never say how you feel. What the fuck are you trying to do here?”
“Did you not hear the applause?”
He picks up his drink and nods sleepily.
“Yeah, you sit there like a zombie for half an hour and then suddenly wake up with all that fire and brimstone and the Jesus freaks give you a standing ovation. You know that’s not going to get you to the nomination. You know that.”
“It seemed to go fine to me,” I protest.
“Ackley looks like a moderate now, can’t you see that? You win the battle but you lose the fucking war.”
I have nothing to say and sit there perched in the stool as he sucks at his drink. I feel my face getting hot with anger because I know he’s right. Who cares. I don’t even know if this is what I want anymore. All I do want is to be left alone.
“Where’s your intern?” Wagner asks.
I draw in a quick breath.
“Which intern?”
“You know which intern. The boy that drove you to our sessions.”
I get up from the stool and force myself through the crowd without answering. People try to smile and reach out but I barrel on, through all the arms and faces and suits, until I’m at the elevator door, and then I take it up to my room and lock both locks.

I get in the bed and a day and a half passes. The phone rings over and over again until it stops and then the cell beeps and vibrates until the battery dies. Pam comes to the door four times, knocking and calling my name. I don’t answer but I know she knows I’m in here. She shows me mercy when she walks away and I’m grateful for it.
I’m not hungry but I order room service and now a plate of spaghetti and a salad sit by the bed untouched. I lie on the bed and try to sleep but I think of Will and it keeps me awake. I turn on the TV and flip through the channels and I see clips from the debate but keep switching because I don’t want to see it and I don’t want to hear what they have to say. I wonder where Will is and what he is doing. I have a panicked feeling that he may try to call me and this pushes me to plug the cell phone into the wall.
There are several messages; Sandra about the schedule in New Hampshire, one from Don saying he’s already at the hotel there and wondering when I get to Manchester. Clay leaves a quick message saying I have moved up to second place behind Ackley. I can hear that his enthusiasm is back, sparked by my move in the polls, and he explains that he is off to meet with some people to discuss a strategy for South Carolina.
The messages make me more tired and the last thing I want to to do is call any of the people back. I lie there and watch the ceiling as the light moves through the blinds, the Earth rotates. I stay like that until Pam is at the door a fifth time and I know it’s time to leave.

The headquarters in New Hampshire is a thousand times better than our Iowa office. There is a bottom level with new round tables and small booths in the corners for computers. Polished wood stairs lead up to a mezzanine where a conference table sits in wait, long and solid. Sandra is showing us around and I can’t say I missed her while we were in California. Everything is a cheerful boast as she shows off the coffee maker of the all it’s spigots and digital timers. She brings me into my office on the mezzanine and walks in front of the flat screen TV on the wall with hand extended like a plump model on a game show.
I smile and nod but I just don’t care. I want to care but it would take too much effort. I feel like a drug addict must feel when they are cut off from from their drug; the world has lost it’s meaning without Will.
There are three phones on my desk in my office and soon I will be forced to pick them up to beg for more money, faking the enthusiasm that has evaporated from me. I am no longer Marsha Bates, I am her ghost.
I get into the hotel that night and Don is not in the room. I had expected him to be, and the fact that he’s not is a huge relief. I get in the shower and keep the water at cold, the coldest it will go. It cuts into me, I’m shivering. The shock on my body forces me to come out of head.
I get into bed and wait for a sleep that doesn’t come. Anxiety lies on top of the bed with me and I can’t get comfortable. I watch the ceiling and let my mind wander.

The next day the headquarters is packed with people. They swirl about in mini whirlpools of activity through out the first level, printing papers, signing papers, making phone calls, clicking mouses. I retreat to my office and sit in the chair, drained of energy. I have not slept and my mind just seems to buzz until Clay comes in the door with a printed list of donors to call. He is upbeat due to a gaffe Ackley made the night before calling Ebonics a false language. The gaffe is taking up most of the news cycles and I wonder if it is a relief to Clay because it cuts down on the amount of times the networks replay me ranting about God at the debate.
“Are you enjoying your office or what?” he asks and I look around at it like I’ve noticed it for the first time. It is big, probably too big.
“Don’t get used to it,” he says “We’ll probably downgrade after the straw poll and there won’t even be time for a permanent office once we get to Florida. That, I can guarantee you.”
“Everything is temporary,” I mutter and he gives me a puzzled look before leaving the room.
The calls go on for hours; I listen to the gibberish and then I make the plea and they mostly agree to send money. Like usual they are excited, mostly angry, and all men. They have different rumors and theories about the president and about Ackely that they report to me secretly through hushed voices. Mostly they involve the president being a muslim and secret agent of some kind, and Ackley is a closeted homosexual that is well know at various airport bathrooms around the country.
Although the office is big it has no windows and when I come out on the mezzanine I am surprised to see the sun going down. I was on the phone for five hours but I had been in a zombified auto pilot, the time has flown away. Sandra is jogging up the stairs looking alarmed. She explains that the local chapter of Agent Orange is staging a protest outside this headquarters now, it’s not safe for me to go out.
“Stay up there!” Clay cries up to me from the ground level “We’ve already told them you're not here. I don’t want them to get a look at you.”
I go back to the office and sit. There is nothing to do, nothing to think, nowhere to put my mind. Clay comes in and informs me he is headed to South Carolina.
“You stay in here until those crazies dissipate,” he says. “I texted you the number of a car service. Call it once the coast is clear and they’ll get you back to the hotel.”
He gives me a reassuring grin and is gone. I sit in the office for over an hour, my mind a buzzing blank. Sandra brings me a cup of coffee before leaving herself but I don’t touch it. There is small leather couch on the mezzanine and I lie down on it. Will finally pushes his way into my thoughts and I feel as if I will never be free of his presence. I had never needed some one's touch before now. I wish I had never met him, I wish things were as they were before we met but there is no going back. Tears fall down my cheeks hesitantly, awkwardly. They are warm and comforting and it allows me to fall asleep.

When I awake the mezzanine is bright, bathed in the dusty light of morning. The office is empty. I get to the restroom, the reflection in the mirror above the sink hideous. The tears spread the eyeliner down my cheeks which then hardened into a purple mask in the night. I scrape and wash it away and try to fix my hair as best I can. I go upstairs to get a pair of sunglasses. When I make my way back down I find a large black man in a security uniform standing near the front doors. I stop short and look at him through the sunglasses.
“I got hired to come down and keep the rif raf away,” he explains and by his disinterested tone I sense that he doesn’t recognize me or wonder what I’m doing there at six in the morning, forgotten by my own campaign.
The coffee they have in the office is generic and decaffeinated to boot, I make my way on to the street and walk the block and a half to a little coffee shop. There are four or five people inside but they are all absorbed in their newspapers and laptops and no one seems to look over and recognize me. I order a large and as the sleepy girl behind the counter goes to get it my hidden eyes scan over the magazine rack they have posted. I come to a copy of Corner Stone magazine and there I am, my photo taking up the whole cover.
It’s a horrible picture. I am looking down into the camera, my worst angle, and someone seems to have used a computer to accentuate my wrinkles and make it look like I have a neck flap. The blue in my eyeliner has been increased so that I resemble an Italian whore from the 1960's. I yank the magazine out of it’s wooden cubby and hold it close to my chest so no one can see. The picture is truly horrible, the headline even worse: “Marsha Bates: America’s Craziest Politician Exposed.”
I rip through the glossy ads and photos to get to the article. “My Time in the Bates Campaign” the headline reads, by Darren Gregorson. Gregorson? That wasn’t the name of the worm from the interview. I skip the first few pages and come to a picture: It’s me, Clay, Will, and Sandra, at some event, I don’t remember what. I look at the caption of the picture and it reads: “Clay Logan, the writer, Rep. Bates, and campaign staffer.”
The writer? I have to look at the picture twice and then look at the caption again before I can piece it together. Will is the writer, Darren Gregorson.
“Did you want the magazine too?”
The girl behind the counter is looking at me with the cup of coffee sitting in front of her. I wonder why she doesn’t wear he hair differently before the floor begins to move and the room is spinning. Darren Gregorson. Will’s name is Darren Gregorson. He is a writer for Corner Stone magazine. I reach out a hand and prop myself up on the side of the counter.
“Are you alright lady?”
I’m seeing spots in front of my eyes and the room is going dark in the corners. The magazine slips from my hand and falls to the floor. The people in the coffee shop are looking over at me, I don’t notice. I’m out on the street, trying to catch my breath, trying to get back to the head quarters. I slam my fist against the door and the security man lets me in cautiously.
“You okay miss?”
I feel as if I have been kicked in the stomach, I lean over one of the tables, expecting to vomit.
“Miss, are you alright?”
The sweat is turning cold all over me and I force myself to the restroom. I turn on the faucet and throw hand fulls of cold water into my face. The shock of the water fights off the darkness that is gathering around my vision and it slows down the spin of the room. Nothing makes sense. How can none of it be real? I am a fool, the most foolish of fools.
I look into the mirror and make my face calm, no make up, just droplets of water sliding along the skin of my cheeks. The end has come. The end of the campaign, my career, my marriage.
I walk out of the restroom and find Sandra walking into the office.
“Mrs Bates? What are you doing here so early?” she asks.
“Take me to the hotel.”
“Right now? But I thought we were having-”
“Take me to the hotel! Now!”
She looks frightened, backing away towards the door. I put the sunglasses back on and follow her to her car in the parking garage. We begin to drive through downtown Manchester and her cell phone is ringing.
“Don’t answer while you're driving,” I command.
“But it’s Clay, I should answer.”
“No, just keep driving.”
She swallows and places the phone in the drink holder between us. It continues to ring. Part of me wishes I had held on to the magazine but I can barley stand to even think about it. How could he do it? How could he have tricked me? I have to control my breathing or else I’ll be sick. I feel parts of my insides shutting down and dying inside me.
We pull up to the hotel and Sandra parks the car in the turnaround. I realize that the world is not a good place, it is a wicked place that will torment you at every turn. I may have always known this, I’m not sure. And if it is the world that torments us then it must be God as well. I realize Sandra is talking and turn towards her.
“What?” I ask.
“I said did you see the article?”
“What article?”
“The one in Corner Stone magazine?”
She knows. She knows and she didn’t say anything.
“No, what did they write?” I force myself to mutter.
She reaches into the backseat and pulls the magazine from her purse. She holds it up for me to see and I look at the grizzled expression and that neck flap.
“I haven’t read it,” she says. “I figure they just put us down.”
They put us down? This poor girl. This poor misguided well intentioned girl. This will break her and everyone like her. I snatch the magazine from her hand and exit the car, all in one motion. I head into the hotel and over to the elevator, my vision dark and enclosed, like a tunnel. I get to my floor and as I head towards the room I stop short. I see Don’s client Ted exiting the door of our room. I pull back around the corner and flatten myself against the wall, like a fugitive.
I peer around the corner and am relived to see Ted headed towards the door that leads to the stairwell. I notice he is buttoning his shirt which frees me from my panic and allows me to wonder: what is Ted doing in our hotel room at seven thirty in the morning? I already know the answer, I have always known it, the events of that morning are allowing me to admit it to myself. There is no time left; no time for hiding, or lies, or putting your head in the sand.
I enter the room and there is Don, sitting on the bed with a cup of coffee, staring out the window, wearing the robe that the hotel provides. He turns towards me and the look of contentment evaporates, his face stiff with shock and fear.
“I thought you had gone to South Carolina?” he says and blinks stupidly.
“Do you believe in God?” I ask.
He continues to blink before placing the coffee cup on the bed side table and coughing into his fist.
“What? What are you talking about honey?”
“Do you believe in God?”
“Of course I do. You know I do.”
I look at him full on and it is like I have caught him in the act, like I walked right in on him and Ted doing what ever it is they do. There is no satisfaction in this. It is fitting that it be this day, fitting that everything comes apart at once.
“I believe in God too,” I say “He’s punishing me.”
“For what?” he asks, his voice just above a whisper.
I look down at the magazine in my hand, at my face, manipulated to look ugly. I am not ugly. Not on the outside at least.
“I think you should read this Don.”
I drop the magazine on the bed and leave the room. The carpets and walls are closing in, suffocating me. I take the same door Ted did and climb the stairs down, the breath catching in my throat, making me gag. When I get to the lobby it is more crowded, people checking in and out. I spot Sandra sitting in one of the chairs, reading the Corner Stone magazine with my face on the front. She got another copy, of course she couldn’t help it, not after I snatched it from her. There is a strange look on her face as her eyes scan the pages and I turn away, stepping out into the turnabout.
Even the air outside is thick and hard to breath. I spot what could be reporters getting out of a car fifty feet away and in desperation I try the door on Sandra’s car and get inside. I sit in the backseat and realize here will be no where to run. The campaign will end, maybe that very day, then I will have to go back to Wisconsin and fight for my seat in congress. Or do I fight? Deny all I can? Maybe I let go, except it for what it is and fade away. I would be different if I were a man. Bill Clinton survived but he never recovered. Newt Gingrich married the woman that he cheated on his sick wife with and now walks around with that judgmental expression on his round face. It won’t be the same for me.
The driver side door opens and Sandra is inside with me. She closes the door and sit there, saying nothing. I look at the back of her neck and the way her hair hangs over the top of the seat. I realize I’m not breathing and pull the air in through my nose, the sound deafening in the silent car.
“It doesn’t feel good to be betrayed,” she says.
This is the first of what will be million apologies, maybe more. This is the most awkward because I don’t know what I’m going to say. There is nothing to say. I have no excuse, I did what I wanted to do.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“What are you sorry about?”
She turns around in the seat and looks at me strangely.
“I’m sorry I let you down,” I tell her.
“It’s not your job to screen the interns Mrs. Bates. Clay or someone in the staff should have looked into Will’s background.”
I look into her face and try to make out what I’m seeing. I had expected anger, shock, but all I see is mirrored confusion
“Did you read the whole article?” she asks.
“Bits and pieces,” I lie.
“It’s just stupid. He talks about how he thinks you stretch the truth and that you play people’s fears. It’s just offensive.”
My coat and jacket are sticking to my back against the seat and I notice the people I had tagged as reporters are making their way passed us on the turnaround. They’re are business men, sharing a laugh as they enter the hotel.
“You read the whole thing?” I ask.
“Yeah, for a cover story it’s pretty short.”
“What else does it say?”
Sandra let’s out a frustrated sigh.
“Nothing. Mostly he makes fun of the supporters saying their ignorant and hateful. It’s the same old liberal crap. But it hurts because I actually liked Will, I thought he was a good guy. And then this-”
She stops short and I look passed her, through the windshield. There is a sense of relief inside me that is so vast that I would release it with tears if there were any left to give. It's not that I haven't been exposed, it's knowing I'm not crazy. By leaving it out he's shown it was real.
“What’s on the agenda?” I ask automatically.
“A video feed interview for the web-site and then a luncheon with a Christian Charity," Sandra is scrolling through her phone "It’ll probably take an hour to get out there so we should get going.”
She starts the car and we pull onto the street. There is park on the next block and huge American flag is flapping at the top of a pole posted in the center.
The End

Shanghai Triad

Furlough Film # 7
(Every furlough day Dublin and Robert Fong get together to view a film and have a discussion about it. This time Bob Fong's neighbor Paul joined them as well. The following is a transcript of that discussion.)

P: This is Chinese?
R: Duh!
D: This was the same guy who did Raise The Red Lantern right?
R: Yep. Zhang Yimou. He's good.
D: Great.

(They watch the movie)

D: Wow.
R: You guys like it?
D: Loved it.
P: I don't know, I was expecting more of a gangster movie.
R: I was too. But then the end came and it was all good.
D: What do you mean?
R: Well, you got this kid that works as the servant to the mob boss's mistress. She's a straight bitch. Then a gang war breaks out and they all have to hide out on an island with a farmer woman and her daughter and what the f__k. Straight art movie s__t.
D: And then?
R: Right, and then there's a betrayal and next thing you know eighteen guys are getting massacred and thrown in a mass grave along with their boss who gets buried alive. Real motherf__king gangsta!
P: But it threw me for a loop!
D: How?
P: Well, it was art house for a long time. All those big dance numbers at the club in Shanghai. Even the violence was arty up to a point.
D: Right, when the kid's uncle is killed and all that?
P: I thought it was a dream.
D: Me too, because of lighting and the sounds and the slo mo and all that.
P: Then they go out to the island and I think "okay, now we're going to have a funny little sequence where the boy and the mistress bond and it'll be filmed nicely and be light hearted." But no, the stupid mistress gets the farmer woman's lover killed and it's all bad. It was.......I don't know.....
D: Devastating.
P: Yes, exactly.
D: That's why it was good, no?
R: Exactly, s__t was tough. I liked it because it seemed like it was going to go soft and then it just got rugged. The farmer lady even got wacked.
D: That's right. And her daughter is off to be sculpted into the next high end gangster moll of Shanghai. Not a happy ending.
P: The main actress was really pretty.
R: You kidding? Gong Li is hot as hell.
D: That was Gong Li?
R: Yeah, she was in Miami Vice.
D: She looks so different.
R: No she didn't.
D: She was in Farewell My Concubine. And Curse of The Golden Flower.
R: That's right. Curse of The Golden Flower was Zhang Yimou too. They were actually married or something in the 90's
D: I don't think I recognized her because of the eye brows. They are usually so expressive and in this one she had them shaved off so she would look more like the 30's era.
P: You know, I haven't watched a lot of movies from China. The ones I have seen are usually way over the top emotionally, you know what I mean? But this one was a lot more, kind of, laid back?
D: Subtle?
P: Yes.
D: You can actually find a lot that are subtle. What are the one's that you have seen that are all over the top?
P: I'm not sure. I saw them all at Bob's house.
R: Well s__t, those were all John Woo. He doesn't have a subtle bone in his body.
D: That's true. One of my favorite movies of all time is Chinese and is all subtlety.
P: Really? What?
D: Lust Caution.
R: Subtle? What?! That movie's a f__king porno! And it was made in Taiwan!
D: It is not a porno. And are you sure it was made in Taiwan?
R: No, I'm not sure. But it is a f__king porno.
P: What is this movie?
D: It's amazing. I've never seen anything like it. Ang Lee did it.
R: Yep, Mr. Brokeback Mountain himself.
P: Brokeback Mountain is a good movie.
D: Yes. Ang Lee brings the same touch to Lust Caution.
P: We should watch it!
R: Hell no. I'm not sitting here with you guys watching Brokeback Mountain.
P: No, Lust Caution.
R: But we have both seen it.
D: But Paul hasn't. He can be the tie breaker.
R: But I never said it wasn't a good movie.
D: Well do you or don't you?
R: I guess I don't know. All I remember is the sex.
D: Okay, well throw it on your Netflix queue and let's do this thing.
P: What about this one, Shanghai Triad? Final thoughts?
D: Very good. Thought it was great.
P: Much better than other Chinese films Bob has shown me.
R: Gong Li is hot.

Taken from a transcription by Peggy Menchstone on 01/20/12

Paintings of Empty Rooms

1
Paul has always painted well but never introduces himself as a painter since his work has never sold or been hung for public enjoyment. He sits behind the counter at Best Regards Flower Shop, where he works, and he day dreams of being a great artist with a name that people know and respect. Calls come in for flowers that interrupt his day dreams but once he has filled out the orders and passed them to Clare in the back to be put together he retakes his position behind the counter and falls back into the vision where he left off.
Six o’clock comes and he dawns his black jacket and slowly walks around the lake in the center of the city to return to the apartment he shares with his girlfriend Helen. He walks slowly, dragging his feet, and he takes his time because once he gets home he will have to paint but he does not know what and that is his problem.
When he gets in the door of the apartment he takes off the jacket and after a beer he stands in front of the easel that holds a blank canvas. He’s proud of himself for the discipline he shows by always going to the easel and standing before it. He stares at the canvas for some time and then he looks around at the rejects and half painted sketches that sit around the room gathering dust. Many of them are recreations of scenes from magazines with mythological themes added. He watches these failures for a series of minutes, waiting for their value to reveal itself, until he decides he will try something new with a fresh direction and turns back towards the canvas. He stares again, looking deeper and deeper, probing into the very fiber of it, waiting for what he will paint to sprout from his imagination until he hears Helen’s key turn in the lock of the apartment and she is home from work.
They sit at the small yellow dining table in the nook of the kitchen and eat dinner together. They take turns cooking but they have run out of ideas and their meals have become a limited series of five different dishes. They talk, at least Helen does, mostly about her job and her brother who is having problems with his wife and is suffering in a dysfunctional marriage. Paul listens but not closely because he has heard it before. He and Helen have been together for two and a half years themselves and rarely go out for dinner because they have agreed to save money to get a house.
They go to bed after brushing their teeth and both of them fall asleep quickly. On the occasion that they stay up Helen will turn towards him and Paul will attempt to make love to her. He tries not to think of his painting and lack of inspiration but it always enters his head and he performs poorly. She looks away from him, at the wall, waiting for something significant to happen.

On his days off Paul walks to the park near the apartment and sits on one of the benches waiting for inspiration. He watches the Goldeneye ducks make their way around the park’s pond. He enjoys them but has no interest in painting them and he watches the mothers push the strollers and the children play along the grass and the old Filipino man drop pieces of bread for the birds. The park is comforting to Paul and he spends hours there but never leaves with any inspiration or an idea for a painting.
One day he is sitting at his regular bench and he runs into someone jogging along side the pond that he has not seen for many years, an acquaintance from high school named Alfred. It is a small world when they realize Alfred has a friend at the same company that Helen works. Paul is happy to hear that Alfred himself is working as the manager of a new art gallery in the warehouse district, one that Paul has heard of but not attended. The two men discuss the current state of art with much agreement and shared passion and Alfred relates to Paul that he remembers his paintings from school and was always impressed by them. He is further impressed to hear that Paul is still painting and asks to see some of his work.
They take the four block walk back to the apartment and every step is one of dread and regret for Paul. He wishes he had never mentioned his painting at all. He knows that as soon as Alfred sees his work he will recognize it for all it’s cliche and lack of inspiration. He tries to think of an excuse not to go home but his mind is as blank as the new canvas and soon they are in the main room looking over his old work.
Alfred stands very still and keeps a respectable silence with his arms crossed, one hand rubbing it’s finger along the length of his mustache. When he speaks he is honest and describes the work as rather dull and uninspired. Paul is impressed by the frankness of the criticism and is grateful when Alfred tells him that, although it’s not ready now, he senses something developing in Paul’s work that just hasn’t arrived yet. He gives Paul a sleek looking business card with a phone number and an e-mail before leaving the apartment.
Paul is spurred on by Alfred’s criticism and begins to paint on the blank canvas. He randomly applies different colors and he throws strokes of blue and green within flares of yellows and reds and violets. He doesn’t hear Helen when she comes home and he doesn't smell the dinner she cooks or notice when she has gone to bed. He works all night and when the sun is beginning to creep up in the window of the main room he stops and looks at all the colors and random marks spread about the canvas and knows that he has not painted something good or original, just a mess of colors forced together in desperation.
He goes to work pale and bleary eyed and can not concentrate as customers come in and the phone rings with orders. People order flowers for retirements and baby showers and birthdays and Paul is slow and overwhelmed. He is too tired to conjure up any day dreams or think of painting at all and each passing minute is torture. When six o’clock comes he is relieved to dawn his coat but when he gets out the door and begins to make his way along the street he realizes that the bad painting will be waiting for him in the apartment. He slows his pace and decides to take the long way around the lake even though it is cold outside and he is very tired.
When he gets in the door he expects the painting to be the first thing he sees but is surprised to find Helen’s face looking at him from the main room instead. She has come home early and Paul senses something strange in the room. She does not kiss him but instead takes a deep breath before informing him that she is leaving him. He can stay in the apartment, she will find her own place, but she wants no drama and she doesn’t want to discuss it.
Paul demands to know why and she waits to answer, looking him in the eye, trying to decide if he is worthy of a reason. She says that it is time for a change and they both have become complacent in the relationship. Paul tries to argue, tries to think of something that will prove that he at least has not become complacent and is therefore not at fault. He stutters over his words and as he stutters he comes to realize that he doesn’t much care if she leaves or stays. He stops short and tells her that he is unhappy with her decision but accepts it and they hug awkwardly, both proud of the maturity they show the other.
That night she sleeps in the bed and he sleeps in the lazy boy chair in the corner of the main room, among his unfinished paintings. He has vivid fantasies of himself as the spurned lover, the tortured artist, and he can not sleep, almost giddy with the possibilities. He will paint beautiful models and they will spend the night with him and talk about art; not their job or their brother’s awful marriage.

The next day is Saturday and Helen moves out with all of her belongings including the small yellow dining table that they have always eaten dinner on. She says she will put her things in storage and then stay with her friend April until she finds a place of her own. April stands at the door and waits for her and Helen looks at Paul with a forced smile that fails to mask the disappointment. Paul resents the look. It’s not his fault she feels like she has wasted the last few years. He was put on earth to paint, not to be a boyfriend.
He watches through the window in the main room as the two women drive off in April’s Scion and then he goes to the easel. It is only him and the easel now. He walks to the art store downtown and he buys a new canvas and marches it back to the apartment. He puts it up on the easel and the whiteness of the new canvas makes him feel refreshed and ready for the future. He doesn’t want to just throw colors together like he did after Alfred’s visit. He stands in front of the canvas and waits for a real idea to come. He watches it, waiting, and then he sits in the lazy boy chair to rest his eyes. When he opens them again it’s the next day and he has to go to work.
He finds himself enjoying the flower shop, chatting with the customers, and being pleasant and steady with Clare. The idea of going home and painting is always waiting on the perimeter of his mind but when he returns to the empty apartment he is exhausted. He looks at the canvas and then he looks around the room surrounding it which seems larger now without Helen’s belongings. When the apartment no long interests him he goes to the window and watches the people go in and out of the bar across the street.
On his days off he goes to the park and all though he enjoys it there he still does not leave with any ideas for a painting. He eats his meals alone in the lazy boy chair in the main room. He finds it boring eating alone and drags out some of the books about artists that he bought in school. He reads them while he eats. Some of his favorite artists lived lives filled with adversity and tragedy and it makes him wonder if that is why he can not paint, that his life has been too easy and monotonous.

2
A month goes by and the canvas remains blank. Paul continues to enjoy his time at the flower shop but realizes the enjoyment comes from the job distracting him from painting. The neighbors down the hall in his building, Adena and Raul, invite him to dinner and he is glad to go since it will take him away from the blank canvas. At dinner Adena describes the preparations for her and Raul’s wedding in the spring and then becomes solemn because she thinks it may depress Paul after his break up. He appreciates her sentiment but thinks it silly. Their wedding does not upset him because he is free and soon he will be painting.
Without someone to help with the rent and other expenses Paul is forced to live on an even tighter budget. He gets some satisfaction out of this because his school books describe many of his favorite artists living poorly as well. He eats noodles out of Styrofoam and watches the canvas, waiting for the idea to come. He moves all his old paintings and sketches into one corner of the main room and piles them up on top of each other which makes the apartment seem even bigger and makes him feel more free.
One day he is sitting at his regular bench in the park and sees Alfred jogging by the pond again. When Alfred asks about his painting Paul lies and says that it is going well. Alfred tells him he was sorry to hear about his break up with Helen through his friend at the company and Paul says it’s fine, it’s freed up his time to get more work done. Alfred asks if he has met Helen’s new boy friend and Paul has to take a moment before saying no. It’s obvious to Alfred that Paul was unaware of the relationship and he apologizes.
Paul walks home, letting the idea that Helen is seeing someone new fully develop in his mind. He tries to tell himself that he’s happy for her. For a while he doesn’t feel much of anything and then he thinks of the little yellow dining table that they always ate on and he pictures someone else sitting with Helen, having a conversation over dinner, and he feels bad. He tells himself that it is just his ego that is hurt, nothing else. Sure, she is talking to someone, but all she is talking about is her work and her brother’s bad marriage and at least he doesn’t have to listen to it. When he tells himself this he feels better.
That night he goes to the little bar across the street and has a few drinks by himself. There is a girl sitting by herself just down the bar from him and he starts a conversation with her. She is nice enough to smile and nod and reply to his questions and statements. He orders them both a round and then another and then another. Paul moves to the stool next to the girl and he is speaking loud when he tells her love is a myth that was created by movies and advertising. He tells her that he is free and that others lock themselves into prisons made of delusions and false expectations.
Paul has two more drinks before he realizes that the girl has gone and the bar tender in telling him that they are closing. He stumbles home, his vision going in and out of focus as he climbs the stairs of his building. He passes out in the lazy boy chair and when he awakes the next morning his head pounds and his tongue feels and tastes like a piece of leather. He is too hungover to paint or do much of anything and when the sun goes down he goes to bed as well.
He wakes up at five o’clock that morning thinking of Helen. He has the distinct impression that he was dreaming of her but he can’t remember. He lies in the bed and he is sweating and then too cold and then sweaty again. He has never been unable to sleep before and it irritates him. The sun light gradually begins to stream into the apartment and the dread of the morning forces him up and out of the bed.
He goes to a coffee shop and has to wait for it to open because it’s a Sunday and nobody is up or on the street. While sitting with his coffee he decides to call Helen and on the way home he does but it goes to voice mail and he hangs up. He sits in the apartment and he waits for her to call back. He goes to the park and sits with his phone on the bench next to him. He goes home in the evening and sits in the lazy boy and tries to remember what Helen was really like as a person but he hadn’t paid enough attention the last year or so and it’s hard to remember.
He wakes up the next morning and checks his phone but there are no missed calls. He is paralyzed in the bed and calls into work sick. He stays in the bed until he forces himself up to make coffee and to send Helen an e-mail. He writes that he is sorry about what happened and that he would like to talk about it. This makes him feel good enough to eat ramen noodles and macaroni and cheese and he spends the day looking out the window at the people walking by. Some of the girls look a lot like Helen with similar hair and walks. He turns away from the window and the apartment no longer seems big, just cold.

Two days later Helen replies to his e-mail. She writes only two sentences; the first saying it is good to hear from him and the second saying it would not be a good idea to see each other. He goes to the bed and stays there until the morning but can’t remember if he slept or not. He curses Helen out loud and is ashamed. He forces himself up and off to work and he sits behind the counter and is able to distract himself with orders until they run out and the day becomes slow.
It begins to rain outside and at six o’clock he dawns his black jacket and walks around the lake in the rain. When he gets home he removes all of his wet clothes and stands in the main room. The rain has picked up and is pounding against the window. He feels thin and empty but not hungry. He thinks of Helen and he is wasting away.
It is very cold in the room and he takes a few steps forward and begins to sketch on the blank canvas with a pencil. He sketches out three walls of a room and then mixes some paints together and begins to color it. He paints until he has created an empty room but it doesn’t look quite right. He paints in the yellow dining table with two plates, one clean and the other covered in a half eaten meal. The sun is up when he finishes and he looks at the canvas in the morning light and recognizes that he has painted something very sad. It makes him feel better, a weight lifted inside him.
He goes to work and counts off the hours until he can return to the apartment. When he gets home he paints over one of his old sketches and creates another empty room, this one with the slight shadow in the corner of someone leaving. He works all night again and when he goes to the flower shop the next morning he can barely keep his eyes open. He makes mistakes on orders and receives harsh words from Clare in the back who has never raised her voice to him.
He spends money he doesn’t have on new paints and brushes and fresh canvases. Weeks go by as he paints through the night and comes to work late, bleary eyed and always exhausted. This goes on for almost a month until the owner of Best Regards shows up and tells Paul that he is being let go. Clare comes out from the back to tell him that she will miss him but he barely notices, his mind already taken up with the next empty room he will paint.
He works all day and night now, coming up with ideas on how to create scenes of people’s loneliness and failures with out showing the people themselves. He paints books left open on chairs, empty bottles neglected under tables, photographs on dressers left face down in their frames, and he continues to play with the shadows of human figures leaving the frame.
He has no income and is dangerously low in his savings but all that matters is the work. He goes to the park for fresh air and thinks of painting and when he is not thinking of painting he thinks of Helen. He imagines her in her new relationship and that she is unhappy and lonely and that she thinks of him.
One night he paints another empty room but adds a photograph hanging from the far wall. He paints Helen’s face onto the picture, half covered in shadow. He makes her look sad and dejected and realizes that the face looks more like his own and less like Helen.

3
One day Paul sees Alfred again in the park, jogging along side the pond. Alfred is surprised by Paul’s appearance, he looks much thinner and more pale than he looked the last time they saw eachother. Paul tells him he would like Alfred to take a look at some of his new work. Alfred is hesitant at first, saying that he doesn’t have a lot of time, but Paul is desperate, almost begging him until he agrees. They go to the apartment and the main room is filled with paintings. Alfred makes his way around, taking in each scene individually, rubbing his finger along his mustache. At first many of the new paintings seem similar, some almost identical, but as he takes his time and concentrates on each one individually he sees that every scene is intriguing in its own way with its own unique life and story.
Alfred does not speak for a long time and finally looks away from the canvasses and sits down in the lazy boy chair. He continues to sit in silence and Paul becomes overcome with shame, realizing he has allowed another person to see his fears and pathetic loneliness. He is surprised when Alfred finally speaks and tells him it is some of the best work he has ever seen. He offers Paul an exhibit in a new art show going up that very week. He reveals that by presenting Paul’s work he will be bumping another artist who is more established and better known than Paul but that he thinks it is important that people see the paintings of empty rooms.
In the few days leading up to the gallery show Paul is filled with doubt. He looks at his new paintings and tries to imagine if anyone will understand them. He’s not sure if he understands them himself. He wonders if Alfred is letting him into the show solely out of pity. When people see the paintings, what will they think of him, the person that created them? Will they think his is pathetic, wallowing in self pity and fear, even crazy? He thinks about calling Alfred to ask if it is necessary that he be there at the opening but decides against it. He thinks about calling Helen and asking her to come and even picks up the phone with her number on the screen but decides against it as well.
The night of the opening is heavily attended. One of the other three artists who has their work in the show is well known for his paintings of animals mixed with machines and many people come to view his work. The crowd streams in the door to get their glasses of wine, then make their way over to the established artist’s work before they stroll through the gallery and view the lesser known.
As the night goes on more and more people are gathered around Paul’s paintings until there is a congestion in that part of the room. Older men look the paintings up and down until they seem to have some sort of realization and they go back to the first painting to start the series again. A young woman looks at a painting of a room with the shadows of an adult and child in the bottom corner and tears begin to flow down her cheeks. A group of students get into an animated discussion with an older couple about the meaning of one of the paintings until the couple become angry with the students and buy the painting out of spite.
Three of Paul’s painting are bought before Alfred suggests that they knock the price up. Even with the the higher price four more paintings are purchased until there is only the painting with the photo of the girl left. An older woman approaches Paul and asks if he is the artist and when he admits that he is she takes his hand and looks into his eyes for a full minute until black tears are pushing through her mascara. Other people seek him out as well and use words like “profound” and “honest” when praising his work. He nods in appreciation and swallows, trying to dislodge the lump of disappointment in his throat that has developed from Helen not showing up.
Alfred introduces Paul to a man that wants to show Paul’s work at a private function in his home the following month and Paul agrees. He works tirelessly for the next twenty days, creating new paintings of rooms that feature the same mysterious and undefinable loneliness that defined his previous work. He is paid handsomely for the gallery show and is paid well again for showing his work at the man’s home which is a loft in a high building overlooking the lake.
Paul has bought a new suit and he stands around drinking champagne as people with expensive clothes and jewelry mill around the loft conversing and taking long looks at his paintings. He notices a woman watching him from across the room and when they make eye contact she approaches him and introduces herself as Christine. They talk about his work and she confides to him that it is hard for her to describe it except to say that it invokes a deep rooted sense of loss and yearning that she has not felt for years and that she thought was buried long ago. She half jokes that she’s mad at him for unearthing that feeling in her and they drink champagne together for the remainder of the function.
He goes home with Christine that night and while they are both lying in her bed and she is sound asleep he watches the moonlight pulse through the blinds on the window. He thinks of Helen and he imagines her doing simple things in her new home like sweeping and cooking breakfast and it makes his chest hurt.

Paul and Christine begin to see each other regularly which Paul doesn’t notice until he realizes that she irritates him. She is very beautiful but she comes from money and speaks in a flamboyant way, using words that Paul isn’t familiar with. She sometimes accompanies him on walks to the park but instead of enjoying the day in silence and watching the ducks she feels the need to talk about a restaurant she went to or a pretty dress she is going to buy. When he is alone and painting and becoming inspired she interrupts him with a call just to say hello. This is especially irritating because he is stuck on a new painting that he can’t quite finish. It is of an empty room, and just as good as his past work, but there is something missing.
They have been seeing each other for two months when Paul has some of his work shown at a large exhibition downtown. Christine is at his arm all night and her voice and topics of conversation begin to grate on him. At one point the gallery owner and her partner are speaking to them near the entrance and Paul thinks he sees Helen coming in the front door. He steps away from the conversation in a panic and when he gets near the bar he sees it’s another girl with dark hair.
He does not pick up or return Christine’s calls after that night. He continues to work on the new painting but there is still something missing. He stands in the main room of the apartment staring at the half finished painting for a week before putting it to the side and starting on a new one.
A month later the wealthy man with the loft overlooking the lake asks Paul to show his work at another event and he agrees. He regrets it when he sees Christine in attendance. She makes her way over to him and demands to know what happened to them. He almost tells her about Helen but it has been nearly a year since Helen moved out and it feels ridiculous to admit how much her leaving has isolated him. He stands mute and Christine continues to wait for an answer until the stone in her face breaks away and Paul recognizes the unmasked devastation in her eyes as she leaves the room.
That night he picks up the canvas he had put to the side and paints in a mirror on the wall of the empty room. He paints a woman’s reflection into the mirror and he tries with all his skill and talent to recreate the look Christine gave him at the loft. The next day a journalist from the city paper comes to write a profile on him and she takes a picture of the painting with the mirror in it and Christine’s face. She asks him what he will sell that painting for and he tells her that he will keep it for himself.

A prestigious gallery dedicates an entire wall to Paul’s work and he attends the opening with Alfred who now serves as his representative. People Paul has never met approach him throughout the night and praise his work. Everyone explains to him their own interpretations of his paintings and they are much more complex and interesting than anything he could have thought to say. One man says it invokes a family and the collective grief over the death of one member. An old woman tell him that it seems that they are all about searching for a true home. More and more explanations are brought to his attention, all of them different and personal to the individual offering them up.
Paul drinks wine until his lips are numb and then makes an excuse to Alfred that he is not feeling well. He escapes the gallery through the front entrance and while he is preparing to cross the street he finds Helen walking up on the sidewalk.
“Hello,” she says.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Pretty good. You?”
“Not bad. Doing alright.”
“I was coming to see your show.”
“Really? That’s nice.”
“Are you leaving?”
“Yes.”
She nods and he wants to hold her close and explain all the pain and emptiness he has felt for the last year and how much he needs her and how much he regrets having ever lost her at all.
“I guess I’ll see you later.”
He turns and begins to walk away but she calls out to him and suggests they have coffee. All the cells in Paul’s body fall into place and and he feels whole and renewed as they walk through downtown. They find a diner where they order coffee and pie and Helen talks in length about her job and her brother who’s marriage is still dysfunctional yet still undissolved. Paul takes in every word and responds with answers he’s thought about late at night when he couldn’t sleep and Helen is surprised by his insight and renewed interest in her life.
They laugh like the old friends they are and the world makes sense to Paul again. He feels like he felt when he was a young boy and his whole life was ahead of him and full of possibility. It doesn’t bother him when she mentions the boyfriend she is returning to that night. He doesn’t want to know the man’s name or what he does or what he looks like, all he cares about is the person in the booth with him. They talk for an hour, until Helen leaves, and Paul watches her disappear down the street and wonders to himself why he didn’t tell her anything.
He walks through the city alone and the world is as terrible and as beautiful as he ever imagined it to be. He enters the apartment and he can’t remember how he got there. His mind is overcome with thoughts of a long and pitiless future and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands so he fills them with a brush and paints a new picture, a new room, all gray with the light of early morning. He paints himself in, sitting in the chair, alone in the corner, and he paints a sun in the window, red as blood. The sun could be coming up or it could be setting, Paul has no opinion, and the painting is his masterpiece.
When morning arrives he walks to the park and watches the Goldeneye ducks push their way through the pond, the mothers push the strollers, the children play along the grass, and the old Filipino man drop pieces of bread for the birds. Everyone is alone he decides, it is only how you deal with it that matters. He walks the long way home and picks up a new canvas, an afternoon of painting laid out in his mind in the day ahead.
He is surprised to find Helen waiting outside the apartment. She explains that she has left her boyfriend to be back with Paul. She follows him up to the apartment where he places the new canvas on the easel in the main room and they spend the next day and a half in bed. Helen takes the next week off from work and Paul uses some of his earnings to pay for two plane tickets to Miami where they take a cruise around the Caribbean. They lie on the beaches of the Cayman islands and hike through the Mayan ruins on the Yucatan peninsula. They spend two days in Jamaica where Helen asks him how he spent his time away from her and he explains that he did nothing but paint. She says that she is proud of him and he believes her, and for the first time Paul feels that they are on a level field in their relationship, both equally in love with other for the first time in their lives.
They spend the last few days in their cabin, floating in the boat together. When the ship gets into port they catch a taxi to the airport and spend the flight back home drinking champagne until they plane is over the Grand Canyon and Paul asks her to marry him. She excepts and the people in the neighboring seats applaud. When they return to the apartment they make plans to retrieve Helen’s things from storage so that she can move back in, then she prepares and dresses for work. He kisses her at the landing and watches her descend the stairs, disappearing through the front door and out into the street.
The apartment feels more empty than it has ever felt before and Paul picks up a brush to make himself feel better. He stands in front of the the blank canvas and holds the brush up but does not touch the canvas. He lets the brush fall. He waits for an idea to come, staring into the canvas. He waits and stares into the very fiber of it, oblivious to the noise outside on the street and his own hunger. He stares until the sound of Helen’s key can be heard from the door as she returns from work. The canvas continues to sit, blank.