Namaya Vermont Poet: Short-Stories

Two Assholes Having a Conversation

2008-11-16T06:26:00.000-08:00

It was a spring day in Westchester. The sky was a magnificent shade of blue, cherry trees were in full blossom, but beneath this stunning veneer of spring in all its beauty, I felt the driven, neurotic tension of life in Westchester, as I suddenly heard a voice scream out from across the street, "Hey, asshole."
Taken aback, I turned and saw this irate middle aged man in a blue blazer with a bright red face that looked like a tomato about to explode. "Excuse me?" I inquired.
"No, not you. The other asshole behind you."
"Who you calling asshole? Asshole!" said this fellow behind me as he walked across the street to confront this person.
"I am calling you an asshole, because when you backed in with that cheap Lexus you scratched my Jaguar."
"Where?"
"In the left hand corner of the bumper. Asshole!"
"We're back to that?"
"Back to what?"
"Asshole."
"Yes, you are an asshole and you scratched my car."
I was incredulous as I watched these two well dressed professional men standing on a street corner shouting at one another and arguing who was a bigger asshole, because one slightly nicked the other's fender.
I couldn't decide either. "Okay guys, enough!. I've been listening to you two arguing for the past five minutes over who is the biggest asshole. How about we decide this correctly? I've got a yard stick here and if you both drop your shorts, I can measure each one’s asshole."
They both looked at me stunned for a moment, looked at each other, and then said in unison, "You're the biggest asshole."
"No, I disagree. Mine is small, like that of a frog, water-tight."
"What are you, a foreigner? Asshole has nothing to do with size. It's a state of being."
"A state of being?" I asked.
"Yes." He stood up tall and proud that he remembered something from his Philosophy 101 course. "After all, I did go to Harvard, class of 1976." He said this with such a smug conviction that he presumed all other conversation should be precluded.
"That only goes to prove that you are a bigger asshole than me," said the other man.
"How is that?"
"I went to Yale, class of ’73and that proves beyond a shade of doubt that you are a bigger asshole!” he said with his hands on the lapel of his Brooks Brothers blue blazer.
"Come, come, don't be so ignorant. It's an … axiomatic truth."
"Axiomatic?"
"Yes, you went to Yale therefore you are an asshole?" His confidence was wrapped around him as tightly as a new pair of B.V.D.s.
"No, you jackass," said the other man dismissively.
"Don't change the subject. We were talking about assholes."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to confuse you."
"Oh, no problem at all. But any asshole worth his salt knows that it's really a tautology -- a self-apparent truth.”
"You don't say."
Two school children about nine and ten had been intently watching this discussion, and then started to whisper to one another. The man from Harvard looked up, confused, while he was trying to remember Wittenberg's rules on a-priori language formation. As he spied them he said, "Yes, what do you want?"
"Well, we've been listening to you two assholes talking for the past ten minutes and we're confused."
The man from Yale stepped in, "You can't call us assholes." As if to defend his nemesis from Harvard.
"Why can't we?" asked one boy.
"Because we're grown-ups."
"Oh? We didn't notice." Then the boys walked away and had an animated discussion.
The nine-year-old said, "I think they were both equally big assholes. What's your opinion?"
"Hmmm," thought the other boy, "I'm suspicious of both. After all, they're both from Ivy League schools. The first one is so neurotic he has to be a stock broker and the other is so anal he must be a real estate lawyer, and so that's two strikes."
"So what's the third strike?"
"How about -- two men on a street-corner arguing over who is a bigger asshole?"
"I concede the point," said the one boy. "So, both can be equally big assholes?"
"Without a doubt!" And the other boy put his arm around his friend's shoulder and said, "Fred, I think it’s going to be a beautiful day despite the local riff-raff."

Master Tong

2008-03-28T13:54:00.000-07:00

Excerpt from the Diary of Master Geneticist Tong

Identify. Quarantine. Spray. Inoculate. The formula worked perfectly. In the twilight hours of the 2lst century it was easy to see the wisdom of such an initiative. The AIDS plague had started out with a whimper, then roared through Africa, and finally left a trail of corpses through Europe and the US. But when those last remaining people with AIDS had been quarantined it was very easy to slip the noose around the beast and kill it. Disease is not so much a failure of genetics, but as a failure of the geneticist.

Despite the bizarre anti-vaccinators AV, who themselves were a rare and dying species, we had a near perfect record of wiping out all disease. This was the start of the real Golden Age of Medicine and the era of Bio-Eugenics. Granted, 84% of the population had succumbed to the last plague, but with an intensive vaccination and quarantine program we were able to save 16%. With a population of forty five million it was much easier to track who was infected and who was not.

The Office of Absolute Health was raised from a minor department to one of the major offices. No decision regarding health, education, or even defense was considered unless “The Office,” as it became known, had approved. ‘Did “The Office” approve this action?’ ‘ No?’ Then, decision declined.

In each one of the domed cities New New York, New New Orleans, New Salt Lake, etc. “The Office” had the final say in who lived inside and who lived outside. Though, this was a still a democracy, it was a restricted democracy. Those who chose to live in the “Wilds” were free to. Periodically, The Office would spray the wild zones, as a benefit to them, but really to prevent even the remotest possibility of contagion coming from those disease active areas. Since they had refused to be vaccinated, used food grown in natural untreated soil, allowed disease and illness to be prevalent, then it was understandable that they couldn’t be part of the Domes and were an island unto themselves

The Domes were a brilliant gift to humanity. The deadly ultraviolet rays were filtered; synthetic light arose in pale orange colors at dawn, rose to a tan yellow noon, and faded at 7 p.m. every evening in a spectrum of violet and purple. A light, nearly invisible, mist filled the dome with “health and radiance.” The air was sampled every fifteen seconds, the ratio of bacteria, pollen, molds was analyzed, and the air was accordingly adjusted. Germ phobic? Hardly! There was always a certain proportion of allowable detritus to be present, but one could not expect to have a modern society where disease or even the possibility of disease was present.

Those who became ill or for some reason contaminated were removed to adjacent quarantine domes. Though we were ever vigilant and quite successful in eradicating disease, our greatest hope for the future was in the nurseries. Though a few mothers preferred the old fashioned method of insemination, pregnancy, and in some unusual circumstances-- vaginal birth; nevertheless, it was too un-scientific and imprecise. The more accurate way to conceive was with the in-vitro fertilization of sperm and an egg. Each was thoroughly analyzed for genetic variations, flaws in immunity, and when necessary we could modify and correct all of the inherent errors at the beginning of life. Then at that point, the embryo was nurtured in birth-containers, and the optimal level of warmth, comfort, and nutrients were administered for exactly nine months. In time, as more parents realized the absurdity of natural birth, we could eliminate illness and vaccinations, and each child would be free from the potential of disease and perhaps, mortality.

From the sky, which you never saw, unless you lived in the wilds, the domes looked like a series of budding yeast. Strange, which reminds me of that one year when the yeast itself stopped budding, the flowers were withering, and sparrows refused to fly. We could have become alarmed, but science prevailed as it has always has in the past. When the birds refused to fly, the solution was simple they needed to be removed from the dome. After all there was an adequate amount of disease free genetic material to create new birds. But why settle for ordinary gray and brown sparrows? Why not have scarlet, purple, or aquamarine green? It was only a matter of a slight genetic change and voila – the pale tan morning light was alive with bursts of color – a streak of purple and an aquamarine green offered a perfect accent to the day. With the realization that the people were again happy to see birds and ones of such vibrant color, then butterflies with wing spans a yard wide filled the air. Then the geneticists decided to have some fun and combined the lightening bug gene with the butterfly, so it would glow at night and shimmer phosphorescent colors that would explode with light. And the flowers? I always thought an artist’s impression of the flowers was more interesting and certainly a lot less allergenic than natural flowers. And so, like God, but only better – we made the birds in the sky without disease or frailty, we made the butterflies more brilliant and healthy, and flowers without flaws.

Mankind was given reason and intellect to rule with dominion over the earth, and so The Office took that as their mission. When the air warmed too much and created the possibility for bacterial growth, the air was cooled; when the air cooled too much it was gently warmed; when the ultraviolet light changed in frequency it was modified; when a hint of an “illness” seemed like it was creeping in – then the water system was hyper-purified ten times more than it usually was; the air filters were scrubbed, the vents ionized, and everyone breathed a little easier. For forty-five years the system had been refined, perfected, analyzed, and perfected again. The only possible flaw in the system was - human. Though the sunlight could be tempered, birds and animals genetically modified with ease and sterilized for contagion, and the air purified—the random and unpredictable variable was the human. With over four million years of evolution there was a million miles of genetic programming that snaked its way around through each cell and in that enigmatic labyrinth there always lurked the possibility of a fifth column.

In the Office we were always vigilant for the possibility of disease or contagion, and frequently took genetic samples. If there was an anomaly, then the person was summoned, and that anomaly was rectified. It was so much easier with the younger people who had been bred in the bio-eugenic nurseries, but the older people’s bodies were too contaminated and always seemed like they were always breeding some kind of illness. No matter how frequently their systems were sterilized and ionized they still held on to a few stray bacteria and mold. Though some were reluctant to leave the dome or to opt for Departure. After all, Departure was very different than, well, you know, that word. There is life and there is… Departure. As clever as we were with moving life to its optimal level, so with Departure, we enhanced it to a sublime and perfect way to leave. Why stay trapped in a body that is old, diseased, feeble. In the Departure Lounge, every need and whim was met. If there was a desire for animal flesh, then it was synthesized, served as they like rare or medium well, thick, and dripping with fat. If they desired the hashish of their youth, then the Lounge was filled with the sweet fragrance, though our mixture Morpheus No. 5 was far superior to anything grown. Morpheus No. 5 offered the love sensation of ecstasy, the clarity of LSD, the slight surrealness of hashish, and the alertness of cocaine. A crude analogy, but the equation was based on the endorphin saturation and synapse flexibility of each person. In short, as the ancient phrase goes, ‘the perfect high.’ I sometimes wondered why more people hadn’t chosen that experience, two day of bliss, and at the optimal point of happiness...they vanished. Their earthly remains gathered, sterilized, and mixed into the gardens. A perfect life and a perfect departure. Could one ask for more?

As each season ebbed and flowed, science grew more clever, and each hydra headed disease entity that rose up was quickly lopped off. Life and departure were perfectly balanced. At all times there were exactly one million five hundred thousand people in each dome. Though each phase of birth and well was programmed, it was odd that first year when more decided for departure. There was no pain or disease, it was just a decision, a few days of bliss and then the garden. Initially, it was easy since there was more than enough eggs and sperm and the matter of creating another person was… well, child’s play to our geneticists. It had come to the point when synthetic sperm was now used, since it provided a flaw-free system, of course the template was taken from natural sperm, but without the mistakes. After all, the motto over the entrance to the Department of Genetics, “When God fails, we begin.” Of course, there was no real God, it was understood, that God was the Nature thing, the chaotic unpredictable amalgam of chance. In time, the portal to this department became the umbilical cord of life for our dome. When nature faltered or was in error, genetics came through, it always had, until this year. Even in the best of science there is the variable.

Human nature was the worst enemy of science. People were healthy, bio-scanners registered the overall population health index at 98.6. The data from 1.5 million people was continually analyzed—respiration, organ function, physiology, pathogen index, all of it was bio-metrically near perfect. But the happiness and mood factors index fluctuated. The colors of the sky were reprogrammed, the brightness of the birds augmented and when new flocks of robins were released we added a certain new perfection to their tune. Perfection, yes, that is what we wanted: Could one ask for more? Work was modest at three hours a day three days a week. There were more Pleasure and Recreation Parks then ever before in history. The Orgy & Sensual Pleasure Palaces were always rocking. So, why was there this change in this Republic of Joy? In the first few months of the New Year, four percent of the population chose Early Departure. Highly unusual! The Birthing Department handled the adjustment well and produced four percent more babies. In a sense, this was good, because as the older people departed it decreased the possibility of contagion. Then by June, when Synthetic light was in its full glory with brilliant cool sunrises and lush twilight, the Early Departures crept up to twelve percent. A summit was called, but no answers were found: Was there a flaw in psychic hardwiring? The geneticists worked even harder to find an answer. Pleasure Palace hours were already operating round the clock. The Orgy Palaces were always available, but people seemed to prefer the quiet peace and privacy of their cubicles bathing in the fragrant aphrodisiac fumes of Morpheus no. 5. Why choose departure? What had we overlooked? Or, did we?

By the end of the summer, Early Departure was outlawed. One only Departed in their due time. How could one run a society on random events? One could not expect to have an orderly and efficient use of resources with such a population flux. This was starting to look like a … please, don’t tell anyone I used this word, a plague. Yes, let’s call it what it is, a Plague of Departure. The air was now misted with Serenity Formula no. 8 and there was a lull and a peace for awhile. But the strangest most bizarre scenario soon arose: some actually chose to leave the Dome. Unheard of! Didn’t they know what lies outside? Everyone knew. Death! Disease! Hunger! Unfiltered sun! They were as naked to the raw chaotic power of nature as a babe set out in a forest of wolves. Why would someone choose that? But when the dome lights were dim and the pinpoints of starlight vaguely pierced the protective cover, the Heretics left. Our best wishes went with them, though I was puzzled and deeply troubled why someone would leave. One of the Heretics was my son, and despite my pleading he was intent to leave.

“Freedom!” he cried. “Freedom!” When he left with his family, we looked at each other more stranger than kin.

I wanted to tell him, here is life and all the good things. There is no freedom in disease, illness, or hunger. In the dome, there was prosperity and happiness in abundance, or at least until this year. It might have been pride or anger, but I simply shook his hand and wished him well, knowing that I could not see him again. Once he left for the wild zone, there was no way he could return.

With the lack of Early Departures, there was no alternative. The directive was clear, see the Mental Hygiene clinics, reprogram your neural networks, remove any residual emotional residue, and accept that this is as near to Paradise as any civilization has ever known. By the time the Harvest lights bathed our fair dome, there were rumors of ennui, and people were actually Departing in their own homes. Outrageous! Apparently, they discovered how to overdose on Morpheus. Bizarre! One person then dozens more chose to leave. The birth centers were too overwhelmed, even with double shifts of workers, there wasn’t enough time.

I noticed that it was more than that. I dreamed one night, about meeting my son and his family. They lived in the mountains, dressed in skins, looking filthy, the children with yellow mucous from their noses, and his wife’s belly round with a baby. I feared the contagion and looked into his bright blue eyes, and there was fierceness in his eyes that I had never seen in the pale eyes of the Dome Dwellers. The eyes seemed to scream, “Freedom. Freedom! Freedom!”

I washed thoroughly as I woke up in a cold sweat and allowed the ionizer to cleanse every pore that could have been contaminated in that dream. In the very distant I hear the pneumatic tubes as they quietly and efficiently shuttled people who had chosen Self-Departure. The team entered, placed the still smiling person in a wrap, and then placed him in the tubes for the Recycling Center.

How could there be hope for a new generation, when the old left? Year after year, the population grew smaller, first by the few, then into the tens of thousands. We adjusted for ever variable, monitored and re-evaluated each step, the geneticists ran the equations backwards, forwards, and sideways through the computer and still the answer came up—the inexplicable human nature. Human nature! Ha! That’s what science was for, to remediate the errors of nature, to remove the too human influences from life, and to ratch up the perfection factor. Smell the air! It’s a perfect mix of cleanliness, a hint of serenity, and the exquisite satisfaction of pure super filtrated air with scarcely a grain of mold or dust. Taste the water! No other dome had water at a 99.98% factor of purity. And the new bornes? Never a finer brood. Even God on her best day could not have done so fine. Though I am one hundred and four, in grade A-l perfect shape, can run a kilometer in under seven minutes, swim one hundred meters with ease, there is weariness in my bones, but I am still thirty six years away from my departure date. I was in the Orgy Palace for six hours last night and hardly broke a sweat, though that would be unhygienic. Something else was happening, an unspoken ennui. I spoke to hundreds of people to find out why so many were choosing departure and some of them were as young as eighty years old, fit and robust, but most saying, “Its time.”

But why, why does the air feel so strange. Why are the colors bleeding from the sky? Why are the birds no longer flying? Why?

Hoo Do Dunn & Associates: Advisement

2007-12-13T04:56:00.001-08:00

Hoo do Dunn & Associates: Advisement

“Hoo do Dun and Associates. Advisement.” read the sign. It was located on a small street off of another small street, tucked in between the alleyway of a cottage, in an innocuous clapboard house on the edge of town. There was a charm to the cottages and the neat lawns, but ordinary in the most ordinary sense of the word. Last Spring when the discreet, professional sign with black letters and a white background of “Hoo do Dunn and Associates: Advisement” appeared no one much considered or noticed this new entry into the neighborhood. It was noted with the same interest that one would regard the arrival of the spring crocuses: A burst of colour, the relief that winter is over, and then forgotten. Almost.

I live down the street from that section of houses. Normally, it took me about five minutes to stroll down there; however, since the accident, it took me three times as long. The fact that I survived the train wreck, when all the other passengers died, leads me to believe that more than one of my nine lives had been extinguished. Superstitious? Never, until that day.

I was on my way to the 8:30 A.M. train and it was already 8:15. The painters were working on the Broward house one block in front of the train station and their ladders were splayed across the sidewalk. I always laughed at that kind of silliness, superstition that is. As long as there wasn’t someone on the ladder or a bucket of paint above you-- what was the harm in walking underneath? None! But I stopped. To my left I suddenly saw Mary.

“Mary! Mary O’Brien!” That’s impossible! She didn’t hear me. I hurried across the street and narrowly missed a car that was driving way too fast for this small road. She walked up the street and then I lost her in the crowd. I raced to the train station and the conductor shouted out “All aboard! Last call!” and in two long strides I jumped inside the coach as the doors started to close. Made it! Lucky, indeed.

Forty minutes later it was the last call. A northbound train was inadvertently switched over to the southbound track. At 4 p.m. the day before, the signalman’s mother died after routine surgery for a pre-cancerous tumor and an anaphylactic reaction to the anesthesia claimed her life in twenty minutes: Fifty-six in the prime of her life and then--dead. The small twists and turns that make for a life.

The engineer, Kevin Chester Jones, was two days from retiring and the day before the accident he was interviewed by the Union newsletter, “Thirty years and not a single accident. A few close calls but none to speak of. Knock on wood!” He laughed as he gave himself a soft tap on the forehead. “Two days to go and I am out of here. I got this terrific little fishing shack on Snake Bend River and I can fly fish to my heart’s content.”

“To the heart’s content. Isn’t that the goal in life?” said the gentleman at Hoo Do Dunn.

The pain was chronic after the accident and the weeks that followed were a haze of Demerol, Percocet, and. Tylenol with codeine. The medication was reduced, but there was a lingering slow persistent gnawing pain despite the fact that the bones had healed well and the neurological damage was minimal, “My friend,” said the neurologist. “Given that everyone died on the train and you were the only one to survive, don’t you feel… lucky? There is nothing more I can do for you. We’ll have you do some physical therapy and see how you are in a few months.”

From one health care provider to the next and to the next and still the answer was either prescriptions or “learn to live with it.”

Returning home that evening, and leaning even more heavily on the cane, I noticed that there were a few people who were standing outside the door to Hoo Do Dunn and Associates. “Next, please!” Said a gentleman at the door.

One fellow was leaving and I stopped him, “Excuse me, can I ask you what they do there?

He looked a bit bewildered as if that was the strangest question anyone had asked him. “Don’t you know?”

“My friend, if I did, why would I be asking you?”

This gray haired gentleman about sixty-five years of age wearing dark wool Brooks Brother suit smiled and said, “It’s the real deal, baby!” He flashed me a peace sign and skipped down the street like an eight-year old boy on the last day of school.

I am a curious fellow and went around the side of the building where there were rows of perfectly arranged red and yellow tulips. Next to the rear office were three bins, several wheel chairs, and a few well-used canes. Was this a medical clinic? I lifted one of the garbage bins and leaped back as I heard a voice say, “No fair peeking.”

I looked around and no one was there. I was alone. Scared me to death. I always get delusional on percocets. I am off of them as of today. Though the spirit may be willing, the flesh is weak and by 9 PM I popped two percocets with a glass of Chardonnay and drifted into sleep. In the middle of a thick fog of sleep I heard the window rattling and a sign above my bed on a rusted hinge creaking and each twist seemed to call out, “Hoo Do Dunn- Hoo do Dunn Hoo do Dunn Hoo do Dunn Hood do Dunn.” The clatter grew louder and louder, the creaking screeched, and a windowpane shattered and I awoke in a cold sweat on the floor. The branch from a tree broke through the windowpane like a spear and pierced the center of the bed. I crawled to the bathroom and drew myself a bath. I swore off any more narcotics regardless of the pain.

When the storm died down and some of the large trees had been cleared from the road, the repairman came out. “Man, Mr. Smith. You is the luckiest one. That tree could have made you a shish-kebab.” Then he laughed uproariously at his own joke.

“Marvin, just fix the damn window, please.” I was in no mood for him or anyone else.

“Mr. Smith. Three months ago you are the only one to walk away from the train wreck and if you hadn’t rolled out of bed this morning, you would have been stabbed by that tree.” With that he took his finger and touched my heart. “Right there.”

I felt myself starting to cry, but didn’t. “Thanks Marvin. My allergies are bothering me. Can we get the tree out of the bedroom?”

Two hours later the window was replaced, the glass cleaned up, and the tree limb stacked along side the house. The white oak was at least a hundred and fifty years old, healthy and stout and yet the lightening split it cleanly down the middle. One moment, it was a magnificent oak and the next moment, gone.

I no longer took the train to work. I couldn’t even go near the station and the sound of the trains and the whistle, still sent a shiver down my spine. When I closed my eyes I heard that sound of metal crunching against metal and the screeching of brakes trying to hold back the train. That smell of rubber and burning brakes filled the air as the train rolled over and over again. I was awake from the time of the collision to hours later when the rescue workers opened the door of the bathroom. The bathroom was the only part of the train that survived intact, as if it was a steel womb.

As they carried me out of the train, I heard the rescuers say, “Man, is he lucky! Everyone else is dead so far. How did he survive?” Through that long afternoon, while waiting to be taken away, drifting in and out of consciousness, it was a chorus of screams, shouts, sirens, and crying in the background. I wanted to say, “Shut up. I’m still alive. I’m still alive! Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here!” But I couldn’t say a word and stayed awake for days afterwards, till exhaustion finally pulled me into sleep.

There was a café across the street from Hoo Do Dunn and Associates. Actually, it was a bakery with two tables and a new cappuccino maker. This was my command post as I watched the office. What was it that drew people here? There were people in wheelchairs, others wearing braces, and others, like you and me, just walking in. The line seemed to move quickly. Several weeks later I noticed the line had tripled. One morning, beneath the sign of Hoo Do and Dun was a new small discreet placard, “First come, first serve. No appointments.”

No harm in trying. So on a Tuesday morning, I stood on line for twenty minute and became somewhat impatient. Finally, I was ushered in the door by a very short man. He wasn’t a midget or a dwarf, merely short. I would guess about four feet nine inches tall. The cut of the suit looked like it was from Saville Row. He had a Yorkshire tinged English accent with a slight Middle Eastern flavor.

“Welcome, sir. A cup of tea?”

A pantry door that blended into the dark wooden panel opened and a service tray with tea was there. “Delicious, fresh tea from the highlands of Sri Lanka.” a voice called out. “Excuse me; someone will be with you shortly.”

There were no magazines or clutter, a few leather sofas, black walnut tables, and a white cat sleeping in the corner. It lifted its head once and looked at me with its bright green eyes and meowed. A voice called out, “Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith. It’s time.”

How would I describe him? Mr. Hoo? Mr. Dunn? Or was it one of the associates? He smiled and said, “Hello. I am glad you came.” He gestured to the sofa and I sat in front of him. I felt like a lost child, asking for directions home. “Tell me, how can I help you?”

“Pain? Infirmity? Yes, the accident. The accident. The accident. The train. Yes.” There was a deck of oversized cards on the desk. “Please, choose a card.” I drew the card and turned it over, “It was a pair of dice.”

“Ah, chance!”

The next card was a white cat.

“Good. Possibility.”

“Please, lie back. Please, lie back. Lie back.”

As a child—falling out of the tree and hearing that sick thump as my head struck the ground. For weeks afterwards, I was dizzy. I was dizzy and swirling lying there and closed my eyes. Then in Baja where we would dive 20 meters off the cliff into the water… and then the train. I looked at the clock on the wall and it was 8:17. I was looking across the street to Mary O’Brien. Twenty years, four months, and six days since I saw her last. It was our wedding day. The car was moving far too fast.

Then I saw the article that appeared in the paper. “Engineer killed and all passengers on the 8:30 local! No survivors.”

“No, I’m not dead! I’m here. I’m here. I’m here” With my free hand I banged on the metal bathroom walls, but no one heard me.

I stopped on the street to pick up the newspaper. Did I know anyone? Surely the people I usually rode in with… the mayor of the town, a half dozen others and those not accounted for…those not accounted for... Martin J.Smith. That’s me. I was going to call the newspaper. “ I am not unaccounted for. I’m here. I’m here! I’m here!”

The ambulances were blaring. The blue lights flashing. “Don’t worry folks. Don’t worry folks. Damn fool, he was lucky. Damn lucky. Reading the newspaper and walked into the car.”

I looked up in a haze and the officer with a round smiling face said, ‘Boy, are you lucky. Walked into a damn car and just got a bump on the head.”

And then it was a fog. “What’s this town coming to? This morning it was the train wreck and now this guy walks into a car?”

The folded newspaper sprung open as the wind swept it on high, the picture of the train sprawled on its side, and the banner “No survivors!” was swept high in the cold spring morning as the sirens cried.

“Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith!”