A Sample of the Irish Novel

I've been working on this damn novel for about six years now and have committed myself to finishing it this summer.  Here is a sample, the beginning of the second chapter, introducing the egocentric vagabond, Mac Malone.  Please let me know what you think.   --PM

            The vagabonds of Dublin are a curious lot.  As a whole, the city's dejected multitudes are far from being the sort of downtrodden to have been conquered easily by vice, as those unfortunates you might find residing the streets of, say, Amsterdam, nor has their position in society often been caused by faults of personality or judgment, as best describes the derelicts of, for instance, Paris.  Whereas greed, lust, pride, fear, jealousy, sloth, and gluttony are all exceedingly popular causes of vagrancy in America, they seldom apply to those unhoused citizens who roam the streets in Dublin. 

            On the contrary, the underclassed citizens of Dublin are, in large, a good-natured, jovial, and upstanding group of people.  They care for and nurture those in need.  They gather and eat together, drink together, and bother to know about one another.  They endeavor to preserve and defend the culture and virtue of the city, their city, and help maintain the optimism, humor, and humanity that thrive throughout Ireland.  Unlike the destitute of other cultures, these good men and women find themselves without shelter due not to sins of the flesh or of the conscience, but due merely to misfortune and circumstance.

            The exception to this is Mac Malone.  

            A fleet of words shine out and beg to describe Mac Malone, the kind of words that are often used to describe feculent farm animals or bitterly divorced spouses or criminals who viciously poke fun at their own Mothers.  They are not pleasant words, nor are most of them spoken in the presence of children or people we respect.  These pages and your mind will best maintain their virginal luster by being sheltered from the adjectives commonly applied to this man, therefore it is necessary to present Mac to you honestly, without refinery, and allow your own judgment to find words to illustrate his character. 

            On a foggy and unusually silent night, under a moon whose luminescence could not penetrate the atmospheric duvet which bundled around it, Mac Malone stood on the Father Mathew Bridge over the River Liffey, emptying his bladder onto a drowning man.  To his credit, Mac did not know there was a gentleman flailing directly under the stream of his urine, nor was he aware that this man was struggling to stay afloat by frantically scraping his fingers along the side of the bridge, searching for something steady to grasp.  All Mac knew was that the sounds traditionally associated with tinkling into the Liffey were not audible tonight; in their stead were noises of intermittent splashing plus the deep, hollow resonance of an umbrella as rain falls over it or dribbles of water as they gently soak wet canvas or perhaps even human flesh.  In addition to this was what sounded to be a pair of lustful frogs buggering the wits out of each other.  

            The frogs were, in fact, the quietly pleading protestations of Mr. Shea Heaney as he struggled to maintain a breathable position above water.  The matter of how Mr. Heaney ended up in the river, fully clothed and lacking knowledge of buoyancy, is such a complex and tangential story that even Mr. Heaney was bewildered by his predicament.  Suffice it to say that he was in quite a pickle. 

            Still, he did not lack a survival instinct, and as such was able to take in enough air between submersions to give a bleat powerful enough to be heard by his assailant.  Mac looked down his torso to see his manhood lined up directly under this quietly floundering man as a rifle sight lined up under its target, and the steady stream that flowed out of him hit its mark squarely in the forehead.  Startled and confounded, Mac jumped back and snorted and his water was momentarily ceased by a locking of muscles.  A moment of disbelief passed before Mac could look down into the river again.  When he did, he stared for several moments as the man below bobbed under and over the waterline, gasping each time his mouth surfaced and choked for air. 

            Finally, Mr. Heaney was able to stay afloat long enough to speak.  "Help!" he cried. 

            Mac was not accustomed to being spoken to by strangers, but when he looked about he saw no other sign of life.  He looked back to the man and said, "You there!  The one in the river!  Is it me you're addressin'?" 

            Heaney's awkward gesticulations were momentarily ceased by incredulous disbelief.  When again he found enough momentum to speak, he repeated his cry as before.  "Help!"

            "What's with the flappin' of yer arms there?" Mac asked.  "Attemptin' to fly in that water, are ye?"

            Heaney managed to grab a finger hold between several cracks in the stone of the bridge and held to it with the last of his strength.  He coughed water from his lungs and looked beseechingly at his potential rescuer.  "I'm attemptin' to keep a firm grasp on livin'!"  His eyes were swollen with terror.  "Won't you help me?"

            "Help you to do wha?"

            "Help me up to the safety of dry land, man!"

            "You want me to help you get out of there, then?"

            "Please!"

            There stood between the two men roughly six meters of sheer stone and Mac put his hands on his hips and said reproachfully, "Well how do you want me to go about doin' that?"

            "I do 'na know!"  Shea Heaney hawed as he thought of how best to be saved.  "Find a rope, sir, and throw it to me!"

            Mac rolled his eyes and shouted down, "Heavenly Christ!  Don'tcha know I finished my nightly feast but moments ago?  I cannot go runnin' for rope or anything else right now, I'm likely to be brought to my knees with the horrors of twistin' an' crampin' muscles tearin' through my belly!  Besides," he called, "this fine body of mine, although strong and fit, is suffering from an interminable exhaustion brought on by said supper and I would not be able to find it in me to exert my rapidly weakening stamina simply to accommodate you."  He rubbed the belly that spilled over his cardboard belt like an octopus cinched with twine and scratched at his large buttocks. 

            A moment passed during which Mr. Heaney shot an uncomfortable silence in Mac's direction.  Finally, he said, "Then run – or walk, if you must – to find a cop!"

            The overwhelming gall of the man losing his trembling grasp on the column below was enough to rile Mac's furor.  "Blasphemous dog!  It is a fact that several precincts of our local Garda have reason to wreak havoc with my fundamental rights of freedom.  How would that make me look, if I grabbed a copper in order to help you and the swine wound up locking me away for a few alleged discretions in me past -- discretions which I vehemently deny!  Eh?  A man of my stature and prominence has no place behind the impenetrable walls of a station house!"  Mac blew his nose into the torn sleeve of his overcoat and spat on the ground.  "In fact, it would not surprise me in the least to discover that you yerself are working in tandem with the coppers and that you bein' down there with your arms and legs a-flailin' is all part of an operation real covert-like to bring me in!"

            Mac spat again and added, "Curses to ye, 'ya stoolie!"

            Shea Heaney lost his grip and slid back into the murky danger threatening his well-being.  His body bobbed in place to the rhythm of the current and, after a long moment of thrashing and swinging, he was again able to find a curl in the stone to cling to.

            "Please, good sir!" he wept as his mind searched for a plan, "At the very least...yes!  Yes, there will be a rubbish bin there on the bridge!  Grab the bag inside and empty it!  Then fill it with air and tie it shut.  Throw it down to me so I can at least have something to keep me afloat!  Hurry, man, I implore you!"  Then, to himself, "God in Heaven, can there be no soul other than this wretch walking the streets of the city tonight?"

            Mac turned and saw the bin, saw it was overflowing with garbage piled high, a mountain of filth and sludge and toxins and obscenity.  Mac took several steps toward the basket, wary and unsure, stepping lightly so as not to disturb whatever lay within, and a trifling breeze caught a ball of crumpled paper and caused it to fall from the top of the pile and Mac turned and bolted back to the lip of the bridge to shake his encrusted finger with blackened and horny nails at the stranger below. 

            "Send me to the Gates of Hell, you would!  Want me to venture into the soul of dirt and depravity just to help you out from your swim, eh?  Who knows what vile creatures lay in wait within that basket to bite and tear at my flesh!  And to demand that I foul my own fine clothing on top of it all!"  He raised two offending fingers at the man below and an elbow soiled with grime protruded through a frayed hole worn through his sleeve.    

            The silence that surrounded them was broken by leisurely-approaching footsteps and Mac's attention was pinched from the man in the river by two forms in the distance. His colorless eyes, set closely together and separated only by a thin and sharply-pointed nose, saw through the night and knew that one of the shapes belonged to his darling true, Miss Sweet Emily Moore.  She was strolling beside what appeared to be a young man.  Mac saw the silhouette of the man and his mind filled in the patches that were not visible, which was most of him.  The man was young and handsome and charming and sexually potent and the very pit of Mac's body instantly churned and burned.  His neck snapped to rapt attention and he promptly forgot about Mr. Shea Heaney bobbing precariously in the river below. 

            Several minutes earlier, Sweet Emily Moore was out walking her nightly beat when she was joined by old Constable Cooney, who was walking his.  They did this on most evenings in order to maintain familiarity and to while away the evening lulls.  Mostly, though, they did this to adhere to the popular adage, "know thy enemy."  Although Sweet Emily Moore and Copper Cooney, as he was known, were on friendly and familiar terms and certainly meant no harm to one another, their respective professions historically tangled in conflict and dispute, as had their ancestry.  A long line of Cooneys had been squabbling with a long line of Moores about ethics and law and basic human nature, yet, despite generations of hooting and hollering, the sons and grandsons and great-grandsons of Cooneys were still able to sit down at the end of a day with the daughters and granddaughters and great-granddaughters of Moores and laugh about their differences over a pint. 

            As it was still early in the week, Copper Cooney was bored, with little to focus his professional attention on.  Scrappers, thieves, beaters, looters, gamblers, peepers, and vandals traditionally did not become riled enough to act until later in the week.  Passion was the one crime that enjoyed no period of rest, a fact which kept Sweet Emily Moore's appointment book quite full throughout the week and provided her with little respite to ease her stings and sores.  The greatest furloughs she was likely to find came between The Quick and The Belated, which afforded her time now to enjoy the company of Copper Cooney, a man who, at the sprightly age of sixty-two, was the eldest and therefore most experienced of the beat walkers.

            The Constable was now imparting snippets of wisdom to Sweet Emily Moore.  "If I only teach you one thing in life, lass, let it be this," he routinely repeated this phrase before each lesson was delivered, "do not allow your passions to overtake your sensibilities.  Follow your heart, not your urges.  Thousands have passed through the irons of my jail and precious few arrived who were not motivated by their own wanton desires."  He gave her a sanctimonious, sideways glance through the cheaters on his nose and smiled proudly. 

            Sweet Emily Moore blew her nose onto the street.  "Bollix!" she cried.  "What'ya want me to do, die of boredom?"  She grabbed his bum playfully and squeezed.  A startled cry three octaves higher than Cooney's usual tone pierced the quiet and caused him to blush and be flustered.  "Ah, woman!" he whispered shrilly as he smoothed his trousers.  "Control that ungodly hand and behave!  Here comes me pup!"

            A young man had emerged from the fog and was walking briskly toward them.  His torso leaned slightly forward and each of his feet jerked ahead and scraped the sidewalk as though their purpose was not to advance his motion, but to catch him and prevent him from toppling to the ground.  He gave an awkward appearance, as a coordinated drunk walking in the face of a fierce wind, and strangers routinely assumed he was suffering from frayed nerves or shell shock the way his eyes darted suspiciously about.  Regardless, he was built well with squared shoulders and a chiseled jaw and his peacoat wrapped snugly around his frame and defined a density of muscle not to be trifled with. 

            "A pleasant evening, Officer Bonner!"  Copper Cooney took the young man's hand and tried to prove his virility by crushing it, but Bonner barely noticed.

            "Officer Cooney," said Bonner hurriedly, "I've just passed a row outside Dooley's, four blocks that way.  Come with me!"  He headed off, leading the way, until he noticed he marched alone.  Cooney stood still with Sweet Emily Moore, chuckling and sucking his teeth and looking fatherly. 

            "Where are you going?" asked Cooney sardonically. 

            Master Bonner lost the confidence in his voice.  "To break up the fight," he said.  Then, with the tone of a scolded child, he added cautiously, "And.  To.  Enforce.  The law?"

            Copper Cooney stepped forward and draped his arm over Bonner's shoulders.  "Enforce the law, eh?  Ah, young Bonner!  If I only teach you one thing in life, let it be this: we Irishmen are a hard-workin' people.  We are an easy-goin' people, yet we are very set in our ways.  At the end of a difficult day, we like to join our mates and have a good time.  Don't you agree?  And sometimes as we are havin' a good time, we are called upon by some numb-arse to defend our ideals, or perhaps the ideals of a loved one.  Are you followin' me?  Words get heated, curses are thrown, and before ye know it, the fists come a-flyin'.  I tell ye, I meself have been in quite a few doozies, mostly in me youth, of course."  Here he dropped his head and gave his sanctimonious look over the top of his glasses.  "Does that make me a criminal?  Hmmm?  You might say that scrappin' is in the blood of us all.  Heredity, it is.  You an' me, we're proud, we're passionate, we'll fight for what we hold to be true, as will our neighbors.  So tell me, who are we to stifle our brethren simply for bein' honest to themselves?  Who are we to break up that tussle and, in doin' so, deny our very own of their heritage?"

            Bonner was silent.  Cooney's smiling gaze pierced the young man's eyes and held them, driving his point steadfastly home.  Cooney then raised his arm in a welcoming gesture and said merrily, "Sweet Emily Moore!  May I introduce to you the latest addition to our streetwalking beat, Constable Peter Bonner!"

            Sweet Emily Moore greeted Bonner the way she greeted all men upon meeting them for the first time: she took his hand in hers and ran her fingers seductively over his palm while she cocked her head down and looked up to him with dewy and lustful eyes.  Her mouth parted and he watched her tongue traipse along the base of her teeth.  In a practiced tone adopted to sound both vulnerable and sensual, she said, "I come to meet you with great pleasure, Constable."  She lingered on each syllable of the last word, never taking her eyes from his. 

             A ball of chewing gum fell from Bonner's mouth.  Sweet Emily Moore giggled like a schoolgirl.  Copper Cooney rolled his eyes. 

            "Break your trance, boy!" said Cooney.  "Sweet Emily Moore is a favorite among the locals.  Let it be a part of your duty to see she knows no harm."

            Sweet Emily Moore abandoned her charade and scratched her crotch, saying gruffly, "So!  Bonner.  What kind of horrors experienced in yer youth made you become a copper?"

            Her sudden switch from seductress to vulgarist offset Bonner.  "Wha?  Oh.  No horrors, ma'am.  I enlisted in order to enforce the law and help maintain the upright morals and standards adhered to by the citizens of Dublin."  He delivered the sentence as though reading text from a book.

            "Followin' in yer father's footsteps like ol' Cooney here?"

            Cooney slapped Bonner's back and said, "Quite the opposite, actually.  The young gentleman comes from a line of pastors of the Protestant faith--"

            "A hundred an' twelve," Bonner interjected.

            "A hundred and twelve pastors in his family!  Dating back, what was it?"

            "Eight generations."

            "Eight generations!  No, the constable here has taken it upon himself to introduce a new line of work into the family.  Chosen quite well, if you were to ask me."  Cooney grasped Bonner's arm affectionately.  "An' tonight he continues his training in my company.  They told him to learn from the best, and this evening he shall do just that.  It is my duty to make sure he is fit and ready by the time he dons the prestigious uniform of An Garda Siochana, hopefully sometime next week."

            Sweet Emily Moore was still unsatisfied.  "Copper Cooney, yer actin' proud about someone you don't know nothin' about."  She turned her attention back to Bonner.  "You haven't told us yet why you've become a beat cop."

            "I have joined the Garda," Bonner stated, "in order to work with the community to protect and serve."

            "Protect and serve wha?" Sweet Emily Moore persisted.

            "The people, ye pesky monkey!"  Again it was Copper Cooney answering, weary of her inquisition.  "Now if you'll pardon me, I must find a quiet spot to shake the dew from me lily.  Back in a moment!"  He tipped his hat for the lady and crept off to find a dark corner somewhere, but not before turning to impart advice on Bonner.  "Hold yer own against the persistence of this one, Constable!"

            Bonner walked with Sweet Emily Moore but soon wished he were elsewhere, for she was a persistent pesky monkey indeed, pushing him aggressively for answers to her queries.  She probed his mind and inquired into his childhood, schooling, his family and friends.  He answered diligently, choosing his words carefully, and remained honest in his responses.  Within moments Sweet Emily Moore had what she was after and was able to draw a very definitive conclusion about Officer Bonner and his potential relationship to her, and this conclusion caused her concern.  

A Small Batch of New Life Lessons

If you're into collectibles, know when it's time to sell, because there is a very fine line between valuable collectibles and worthless crap.

If you take your child to a party hosted by a well-known drunken party girl, do not be surprised if your child ends up on fire. 

The mind of a man cannot evolve without an occasional kick in the balls from life. 

Dignity is something to be faced not just on your deathbed, but in every bed.

Rely in your mind to accomplish as much as it hinders. 

Never wear a white shirt to an Italian meal. 

If you suddenly find yourself surrounded by men in hard hats and orange vests, walk away quickly. 

If you want something done right, lower your standards and have someone else do it. 

Men are pigs.  Women are pigs as well. 

Music is not meant to be listened to in a stationary position.

Even if you don't, make sure to fuck them like you love them.

Always be punctual, unless you're picking up a date.

If you enjoy sex, then learn to play the guitar.  You'll get more of it and you don't even have to play well.

Underspeak, don't overspeak.

Treat everyone with kindness, especially if you need something from them.

(OR:  If you're rude to a bank teller, don't expect a lollipop at the end of the transaction.)

To quote Tuco in The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly, "If you have to shoot, shoot!  Don't talk."  This applies to most things in life.

People who speak clearly and enunciate get more out of life than those who mumble or whisper. 

Have a Happy Place.

Be a hero to someone, but don't feel obligated to wear the tights.  

Amadis

Some of you have read this one already, but I've made some changes for the better and will repost it here.  I think it's my best story so far.

 AMADIS, OR: THE INTENTIONAL KILLING OF A SELF

by Patrick Martens

            He met Amadis on his fifty-third birthday in a bar owned by his greatest friend, a man he knew little about.  He had arrived early to claim his comfort on an open stool and nip his scotch before the crowd developed and she stood behind him and talked in rapid Spanish to her friend, the curvy Latina in the tight skirt whose features were concealed by brickyard cosmetics.  The man was engaged in intermittent conversation with his greatest friend, who left every few moments to fill an order but always came back to listen. 

            "As long as I'm alive I'll never be able to figure why he did what he did," he said as his fingers scratched the snowy whiskers hiding the thin layer of fat under his chin.  "The ol' boy was clumsy, he'd fallen hundreds of times before and always landed on his feet.  Never suffered.  Never broke a bone.  Never seemed to hurt himself."

            Raf held up his index finger and walked away to fill an order.  He came back and said, "Sounds like what you think it was.  When a cat falls, he'll never land on his side or his back.  Always the legs.  But this was no common fall.  Top of the porch rail to the ground...how far is that?"

            "Say twelve, thirteen feet."

            "And his head was mangled?"

            "It was horrible.  Like—"

            "For him to fall and land like that—"  Here Raf paused and drew his lips up over his bucked teeth.  "Hank.  I'm sorry he did such a thing to you on purpose."

            "Goddamn cancer."  He downed the final two fingers in his glass and set it down heavily.  "He knew it, too.  Goddamn to hell that cancer."

            As Raf filled his glass once more, she was there, her arm and breast touching him as she pressed between stools to order another round of margaritas with her high and feminine accent of Cuban Spanish.  While Raf busied himself, her thin and long and mildly acne-scarred face opened to Hank and her eyes found the television mounted in the corner.

            He leaned back with one arm propped against the bar's edge and let his gaze take in her course and crimped hair, black and hanging loose around her shoulders, the lilting eyebrows poised gently over brown eyes, sinuous nose hovering above the dimpled flesh that ran over her boastful and brimming lips, with a soft cleft in her chin to accentuate it all.  Here was a woman, very young yet a woman nonetheless, who sent immediate pulses through his head and body and he was excited by her, was excited to know more about her and hold her and speak softly to her and lay in bed with her.

            He saw and ignored the small diamond protecting her left hand.

            She noticed him and smiled coyly, lips sealed, her dimples lifting and tightening her cherub-like cheeks, and he softened his granite face with a smile in return. 

            "Beware the margaritas here," he said.  "The barkeep doesn't follow rules well, tends to throw twice as much tequila in as the boss would like."

            "Oh, really?"  Her eyes returned momentarily to the television behind his head.  "Then he is a good and generous man who deserves the tip I'll give him."

            Raf was back with her margaritas, his face glowing from hearing her words.

            "You see, Raf?" said the man on his birthday.  "It works like a charm.  Don't forget that I'm in for twenty percent of anything you earn.  My thanks for talking you up."

            He looked back and saw that her smile had broadened to reveal faultless teeth. 

            "You have a lovely smile.  You should do it as often as you can.  The world would be better for it."

            His words rallied to triumph over the television and her attention was now his completely, even as her friend in the tight skirt spoke softly into her ear.  She listened, then leaned into him to speak over the music that was now louder and forced them to intimacy. 

            "My girlfriend says she heard it was your birthday today."           

            He said, "Your friend is mistaken, but I see once again I am the subject of the rumor mill."  He took her margarita from the bar and lifted it under his nose and sniffed.  "But let's imagine it is my birthday.  And yours as well.  We should drink and sing and laugh together and behave like beasts.  What's say?"  He drank from her glass and offered his scotch to her in return. 

            Blood rushed to her dark cheeks as she took his glass and sniffed it as he had.  Then, timidly, she sipped.   The sting of the virile alcohol stiffened her features.  "Oh," she said brightly, downplaying the shock of the flavor, "I like it!"

            *                        *                        *                        *                        *                        *

            The moon dilated and threatened to burst, then contracted as weeks passed to resemble the fine tip of a claw teetering precariously overhead.  Tonight it lingered gracefully over a house that was the least imposing in a neighborhood cut into the hills and a bedroom rested on stilts to look out over a distant ocean that lapped rhythmically against the boundaries of the magnificent city.  Tonight the hills were quiet, distinctly pronouncing the whirr of an oscillating fan as it worked to evaporate the sweat from the sheets and from their bodies. 

            He lay in bed, thinking of nothing, yet in moments his head was filled with thoughts of everything.  He thought of the family that was now gone and of the family that never was.  His mind recalled places he had been and traipsed through notions of all he had not done.  He mined through a tormented knowledge of emotions felt yet never returned.  These thoughts were leaden and caused a great pressure in his head and, after the acts he had just labored through, he found them to be ridiculous and didn't care to waste time pondering them.  He distractedly threw his arm up and scratched at the wall. 

            "Ohhhh," Amadis drawled quietly, meditatively.  "Four is a wonderful number, don't you think?  I haven't had four of them ever.  Never like that."  Her right hand flopped onto his chest, desperate to touch him but lacking strength to be controlled. 

            She rolled her head to him.  "You know why I like you, Henry?  I can call you that name, yah?  It's okay?"  He did not answer but only continued to run the callused tip of his strumming finger over the wall.  "It's because you are tall and handsome and intelligent and old and funny and white.  And you've never been married and have no children.  You, you just don't exist.  I'm glad I found you.  You're like a prime piece of oceanfront real estate."  She giggled, illumined by her own radiance.  

            He laughed and quit his scratching and wrapped his index finger around hers in appreciation.  His ego was properly inflated.  "You think I'm funny?"

            "Oh, yes!  Mostly...mostly not intentionally, but you do make me laugh."

            "I need to be funny again.  I used to be pretty good at it."  He thrust his legs out and rose, heading for the toilet.  "Is he funny?" he called behind him.

            "Who?"

            "Your man."  The water ran cold from the tap and he wet his hair with it.  "Hmmm?"

            Frustration in her tone answered him from the bedroom.  "Deaf tall handsome white man!  I said I don't want to talk about him."

            He toweled off his head and returned to find her pouting, arms folded in juvenile defiance, sitting up in a mound of pillows.  "Okay.  We can do that." 

            Feeling masculine and impulsively wanting to prove himself to her, he reached under the bed and withdrew something small and heavy and wrapped in cloth.  He grasped one end of the cloth and unwrapped the bulk with a single quick and fluid motion and a handgun fell and landed in his other hand.  Amadis sat up and stared, her energy recouped. 

            "It's a Beretta, nine millimeter.  Have you ever handled one before?"

            "Nooo..."  She was entranced completely by the force in his hand, by the smell of oil and by the gleam that defied even a darkened room.  "Wait, no.  I did a small one once, a, what are they?  A twenty-two?"

            He removed the full magazine and ejected the round that sat ready in the chamber and handed it to her.  "It's unloaded now.  Yes, a twenty-two is a small caliber.  This has more power."

            The heavy steel dwarfed her delicate hands and she aimed at the dresser and pretended to aim and shoot.  "Ay!  I feel masculine with all of this sweat and violence.  Oh, I like it, Henry!"

            He took the gun from her and loaded and wrapped it.  "I keep another in the hutch by the front door as well.  It's a forty-five and will stop a raging elephant if a raging elephant ever comes barreling through the wall.  We'll go try them out one day."

            Her eyes coursed with life.  "Oh, yes!  Yes, please, we must!  Tomorrow!"

            He crawled back into bed with her and held her from behind.  "If you're good, we might.  But only if you're good."

            Her look to him was wild and seductive and she was then very good.

            *                        *                        *                        *                        *                        *

            They continued to see each other intermittently and summer changed to autumn and to winter and to spring and then was summer again.  Unlike the previous summer, the heat now came swiftly, unexpectedly, and caused him to sweat when he woke and sweat through the afternoon and sweat long after nightfall.  Even in the early months of the season, there was no respite from swelter and sweat. 

            He continued to spend his inheritance in reckless and wanton ways; the house had been the only gift afforded by his Mother's wealth that would prove to be the effect of wise investment.  He breezed through days buying computer accessories and television enhancements and motorcycles and fine guitars and stereo components and rare vinyl records.  His liquor cabinet was in a constant state of plenish and replenish with the utmost in quality.  On the spur of Amadis's whim, he began collecting unusual and ugly Cuban artifacts from the mid-nineteenth century, expensive items that were valuable to precious few.

            He was content only when it came to his libido.  No woman had ever done for him what Amadis did and the only pleasure in his life was found in his lust for her.  She was adventurous and did things to him that she claimed she had never done for any man and it was the confidence and passion he displayed during the physical act that muted her inhibitions and opened her up to imagination and trial and caused her to become childlike in abandoning her restraints.  With each passing encounter came his belief that it could not possibly get any better. 

            Thoughts of danger or depravity never crossed his mind when violating the moral battlefields of their illicit and illegal affair.  As a young man, he believed that messing with a woman belonging to another was inherently conducive to death, yet he felt no conscious threat in his relations with her.  His own conscience was crystallized with the thought that he was doing no wrong, harming no one, sinning against no law, and distorting no truth.  The rest he left up to her.    

            On the first day of August she lay naked on his couch, half-listening to a record she had found of compositions by Manuel Corona, a trovadore who sang with guitars and clarinets and trumpets, haunting tunes that made her long for her childhood and fed the illusions of her literary imagination.  While listening, she spoke quietly, intimately into the telephone to the mate who was thousands of miles away, traveling once again to hawk his product to strangers in different climes.  Hank gave her no privacy; he sat and smoked a short Fuentes Gran Reserve in the corner and listened, cleansing his mouth between songs with bourbon, neat. 

            Many minutes passed and still she spoke, now covering her lips with a hand to mute the affection in her words.  Hank extinguished the remaining nub of his cigar and finished off the drink but was too tired to make another.  He had studied the details of the room a multitude of times and was reminded each time that he was bored by it all.

            He rose and pulled the needle from the spinning record that had been thip-thip-thipping since it had come to its end minutes ago.  He turned it over and put the needle back and the haunting opening flamenco of Longina oozed from the speakers.  He looked at her and smiled but she paid no attention, only flipped her body over on the couch to reveal her finely-crafted breech. 

            His eyes drifted over the life of the room, over her and her silken legs and up over her buttocks and along her spine, then floated over the custom-made couch and the clumps of feline fur that lay under it, just visible, and continued around the walls to the heads of elk and caribou and bobcat that hung stuffed over the fireplace, and finally settled on the drapes surrounding the large window.  He stared at the drapes for a long while.

            The music was affecting and he bent to the receiver and doubled the volume.  Amadis looked up, eyebrows arched in question and worry, and motioned alarmingly for him to turn it off.  He responded by further increasing the volume and let the man singing penetrate his soul.  He joined in loudly with his chopped Spanish accented with Midwestern brogue: 

Por ese cuerpo orlado de belleza

tus ojos soñadores y tu rostro angelical...

            Amadis stirred to her feet and was shouting into the phone, "No, no!  It's the stereo!  It's gone crazy...I can't get the volume to work!  Ay, no!  I...I'll call you back!" and she hung up and threw the phone on the couch and kicked the stereo receiver with her bare toes until it shut off completely and she turned her eyes to him and he read in them fear and anger and concern.  He cradled her ears and kissed her lips. 

            "What are you doing?" she cried, pulling away. 

            "Kissing you."

            "Ay!  You men, you are impossible!"  She went back to her phone and studied it.  "I need to call him back.  But how will I explain that?"  She threw her back against the couch and exhaled loudly.  "I don't know...."

            "Where is he this week?"  Hank went to the couch and sat with her. 

            "He said Atlantic coast, but he's probably in bed with a whore."

            "Why do you say things like that so often?"  Then, "Why are you with him?"

            Frustration lined her eyes and she assassinated him with both, then looked away.  "Because you won't have me."

            "Will you call him back?"

            "Later.  Not now.  He sounded not normal the whole time.  He was distracted, sick maybe.  He kept asking silly questions.  Anyway, I'm tired of talking to him now.  Henry!"  Her tone changed in an instant and she looked around the room, alarmed.  "Where is the vase?"

            "Which one?"

            "What do you mean, 'which one?'  The one you bought last month.  For the collection!"

            "I gave it to Christophe, my neighbor's kid.  He has an air rifle and I gave it to him to shoot at because I thought it would make a magnificent sound when shot.  It did.  He let me have a few plicks at it, too.  It was all great fun."

            "Ay, no!  But it cost you thousands, why would you, you stupid silly man?  You are white, you are not supposed to be stupid!"

            Hank chuckled yet his face revealed no joy.  "It was a very expensive target, wasn't it?"

            "No!  It was mine!  You said you bought it for me!"  Her fist struck his arm with little force and bounced off. 

            "I bought it for the collection."

            She hit him again.  "For the collection for me!"  And again she struck, harder but with little effect against the burl of his flesh. 

             His hand lashed and caught her wrist.  It appeared as the arm of an infant in his giant grasp.  His features very suddenly contorted with deep-rooted fury and she was frightened as he rose and lifted her off the couch and dragged her by the wrist onto the floor.  His grip did not ease and he pulled her to her knees and leaned over and kissed her savagely and she returned it, fearful and excited and trembling. 

            Mahogany is a hard wood and is not good for aging knees, so he lay her face-down on the floor and straddled her.  This time around they did not make love, it was beastly and heavy and base.  It was performed with little skill and there was no love present.  His right hand groped her to the rhythm of his pelvis and his left hand slithered into the thick mane of black curls and pulled her head back to reveal a wetness where her lips had been passionate against the density of the floor. 

            He leaned his head into hers and growled breathlessly into her ear, "You.  You, damn you.  Goddamn you for what you are."

            He could feel his own heart slamming into her back as a mad timpani pounding through Thus Spoke Zarathustra and his sweat began to pool in the small of her back.  His mind was ablaze with thoughts of nothing, the empty, gaping, rusted sparks of ideas and memories that rush through the subconscious of a person deep into the animalistic rage of letting go.  His mother was there, recently dead, as was his father and sister and grandparents and certain friends from years past, all long dead.  The cat he had been raised with purred through and the birds that woke him with dawn each morning chirped and cooed into his ears from within.  Plans for the rest of the afternoon were settled but then floated away into the lost confines of his thoughts.  Nothing made sense, yet nothing mattered.  He felt nothing and yet was able to maintain the patterns of physical self. 

            He thought suddenly of his one true love. 

            She was there and he tried to make her go away as he had so many times before but was unable, as always.  She appeared as she had when he first knew her, an image reflecting all that could be right and good and noble.  Her lips parted as if to whisper some profound statement, a secret only for his ears, but she instead smiled with lips sealed and eyes full of a love she had never felt and his heart settled into a calming patter despite the strenuous actions of his archaic body.   A torrent of air escaped his lungs and caused him to groan hotly and painfully into the side of Amadis's neck and the world spun and settled into dust around him and the howling of the coyotes in the surrounding hills cried through the windows that were no longer there and rushed into his head as a radiant chorus of life and loss and unendurable sorrow and his soaring and escaping ghost was rushed back to consciousness with the fanfare of a swift and violent eruption as the front door sailed past their heads and a sea of splintered wood rained and stuck and settled in the sweat covering their bodies and soaking their hair.  Amadis screamed and her whole body convulsed in a spastic seizure that rejected his body and threw him over on his hip.  He heard her voice trill and bleat a name foreign to him, a man's name, and he saw legs standing, trembling, in the openness that had been sealed a moment ago and he heard the familiar and dangerous sound of metal on metal pumping awkwardly, chuck-chunking to life, and something small and hard bounced heavily and rolled over the mahogany boards.  He wanted to look up but was prevented by a magnificent roar which deafened him and sent a shock of air to assault his naked body and his eyes snapped shut and his mind was cleared of all sensible and operative thought as the wood of the floorboards to his left disgorged in a slew of shards that flew at and impaled and stung his exposed flesh.  He lay prone and kept his eyes closed and ignored the hutch that was within reach and

            she was there with him

            and he heard another chuck-chunk and heard a soft and hollow sound and his nostrils took in a rush of stale and pungent air and he opened his eyes to see the dull blackness of a hollow pipe staring at his face and Amadis continued to scream, only now more vigorously, and then there was another great rush of air and a thunder assaulted his ears and then there was

A New Batch of LIFE LESSONS

If you're very tall, get used to hearing the same questions every day.

If you're single, know why. 

Live where you'd like.  Live how you'd like.  Live with whom you'd like.  Live when you'd like. 

You can achieve anything, anything at all.  Just look at Ringo for inspiration. 

Reward good service with a good tip.  Even in bed. 

If you utilize your mind to its fullest extent, then you can do anything, live anywhere, and feel damned good about all of it. 

If you're very tall, get used to people who wonder and ask about your endowment. 

'Tis better to not have experienced something than to be haunted by it. 

A day spent watching television or perusing the internet is a day spent weaning your mind of its abilities. 

Practice random acts of wild and sweaty floornication. 

If ever you develop your own cheerleading squad, take heed to not let it go to your head. 

Play every day. 

Demand the very best, but don't expect it. 

There are two things an Intelliphone is incapable of handling: a fall to the ground and a phone call. 

There are three key times in life when you should not tense up: in an accident, when taking an exam, and when having your prostate checked. 

Always count on the most beautiful woman around to date the ugliest and most boring man around. 

Sometimes you can choose your neighbors.  Apparently this is a Life Lesson that hasn't yet been learned by the middle school that just opened next to the strip club in West L.A.

There are no ugly faces, only ugly hearts. 

If you are very tall, get used to being hit on by gay men. 

Don't expect to get any work done in the presence of kittens. 

If you are beautiful, use it to your advantage.  Don't let it make you naïve.  Always retain the talent to read through people's beauty-obsessed bullshit. 

Only let friends bake you a birthday cake if they have baking skills, otherwise a perfectly good party could get uncomfortable as guests try to eat cake that has the taste and texture of a cinderblock. 

Happiness is sitting on the toilet with three kittens on your lap. 

When relying on other people, always have a backup plan. 

Forget skydiving or armed robbery or crossing the street against the light in L.A.  The most dangerous thing you can do is to carelessly mess with someone else's emotions.

When looking to assign blame for your troubles, know that there is but one person responsible. 

If everyone else is doing it, then politely decline, especially if Kool-Aid is involved. 

Be wary of people who don't like peanut butter. 

Suffer fools gladly.  They're fun to mess around with and you can easily train them to get you coffee. 

When taking a steroid for a pinched nerve, don't be surprised to find out that the rumors about steroids are true.  Of course, this applies only to men.  I doubt if steroids cause vaginas to shrink. 

Support marriage equality and happiness for the masses by signing a petition to ban marriage. 

In times of economic recession, invest in alcohol and cigarettes.  

In regard to love and sex, expect unfiltered honesty only from homeless women. 

On average, it takes two years to recover from tragedy.  Three if it was caused by clowns or dwarves. 

Choose passionate over aloof. 

Fall in love with someone, but don't fall in love with your own mind's notion of someone. 

I have never heard a woman say, "I lost everything in the divorce."

Love is fleeting.  It usually only lasts about seven minutes. 

If the base of a tree is wet when all around is dry, don't touch it.  Same goes for fire hydrants. 

If you don't like someone, buy their child a drum kit. 

Life is about dealing with personalities, so get used to it, 'cause most people have one. 

Don't feel obligated to sit back, relax, and enjoy something simply because some stranger tells you to. 

Make an effort to get along with your family.  It really isn't that difficult. 

Don't take hard drugs, especially ones that could influence you to eat another person's face off. 

If you've recently ingested some powerfully-strong pot brownies and your Mother calls, don't answer the phone. 

When your friends buy you a lap dance at a strip club in Vegas, then ask you to get up out of your chair to swap seats, don't stand up.  You might earn the nickname, "Lightswitch."

Never expect to laugh with a German. 

Bake cookies for your neighbors.  Don't put drugs in them unless asked for. 

If you come across an item that you think someone you know might like, buy it.  It'll save you a lot of grief during the holiday season. 

Invest wisely.  That applies to both your money and your love. 

If you own cats, own bandages. 

Say "hello" to people you pass on the street, whether they want to hear it or not. 

When you break up with someone, cut off contact with them, at least for a while. 

Read Steinbeck. 

If you don't like somebody, give them a 1,000-piece Jackson Pollack puzzle. 

Go out of your way to be nice to ugly people, 'cause they don't get that very often. 

If people aren't nice to you very often, chances are you're ugly. 

Hang out with musicians, but don't date them. 

If you are a parent, buy a good camera.

Evolution cannot be possible until someone invents price tags that peel easily from any surface.

Evolution also cannot be possible until manufacturers stop wrapping their product in giant squares of hard plastic that becomes murderously sharp when a person tries to cut through it. 

Send children things like letters and flowers.

Don't kill homeless people. 

If you have the right to remain silent, do that.  Unless you're innocent.