Nuclear Medicine

The elevator doors close unsteadily. Cables squeal and grind with effort. The yellow rectangular light panels buzz feebly overhead. The inhabitants of the elevator glance at each other out of the corners of their eyes. One is male, the other female. The male is lean with sunken eyes and bony cheekbones. He wears slacks of brown polyester held up with a belt under which a black and blue checkered shirt is tucked and buttoned up to the collar. The woman is short but ample and wears her hair closely shorn. She wears slacks and sandals with a white tunic blouse. They stand silently with a healthy distance between them. The carpet underfoot is stained and torn. The woman tries not to let the tips of her toes come off the edge of her sandals lest they come into contact with its contaminated fibers.
The doors shudder open into the gray mustiness of what used to be a bomb shelter. All surfaces are concrete. Doors are the exception. They are dull metal.
There are flickering florescent tubes leading the way from where they are bolted high above, and yellow arrows painted on the concrete point the way from below. The corridor twists and turns. There are no people, just doors marked RADIATION. DO NOT ENTER. With small nervous movements and wide eyes the two individuals shuffle along following the yellow arrows.
A cubicle with a yellow light shining out through the panes of glass houses a solitary human being. He is a fat young man seated behind a desk, his nightly snack of Snickers Bars and two cans of Coke Classic stacked beside his appointment book. He’s a little sweaty, but manages a smile. ..
He directs the woman to continue alone, further down the gray hall with the yellow arrows. There, a tall man in a white coat and blue paper shoe covers awaits and ushers the woman into a very large room with a large white torpedo in the middle. There is nothing else in the room. Absolutely nothing. The tiles on the floor have been buffed until they are almost invisible.
The man is very businesslike as he hands the woman a flimsy cotton hospital gown that opens down the back. She undresses awkwardly. With her back to him, trying not to allow her clothes to fall to the floor she simultaneously attempts to cover herself with the disposable garment. It is creased so that she is swathed in white paper squares. Tersely the man instructs her to put earplugs in as well. A narrow bed slides out of the mouth of the torpedo like a curved tongue. Nothing supports it. It doesn’t appear very sturdy. It’s plastic. The woman crawls onto it but is forced to lie down with her arms over her head. The tunnel is too narrow to let them dangle naturally alongside her torso. The man in the white coat warns his patient to keep her eyes closed and places a heavy, weighted belt over her abdomen. A smaller version is placed over her knees. A still smaller version is placed over her ankles.
She is unable to move. Or see. Or hear.

Restaurant

The air outside the building is heavy with the smell of cooking meat. It is smoky and gray and long wafts of smoke protrude from the chimney sixteen hours a day. The sweet smell of barbecue sauce lingers on the wind. It too, presses down on the air, keeping the wind full of thick charcoal gusts. But the heaviness does not invade the building, it just hovers on the outside, waiting just beyond the closed doors and windows, a tangible promise of what waits within.
Inside, the smell of smoke does not penetrate. The walls, both solid concrete and glass, are thick and insulated. Inside, there is the feel of military order. Everything has its place. The trash cans are bolted securely to the wall, framed pictures of men playing golf decorate the walls above. The tables are lined up in rows that vary just enough to give off a slightly human touch.
This is a tightly controlled environment and only specific smells, sounds, and tastes can exist here. There are two walls adjacent to each other. They are almost entirely made of plexi glass except for the bottom two feet, which are standard wall material but covered in brown tiles. The glass walls are covered in huge pictures of burgers that are 6 ft by 4 ft. One after the other line the glass walls, with a small 4 inch gap separating each poster from the other. Images of juicy hamburgers are printed on all the posters. Double patties with oozing ketchup and mustard. A picture of a creamy Oreo milkshake, bigger than life. The images are stark, there is no hiding the leering attempt at physical seduction…a hamburger, a picture of a cartoon of French fries. BAM.
The floor is composed of smooth brown bricks laid in a lattice/geometric pattern. There is a family of Latin descent. An overweight mother, a slightly overweight father, a boy twelve years old, a little girl wearing a gold paper crown. They sit in silence, at their square table, each facing in, reaching for the French fries in the middle of the table. White circular fans whirl lazily above. Against the wall dividing the two glass side walls are more faded prints of golf courses. There are three, each at exactly the same height and held together by a white wooden picture frame.
Directly across from the solid wall, about 30 feet away, is the central hub. A teenage girl stands behind the register. She is slightly disheveled, long wisps of her thick, dirty hair have fallen from the confines of her blue visor, the same hat which some health advisor devised to prevent hair from mixing with food. She mumbles something unrecognizable into a thin, bendable chrome microphone that is attached to the register. Her command is lost in the dull murmur that vibrates and holds like the thick smoke outside.
There are beeps that go off every minute, different sounds for different meanings. They signal cars approaching, perfectly cooked meat patties, heating times accomplished. A small crew of uniformed workers, all looking like they came from the south pacific, busy themselves behind the wall dividing the registers from the kitchen. One is at the grill, flipping meat patties amid lapping yellow flames. She squints her eyes against the barrage of smoke. Another small man to her right prepares the buns with condiments, mayonnaise, mustard, ketchup, lettuce, he piles them on the little buns.
The glow from the heat lamps, directly above the French fryer, emits a beam of yellow light. The sound of a door creaking and closing keeps disrupting the space. The light sound of music is just barely recognizable. A young Samoan woman sings along to the lyrics, she gazes at her 1 year old daughter as she sings. She is curvy, wearing jeans and a black sweatshirt, her long thick hair is piled high atop her head with a rubber band. The baby girl is wearing a gold paper crown, it barely fits on her little head. There are three generations of Samoan woman, each with big slightly slanted eyes and big brown lips and golden skin. They sit at the booth sharing a pile of French fries. Each has a paper cup full of a sugary liquid. They laugh and talk, delighting in the simple closeness of family. The baby stares, she stares directly at me, looking as if she knows.

Hospital

The ocean sparkles a deep turquoise to the left of the highway. The tall white building rises into the empty blue sky to its right.
It appears to be a resort hotel. Poised with dignity and elegance it offers an awe striking view of the surrounding natural beauty. One jarring inconsistency. Instead of "Valet Parking", the red sign reads EMERGENCY SERVICES.
The cars in the parking lot are arranged neatly in their spaces. Little metal soldiers of red, yellow, blue, black, silver, and white, waiting for orders. The sparkling sun gleams off of their glossy frames and warms the clean black asphalt with its white painted lines. Little concrete lined islands are brimming with orange birds of paradise, red hibiscus, and squatty palms, their fronds spread out like green hands with long pointy tipped fingers.
The glass entrance doors slide open with a hiss. Red upholstered chairs, magazines on rectangular glass table tops with beveled edges, an empty half moon shaped reception desk. A sign over the wall mounted container of hand sanitizer reads: "For Your Convenience". No germs in this hospital.
No signs of life. No nurse. No doctor. No receptionist. Not even germs. Who owns the cars in their spaces?
Further down, beyond the abandoned reception area, a hall under construction. Yellow caution tape. Hand made arrows on children’s craft paper directing the detours. A solitary man in blue scrubs is buffing the dusty floor. His face is turned down to his work showcasing the bald crown of his head encircled by a ring of sparse black hair. A family, faces contorted by concern and bewilderment, moves hesitantly along the corridor. Trying to get to their dying loved one, they pause to look up at the incomprehensible overhead signs, lost in the echoing halls.
An elevator with steel doors. Passersby avoid getting into that elevator. Not now. Not here. It will not take them anywhere they would want to go.

Stained Woman

She lays upon a stretcher within the cozy confines of a white ambulance. The thin hospital mattress is covered in a white fitted sheet, its unfitted match covers her below the torso, hiding her spread legs and swollen belly. The emergency vehicle is parked in an abandoned parking lot in an equally desolate section of town. There are no sirens, no speed or haste. The back double doors are open, allowing the quiet breeze to enter the small rectangle. Her torso is uncovered by the sheet, but she wears two blue cotton T-shirts layered upon each other. Over the T-shirts, she has on a blue hooded sweatshirt and a green feather down vest on top of that. Her clothes indicate the cold, but outside, the sky is an unclouded blue and the sun continues to beat upon the black asphalt surrounding the vehicle. Inside the light is dim, illuminated only by the residual light of the day streaming in. A soft breeze enters and lingers, gently touching her face.
The blinking lights from the dashboard continue to flash red and blue and green. Every now and then, a bit of static comes through the radio, kkkkkchhhh….it lasts for a couple of seconds then stops as suddenly as it began. The pillow beneath her head is packed to the seams with fluff, being unrelenting in girth, her head as fallen almost completely off the pillow. Her torso and head lean at a diagonal angle to the left. She moans with pain, unable to control her neck and the heaviness of her head. Her forehead drips with beads of sweat, tiny glistening drops roll from her hairline, down her cheeks, collecting at the tip of her nose teetering on the brink of collapse. Her eyes are open just slightly, giving the faintest indication of consciousness. The eyelids flicker occasionally, but mostly, they remain still and just barely open. Her hair is straight, cut in a strawberry blond bob that reaches just above her shoulders. Her hair is tousled and tangled in the back and because of the drooping angle of her head off the pillow, strands from the right side of her face have streamed over her face to the left, creating diagonal wet lines of hair upon her pale white face. A sprinkling of tan freckles and sunspots dot her nose.
She stares at nothing, consumed by pain but unable to move or scream. Within the silence of the vehicle, she whimpers. After a moment of silence, she moans. There is a red blood stain across her lips. The blood is fresh and wet, still glistening bright in the reflecting light of the windshield. Her mouth is covered in a red gagged puddle of thin liquid, it reaches her upper lip and has stained her chin. She whimpers.

Hanged Man

There is a roaring blue ocean that churns and roars like a thousand caged lions. Small waves peak and fall. Blue is everywhere, deep and dark, yet smooth as glass. Wind whips the waves like a sadistic lover, shaping cries of frothy white mist and gurgles of surging turquoise foam. Long tails of slick green seaweed undulate like thin dancers just below the surface. The smell on the wind is strong, the scent of moss covered mermaids and Neptunian life is heavy and thick, drifting for miles up the coast.
Sunlight beats down on the essential element, but despite its best efforts, the water remains cold. The shore is a thin strip of land 30 feet wide. It’s covered in small gray and black pebbles and an occasional black seashell. Seagulls rest on the warm rocks and every once in a while, a gull cry is heard. The rocky land ends at a dramatic cliff wall that rises from the sand at a 90 degree angle. Mostly made of sandstone, it glitters in the bright light and small flecks of coral colored sand sparkles.
The bluff above is covered in tall grasses. Long stalks of green, yellow and the various shades between them mingle on the unused land. The wind whips them as well, blowing them left, right…then pressing the blades hard against the earth. They dance endlessly in the constant display of wind power. From the sea, the land rises at a gentle slope towards the west. For each mile, the earth tilts another degree. Up and up it grows, the land remains a constant blanket of two-hued grass. Twenty miles from the water, the land comes to a peak. It is a soft hill, resembling the peak of a woman’s hipbone covered in soft flesh.
Upon the round hill is a structure. It is not a building exactly, there are no distinct walls, doors, or windows. There are levels, distinct floors created with the main building material, metal rods fashioned into large triangles. Each floor is made of 12 upside-down triangular pieces that create the structural base. It is wide, about a hundred feet in length and it continues beyond the limits of sight into the sky.
From the lowest level, a man hangs upside down by one bare foot. His toes are curled over the metallic rod that creates the base of the triangle. The toes of his right leg clutch the rod as the rest of his leg extends straight towards the earth. His left leg is bent and the knee and the bottom of his foot is pressed against his left inner right thigh. The palms of his hands are pressed together, over his heart. On his right wrist, is a black plastic bracelet. His arms are tan and the hairs adorning them have been bleached by the sun. He is young, perhaps twenty four at the most. Dirty blond dreadlocks are wrapped in a high bun atop his head. His feet are bare and tan, his toes dirty from his shoeless lifestyle. Threadbare tan pants are rolled up to his calves.
He hangs… quiet, alone. Above him, the structure looms with power. It appears transparent and empty, without walls or people. But that is only the surface image. The tower is teeming with hidden tunnels, living quarters and life.

Bookstore

There is the sound of a shoe heel making contact with a wooden floorboard. After a couple seconds, there is another distinct sound. A subdued orchestra of shoe heels moves through the large high-ceilinged room. Without any obvious beat or rhythm, they come in scattered intervals, filling the otherwise quiet space. Dozens of people are milling about slowly, their attention turned exclusively to the many shelves of books. No one is talking, each is lost in their own world of words and paper. Just the sound of slow footsteps and the soft turning of a book page is audible. The soft gold-tinged light of late afternoon filters in through the overhead skylights, the sweet light electrifies the colored book spines and they glow from their resting spots like dilated animal eyes, aglow with possibility. Like the reading room of kings, the walls are completely covered in dark wooden bookshelves. The periphery of the room is a colored spectrum of rectangular book spines that stand neatly upright on their deep shelves. The walls reach at least twenty feet high, and the shelves, crowded with books, reach to the place where wall and ceiling converge. There is not a trace of wall in this house of books, where it not for gravity, the ceiling space would be in use as well. Rolling ladders have been installed to the upper-most wooden shelf lip to facilitate the browsing of books closer to the heavens. This is a well-ordered bookstore, where books of the same genre are grouped together and books are alphabetized by author.
Every stone’s throw, there are plush, high backed armchairs against the bookcases/walls. Each well-worn mauve velvet chair is occupied with a reading patron, and other customers sit with their legs crossed on the floor, browsing through potential purchases. Within the center of the room are islands of wooden tables. The tables are spaced far enough apart so customers can walk and flow around them, checking out the literature from all sides of the table. The tables are old and heavy, with thick sculpted legs and beautiful honey colored wood tops. Just a sliver of tabletop is visible beneath the well organized stacks of books. Each table is devoted to a specific genre. Children’s literature, new releases, mythology…the I Ching is on the corner of a table. A woman in her twenties, with tan skin and long dark hair browses the table with intensity, looking for something specific. There is a small two-shelf black rolling cart, the kind usually found in libraries. A handful of red paperback books has fallen from the cart. The books lay in a scattered pile upon the floor.

Thirsty Sea Demon

Beyond the sliding glass doors, a rickety dock extends into the water like a wooden tongue thrust from the mouth of the little modular home to probe the briny blue. The rectangular frame of the house and its petite stature make it seem to be hardly more than a box of animal crackers perched precariously at the lip of a swimming pool made to churn by riotous children. Its paneling is light tan, the trim around the sliding glass door is white. The flat roof supplies a scant awning from which a few potted ferns and a spider plant dangle.
There is something of a small porch here, barely wide enough to accommodate a lawn chair composed of yellow and blue plaid vinyl lattice. Four wooden steps drop down from the porch and connect the house to the dock. The dock itself is dark with moisture, its many thick round barnacle covered legs reach down into the hidden green depths. Each plank is wide and riddled with Swiss cheese holes flanked by rusted iron bolt heads. The wood is interrupted by weathered lengths of thick double braided rope interlacing the planks. Along one side, an ancient mariner’s net hangs rotting like the veil of some gargantuan maritime witch. The wind whips wildly about, agitating the surf and setting a wind chime hung near the spider plant into an ecstatic frenzy of jangling.
The waves rock the old dock violently. Above their dark blue orgiastic rampage, high cloud cover darkens and creeps from horizon to shore at a snails pace, driving them increasingly into greater excitement. They grab at the little dock and rock it like the eager and ungovernable hands of a giant.
Out at the end of its length, a woman is balanced with her long legs poised in a wide sprawl. It is the caricatured stance of a cowboy in a standoff. The muscles of her calves, legs, and thighs work to keep her braced atop the dock. The white shorts she wears encapsulate and just barley conceal her tensed buttocks. Her canary colored open necked sweatshirt hangs from one shoulder, revealing the lines of the white racer tank top worn underneath.
In one hand, she holds a dark green corked bottle, raised outward as she shouts commandingly into the wind and at the wall of waves. With the free hand she gestures to six or seven terra cotta pots arranged in a semi circle around her at the docks end. Some of the pots are empty, while others contain only black soil and the withered remains of some long dead plant.
A few are home to sickly pale twists of Jade, made unhappy by their exposure to salty sea spray. They are of various shapes and sizes. Some are in perfect condition. Others are stained and chipped and bear painful long cracks in their sides. Her long blond hair ripples on the wily wind currents, hovering around her head like a flame atop a candle’s wick.
Before her, the waves are suspended, looming over her comparably delicate body and the rickety deck. They have almost assumed the shape of a body, trembling with agitation. With aqueous creature mouths they seem to grin maniacally, then grimace, pointed ears of water flattened back like the ears of an angry cat, while the rest of the surrounding sea continues to froth and churn violently. It wriggles in animated swirls of surf, cerulean laced with white foam, directed upward and held together by supernatural force. In this awkward state of suspended animation, it listens intently to the woman’s shouting, and thus restrained, it watches with anticipation, the whole of its attention captivated by the green bottle of wine and the definitive gesturing.

Paradise

The gate blends almost seamlessly with the fence. Fashioned of some inexpensive wood, it is dark and splintery, unpainted, and unvarnished. It bears many dark grooves, like rough wrinkles in an old man’s face, weather beaten over the countless years since its erection. It is held closed by a small zinc latch secured with a bit of blackened wire. Within its unassuming embrace a garden is tended by nature’s caretakers. Big furry bumblebees, striped with bright bands of yellow and black, busy themselves over the whip-like tendrils of a lavender bush. True to the name, the blossoms are of varying hues of soft and deep lavender, while the stems and leaves of the bush are a frosty green under the coat of fine velvety hairs.
Butterflies with wings of orange and black lace flit lazily about, visiting first one flower, then another. Delicate black legs hold them poised upon branch or bloom as they gingerly extend a long glistening tongue into the secret bed of a flower and draw from it the sweet elixir of life. Tangled vines of musty smelling nasturtiums spill out over stone borders, creep up on faded green cacti and purple tipped succulents, run their long fingers through the dark beds of lavender and unruly humps of catnip. A fuzzy black caterpillar inches its way over the parched bark of a juniper shrub, its body undulating with the motion. In the shallow bowl of a plastic birdbath, a small, dark-eyed winged creature shakes and shivers its tail feathers. Tall elm trees drop clusters of black pods upon a multicolored assortment of natural river rock. They huddle together on the western side of the garden, excluding the sun from their private affair with the stones below.
In the center, concrete stepping stones are pieced together to form a square pathway. Each one bears an impression of a man in a sombrero resting in the shade of a saguaro. Tucked within its perfect perimeters, a vast patch of green grass gazes emptily upward at the blue sky way. Its starkness is marred only by a low-cut stump, the remnants of a once vibrant willow that fell prey to some disease. Now the plot of grass inadvertently serves as a memorial commemorating the life of a tree, its emptiness a nagging reminder of lost fullness.
Adjacent to the garden is a covered porch carpeted with sparkling clean AstroTurf. On one wall, there is a window which looks in through sheer draperies upon a dim master bedroom. On the other wall, a sliding glass door opens into a living room. Big daisy stickers adorn the glass. On a narrow sliver of wall between the glass door and the corner where the two walls join, six decorative flower pots are arranged on a shelf with six individual outcroppings for each pot. The pots themselves are empty, save for a thick layer of dust. Inside the living room, a silver haired old man and a much shorter white haired old woman are waiting. The man stands near the glass door. He is tall and his silver hair is dashingly curly. He wears a pair of overall shorts, in the style of an over grown boy. The buttons which connect the straps to the breast are over sized and fashioned of wood. The creases in his face are deep but soft. His skin is smooth, free of whiskers or stubble. The woman sits upon a chair, she wears a white sweater vest over a brightly colored moo moo. The carpet is a shag rug of a burnt orange color to match the butterfly’s wings.

Four Ways

The alley is clean of debris. A pale gray isle of concrete is flanked on either side by corrugated steel panels. They are free of graffiti and grime, only a faint chalky layer of undisturbed dust has settled on their matte surface. Here and there the corrugated panel give way to a stretch of chain link fence, revealing an urban expanse of concrete. These glimpses are ghostly, void of any movement, or even signs of life. No streets or sky scrapers may be detected; they are not there. Only a desert of abstract concrete plazas and occasional smatterings of chain link cloistered around empty yards of asphalt. The alley opens into such a plaza. It is covered by a large Constantinoplan dome which hangs over a concrete gazebo with yawning arches on four sides.
Where the alley meets one of these archways, a vendor is positioned with a box of round lollipops hanging from his neck. His hands are gloved with fingers exposed in black and purple striped stockings, which are just visible from under the cuffs of his dirty coat. He wears a dingy straw cap from the striped band of which dangles a silk flower, it’s yellow color blotted out behind darks smudges of grease and soot. A wrinkled red scarf is tied around his throat. A visible layer of soot is cast all over him. His toes poke from holes in his sock out of holes in the tips of his shoes. The brown tops separate from the soles like yawning hippos when he moves on his feet.
As people stream by out of the hall, he presses lollipops into their hands as if they are VIP passes. The trickle of individuals tends to clot were he stands dispensing the brightly colored confections with an air of importance.
Inside the plaza, barkers announce the attractions to be found beyond the other archways. One wears a black silk top hat and a worn red jacket coupled with dirty white leggings and high black boots. The jacket hangs open to reveal a dirty striped T-shirt worn over a roll of belly fat. It all hangs from him like a weathered second skin. He stands before a great wooden sign with white lettering inviting and beckoning the folks milling about in the plaza to pass through his archway.
There are other grubby looking vendors peddling their wares. Some hang back in the shadows, other linger in the center arresting the attention of all of those who pass their way. They sell all manner of oddities, silver spoons and old ties, empty cookie tins, and birds houses. Cigars and peanuts and candy are also to be had; there is even a glass walled popcorn cart with its polished silver kettle popping loudly behind the glass and red and gold lettering.
One archway leads to yet another tattered gentlemen pushing lollipops. Beyond him an auditorium with stadium seating is filling up with an assortment of people, young and old. Many are clustered together in groups; a pair here, a trio there, a quintet up front... Some seem to be families, others are packs of friends. A few are seated alone. Projected upon a screen at the front of the auditorium, a spy movie plays out. Much of its appeal lies in that it is a color remake of an older black and white film. Most of the viewers are engrossed in the well known story. Some move from one seat to another, unable to find the perfect spot. In the dim room, the furnishings are still very distinguishable. The carpet is goldenrod in color, clean but worn. The folding seats are all fashioned with faux wood laminate.
A lean man in a crisp dark suit, white shirt and tie, stands near the projector at the back of the room. The image from the screen dances as a reflection upon the lenses of his silver rimmed eye glasses. His posture is erect, his hair neatly trimmed. In his hand he holds note cards with facts about the movie, its plot, political implications, details about the performers, the director, the writer, and the producers.

Ladder

The room is far from completion, in fact, the entire construction of the house is long past the estimated time once given by the construction company. The exterior gives the image of completion, horizontal wood panels, painted a cheery robin’s egg blue cloak the exterior walls. From an outsider’s eye, the 2 story house blends in perfectly in this suburban neighborhood; like the dreams of schoolgirls and sentimental architects, this is a house designed to raise a family in. A window with blue shutters adorns the second story, its steepled roof completes the picture. Gardeners have already planted grass and fruit trees in the front yard. The white picket fence will soon be built. But inside, there is no family eating pancakes. The basic structure of the home is laid out, the rooms are divided and the stairs leading to the second story is built, but everywhere wood beams are exposed, awaiting the covering of sheet rock. The floors are covered in plywood and the air is heavy with the smell of sawdust and sweat. There are crumpled newspapers on the ground and remnants of a fast food lunch.
A carpenter in starchy white denim stands in the center of what will be the dining room. The last golden light of a warm afternoon streaks in through the open window-holes, bathing him in a renaissance glow. His forearms are large and tan and covered in sun bleached hair. His thick and sturdy shoulders seem even more capable in the dingy orange t-shirt he wears. In the heat of a fading summer afternoon, dark wet spots adorn his armpits. Most of his shoulder length hair is held back in a rubber band, although some stray curly black hairs, not quite long enough to conform with the others have escaped and stick to his sweaty face. The overalls are worn and brown around the cuffs and small spots of mutli-colored paint make sporadic appearances all over, although the largest concentration of paint dwells on the material that covers his sculpted thick thighs. His habit of constant hand wiping has created a rainbow pool on each leg, not a speck of the white denim can be seen. His right foot, sheathed in a size 12 tan leather boot stands firmly on the ground which is littered with the pencil markings and doodles of construction workers. His left foot is on the lowest rung of an aluminum ladder, his weight providing the extra stability and balance. His arms grip either side of the ladder edges, his forearm muscles bulge with his effort, steadying his partner who stands on the topmost rung.

Immortal Store

It is a tiny and historic little cove of storefronts, a post office, a locksmith, a few empty buildings. Each one is petite, nestled in with its neighbors like the residents of a home for the elderly snuggled together on one faded couch. Plaster has chipped away from the walls revealing red bricks, dust has gathered thickly in window corners, paint is wrinkling and peeling from doorways. Each one has its own distinct character. A few have aged better than others. Well cared for, they smile with cheerful dignity and the wisdom of their age, wearing newer coats of paint on the architecture of bygone eras.
At the very center of this horseshoe gathering, at the end of the cove, one building seems imbued with the enchantments of immortality. Its white columns set it apart in style from its cronies, lending it a classical elegance. Its front door is hidden just five or six little accordion steps below street level, like the pouty lips of a sophisticated woman veiled by a fan. Delicate lace curtains hang like down turned eye lashes in the tall lean rectangular windows that flank the door. Inside, shelves are littered with an array of antiques and ruffled niceties. Crystal platters lay among potpourri sachets tied with bronze colored satin ribbons. Fluted flower vases display little pink rosebuds with thread frayed edges and sprays of tiny acrylic pearls. Most prevalent however are the crowded rows of fine china dolls, forced together like schoolgirls for a class picture. They are lined up together on shelves high and low. Shiny little ringlets of amber, gold, and chestnut hang out from under sailors caps and bonnets and around smiling cherub faces. Red lips, pink lips, peach lips, perfect little noses, and dimpled cheeks, creamy unmarred complexions, all of these features complement their merrily sparkling glass eyes. Blue, green, brown, and even violet, they look out from under thick dark eyelashes, unblinking and unperturbed, frozen in an eternal moment of mirth.
Many clean little dresses hang from racks upon the walls. They are of various sizes and styles, all handmade of satin, crepe, lace, and cotton, accented with little satin rosebuds and bows. A small counter built of panels of white wood plays hostess to a cash register set on top of an over sized crochet doily. The dolls wait expectantly along the walls throughout the store, but those behind the register seem especially demanding of adoration. They are piled upon tiers of shelving behind the little white counter, legs dangling from under luxurious little petticoats.
There are boxes on the floor filled with older dolls of less refinement and worth. Cabbage patch dolls with rubber faces and hair of yellow or orange yarn lie face down among an endless supply of grinning Troll dolls with their tanned pot bellies and tufts of neon hair. An old broken rocking horse is hidden in one corner, lost among the new white wicker carriages designed for carrying elegant dolls. A rusty blue and yellow aluminum top keeps it company, as well as an old tin lunch box turned so that its face can’t be seen. The space itself is very narrow and all of the antiques and toys, seem almost invisible crowded as they are, each stealing the others thunder. The overall effect is an atmosphere of clutter. Only the china dolls behind the register can contend with the silent clamor, drawing attention to themselves through their sameness and unity of perfection.
A powder blue door leads into a small back room another two steps down. In here there are more boxes filled with things that wouldn’t fit or fetch a high price. The majority of the space is occupied by a large, neatly made brass bed attended by an armoire and a petite dresser with an oval mirror. There is a window behind the bed with a sheer white curtain hung over it. Light breathes in through the gossamer fabric, and the shadows of greenery on the other side can be seen pressing upon the glass. Another door opens into a bathroom no bigger than a closet. Within, the porcelain is white and clean and the golden fixtures are polished to gleaming brightness. The floor however, reveals its age in the form of cracked tiles and yellowed grout.

The Portal

The earth is covered in dying golden brown grass and leafy hip-high bushes of a blackish-blue hue. Scattered upon the landscape are oak trees, their bark and tiny leaves have absorbed and manifested the darkly colored images that play upon the landscape of heaven. Thick cloud covers have layered themselves upon the sky. Grand streaks of gray and blue sweep overhead, each displaying a slightly different shade of darkness. Despite the clouds, the predominant color is a deep reddish black. It is as though the air itself is red, an invisible red that is somehow tangible at the same time. It is not a bright joyous color, but more of a muted blood mixed with black and nebulous star systems. In all directions, the landscape continues unabated… just grass, trees and shrubs and the dominant sky force. Among this place is a dug-out piece of earth, a large hole about 7 feet deep. The hole resembles a rectangle, because of its two longer opposing sides, but it is also so organically carved that it looks like a choppy oval. The walls of the hole are solid, but very small patches of green grass grow sporadically in the slight grooves and miniscule crevasses of soil. The cutaway earth is rich in minerals, the soil is moist and dark and little pieces of sediment flicker in the light. In the center of the trench, a young woman lays on her left side, maintaining her balance with her left forearm. Her voluptuous hip pushes itself up and forward, offering itself to the gods. She lays like a muse to a painter, relaxed and soft, a soft sensual earth creature dwelling in its place. Her skin is pale and white, and her hair is light, a golden orb of curls and sparkling streaks. She has on rags, a tattered shirt of white linen and a frayed peanut-shell colored skirt. Towards one tip of the hole, where her head is closest to it, there is an open tunnel. Just large enough for a human to crawl through, it is in the direct center of the earth wall. The space inside is completely black, not a sliver of light goes in or comes from it. Resting on her left arm, she uses her right hand to scoop up handfuls of earth. She cups mud colored like pale peaches, the sediment is soft and smooth in her hand and she rubs the thick liquid on her face, painting herself with its color. She takes another handful of mud, this one slightly yellow in color. She rubs it over her hips. Another scoop, this handful contains eggshell colored mud. The silt drips from her forehead, follows a path down her chin. She covers herself in handful after handful of mud, each a slightly different hue of the spectrum found within stone and soil.

Old Apartment

It is a short dead end alley, just off a busy street. On each outer corner there is a large 2 story house, protected by metal bars, broken glass and a tall brick wall. Further down, there is another brick wall and a gate that doesn’t quite hide a long driveway. In front of that is a small apartment building, gray unpainted walls and another thick metal gate that rolls open on tiny wheels. That gate is currently open and leads to a small driveway covered in adobe bricks. At the end of the alley, there is a small parking lot and an old hotel sign made of steel. The actual hotel building is off to one side and is hidden by trees and large bushes. Two middle aged men with small machine guns hanging from their shoulders sit leisurely talking to a giggling maid in a blue outfit. Another man, skinny, brown and wrinkled, wearing a large straw hat and a large machete around his waist, walks back and forth among the cars. The cars are new and polished, most of them with polarized windows and shiny metal logos. In the distance, there is the sound of busy traffic and of a Mariachi band, combined with the barking of dogs and loud laughter.
There is a fourth large house, directly next to one of the hidden walls of the hotel. Its front is completely covered by a 20 feet tall brick wall and two black metal gates. On one of them the words "no parking" are painted. The paint is starting to fade and crack. There are two tiny bell ringers next to the large gates, each with two separate buttons. A smaller door is incorporated into the gate and it is half open. From inside comes the sound of soft conversation and the sporadic clicking of a mechanical typewriter.
There is another door a few feet away, which is closed. That door leads to a small stairway, made of concrete slabs hooked together by a steel framework, that ends in a wooden door. Behind the door is a small apartment, consisting of 3 rooms and a bathroom. The front room is long and narrow. There is a window that faces a gray concrete roof and is covered in metal bars arranged in diagonal patterns. There is a wide, flat couch on the opposite wall and a very small black and white TV in the corner. On the other side of that wall, there is a larger square room, which is almost completely unfurnished, except for a small bed that sits in one corner, carefully made and covered by a colorful blanket. In the farthest corner of that room, there is another door which has been permanently shut. The third room, which connects to the first room by an open doorway, is even larger and slightly more furnished. There is a large bed, unmade and disheveled, in the center, a large and noisy metal fan that slides back and forth on its base as it gyrates, a small wooden armoire in one corner and a second black and white TV. On the floor there is a large open suitcase, the clothes inside thrown in all different directions, unfolded and disorganized. Connecting the two bedrooms, there is a small bathroom, with two doors that don’t close. Inside, there is a slightly dirty shower stall, an old fashioned toilet and a light blue sink, faded and stained.
A man sits in the first room, on the couch. He is about twenty five years old and about six feet tall. He is very skinny and has a long pony tail that trails to the middle of his back. He is wearing a stained white button shirt and black corduroy pants. The shirt is unbuttoned all the way to the waist and it’s drenched in thick sweat. The man’s face and body are also covered in thick sweat. Several scents mingle with his body odor: a slight hint of woman’s perfume, a dash of old fashioned men’s cologne and the strong aroma of a woman’s arousal. He is laying back on the flat couch, looking up at the ceiling and towards the barred window. His eyes are wide open and full of wonderment. His hands periodically clench and release. His mouth mutters the trails of unfinished thoughts, implied questions and broken statements. Every so often, he stretches and exhales loudly. Then his eyes return to the ceiling and the window and the muttering continues. In the distance, a dog barks again and, inside the room, the electric fan continues its droning, overpowering the man’s soft whispers and the sporadic sound of cars driving by outside.

After Hours Theater

The mall is old and complex. Rather than a single unified design, it appears to have suffered a number of structural additions and modifications through its history, creating an architectural collage where classical styles meet modern and some corners are unplanned combinations of both. In the lower levels, there are long aisles, adorned with tall green plants and small lawns surrounded by metal bars. Over these alleys are narrow bridges that connect the upper areas, combinations of large department stores and restaurants and smaller businesses that are just a little more than holes in the wall. In the higher levels, the predominant wall color is red, but it is punctuated by some white and yellow. In the lower levels, the green of the plants contrasts with the red brick of the paths, the black metal bars and the white walls. The entire place is surrounded by a large parking lot, also organized by large flat level steps that connect through ramps.
Most of the lot is empty and most of the stores are closed. A single old fashioned diner has its lights on, but the chairs are turned upside down on the tables. A bookstore in the lower level is open but there is nobody inside, not even a shopkeeper. Aside from a very few stragglers that scurry about from one dark corner to another, the whole place is silent and desolate, bathed in twilight and the echoes of distant footsteps.
In one of the upper levels, there is an old movie theater, the kind that has several screening rooms. There corner where it sits appears to be specially forgotten and slightly dirty, a place that has been passed by. A long ticket booth, covered in thick glass with small openings for the exchange of money, is still buzzing with the light and sound of its high fluorescent lamps, but there are no ticket sellers. The lobby, covered in a thick red striped carpet, is clean and lit as well, but there are no ushers to be seen. There are small benches on the sides of the lobby, and tall ashtrays and waste baskets standing next to them. Some of the ashes on the trays are still burning.
Shiny posters outside announce the movies that are currently playing inside: two different horror movies, three romantic comedies, a western, a detective story and a drama. Inside, there are several sets of heavy doors that lead to the various theaters. All of them are closed, but an electronic ticker above each one still announces the movies and the hours at which they play. Beside one of the doors, there is a different poster, for a very old black and white movie, showing an elegant woman smoking a very long cigarette and an angry man in a suit and tie, a large drop of sweat dripping across his forehead.
Inside one of the theaters, a horror movie plays. Scenes of violence, fear and pursuit alternate with shorter moments of silence and calm. The light reflects on the screen and vaguely illuminates the few spectators that remain in the room.
There is a young woman in a white shirt and a black skirt. She leans back on her seat, her eyes fluttering between the screen and the theater. Sometimes they close, and she appears to be asleep, but then they open suddenly and she examines her surroundings once again. She is very small, of light skin and black hair. She appears to be concerned about something but doesn’t move away from her seat.
A man sits two rows behind her. He is wearing a thick winter jacket and blue jeans. He is about thirty years old and his eyes also alternate between being shut and watching the screen. Sometimes he looks at the girl that sometimes looks back at him. For a moment they share a moment of questioning, then they both turn back and close their eyes. He is a bit overweight and has the beginnings of a scraggly beard around his chin and cheeks. For an instant, his forehead shows signs of worry, but he leans back once again and concentrates on the film.
The third spectator is an older woman that sits towards the back, on the left hand corner of the theater. She is dressed in a light beige business suit, skin colored stockings and high heels. She has a black leather bag on her lap which she clutches tightly between her thin, slightly wrinkled hands. She recurrently looks to the exit, as if contemplating leaving, but then she looks back at the screen and becomes absorbed in the action once again. Her lips open and close constantly, saying something very softly over and over again.
The scenes of panic and bloodshed continue to play on the big screen before them. The same few people are being killed over and over. The movie is not progressing to an ending and there is no memory of where it started, if it ever did. When the light is particularly bright, the woman looks at her two companions and her muttering becomes just slightly louder.

Gathering

It is a large open space, inside a vast modern building. The roof is very high and slightly curved, and scattered throughout are many thick white columns. The walls are white as well, punctuated by light brown and black adornments along the edges. There are large banners high up on the walls and smaller posters at eye level. There are small booths arranged in long rows, forming a criss cross pattern through the hall. Each booth has one or two sellers showing off their items or their skills. People walk from one booth to another, asking questions, admiring the merchandise, talking to each other and sometimes buying a piece. The products are of a wide variety. Some people are selling books and magazines, others sell paintings, sculptures or posters. Others sell unique items: a rare letter from a legendary author, a cross encrusted with the bones of saints, an exotic musical instrument that consists of several layers of cymbals connected by a metal cylinder, a silver scepter said to be from a lost civilization. The sellers are of a wide variety as well. Some are old and sly, wearing overcoats and hats, their eyebrows slant upwards and their smiles seem frozen in place. They know what to say and how to say it, they can respond quickly to any question and have a way of holding their audience in place. Others are young and inexperienced. They sit behind their products, hoping someone will want them and they smile weakly when asked a question, as if asking for forgiveness or pity from the onlookers. The noise of the salesmen and the crowd that moves around them is echoed through the huge space, forming a constant wall of sound that vibrates and feedbacks upon itself.
The entire place is surrounded by a garden. There are several doorways to the garden and they are all open, allowing a gentle breeze to flow through. Outside, people sit, eat and talk. There are many stone paths that connect a multitude of stone tables. There are many cement benches as well, surrounding large carefully trimmed bushes. Several large trees provide shade and there is a large open lawn where kids play. A young boy examines the magical stick that his Dad just bought him. His eyes are full of wonder as they caress every detail of the engravings that cover the stick. The father sits a few feet away, reading a new book while he eats a hot dog. A slight brunette girl poses for her boyfriend wearing a new shiny dress and a pearl necklace she just got. The boyfriend, a young surfer in jeans and a T-shirt, sits and nod in appreciation. An older man with a beard sits with his back against a tree, observing the crowd as it moves past him.
Inside, there is a smaller area that is separated from the main hall only by some bookcases and tables, giving the impression of a self contained room. There are many people there, sitting on metal chairs, arranged like a small theater. They all hold their attention on a middle aged skinny man that stands on a small stage as he speaks onto a microphone. The words that he speaks align with the noise, forming a kind of smooth verbal harmony with the endless conversation that resonates against the walls. A thin blonde woman, wearing a light flowery summer dress, is standing in the midst of the audience and she sings back at the speaker, repeating his words with high melodic flourishes. People applaud sporadically as the woman continues to sing and the man continues to speak. The rational subject of the speech has been lost but something else has been found and it now bounces back and forth between the man and his microphone and the open mouth and heart of the brave innocent singer. An invisible sphere surrounds them and sets them apart from the loud chaos all around. Each word from the man and each high note from the woman seem to expand out and curve around the sphere and give it substance and shape, a kind of almost perceptible translucent blue veil. A woman has noticed what is happening and with her eyes closed, admires their ethereal construction.

Tickets

"Tickets!" the old woman shouts. Her hair is a dull gray mess of tangled curls which bob placidly just above her shoulders. Her bold lipstick contrasts glaringly with her faded sweatshirt and dirty jeans. She winds her way around the aluminum picnic benches, eyeing everyone, aged penny loafers sifting dust up from the dirt floor. "Tickets!", she demands. No one escapes her vulture like gaze, no worm or grub will crawl through this carcass and escape her greedy maw. Once received, she tears them with her withered hands. Maroon polished finger tips separate the serrated edges, breaking through the matte red paper board like beastly talons. Relishing the moment, she hands back the stubs with calculated sloth. Those without tickets scatter from her path and make their way to the ticket counter. It is a tiny shanty built of aluminum paneling, cardboard, and scrap.
A younger woman, hair pulled back in a boorish chestnut pony tale, sells the tickets from within, peering out the window of a door removed from a white pickup truck. The raised bucket seat upon which she sits has also been salvaged from a gutted wreck. She wears no make up and avoids eye contact and chit chat with the patrons. When forced to answer a question her voice conveys an apocalyptic lack of enthusiasm. Her dull blue eyes are like mirrored surveillance glass; she sees right through everything and everyone, but none can see behind their perpetually bored glare.
Beyond the ticketing area, the stage is no more than a generous patch of dirt surrounded by private boxes which resemble chicken coops. Each coop contains a queen sized bed. Huddled upon one, a group of teenage girls chatter and chew gum. Their hair is long, their earrings dangly and fashioned in neon colors. They wear hoodies of gray and black. Some don patches sewn or tacked on with safety pins. Squeezed into tight fitting denim cigarette pants, they giggle and gossip about the occupants of other boxes while painting their fingernails a whitchy shade of metallic purple.
In another box, a man and woman lie on their sides making love half under the sheets. Their down tempo thrusting and wiggling is in plain view. The woman, a waif like blonde, murmurs and moans volubly as her companion slowly presses his erect penis into her glistening slit, then just as slowly pulls it all of the way out again.
Yet another box holds an elderly Asian couple. They sit with impeccably upright posture, glancing furtively over at the passionate lovers. The woman’s hair is cut in a short black bob. The crisp collar of her blouse is visible over the v neck of an apple red sweater. The man’s face is flecked with sun spots folded into his wrinkles. He wears a powder blue fisherman’s cap to conceal his bald head. Both wear white socks under their sandals. They look from the lovers to their own bed with its tacky flowered comforter anxiously, trying to occupy the least amount of space possible, while wondering how often the sheets are washed. They speak to one another occasionally in short hurried snippets of Chinese, affirming their mutual concern and disgust.
Some elders share a box with a bedraggled pack of punks and street kids. The top dog is an older man with a sandy colored beard. He wears tattered blue jeans and a faded red tee shirt to reveal arms adorned with dull green tattoos. A single petite gold hoop hangs from one stretched looking earlobe. He is well recognized by everyone in his box, and among many of the spectators in other boxes. He holds a smoking cigarette in his left hand while gesturing with it towards a red record held in his right hand as he tells a "story of the time when…" with great conviction in its relevance. The younger boys look on with admiration and nod their hooded heads approvingly.
White Christmas lights, strung from coop to coop, provide some scant illumination. The pit at the center of the ring of boxes is lit by a handful of stage lights. Their haunting glow is cast over the dirt and extends into the boxes so that the shabby motel quality beds cast eerie shadows.

Sacred Mountain

A wide grassy field extends from a small parking lot to the edge of the forest. In the lot, there are several cars and trailers parked. Some of them are locked down, others are being unloaded by small groups of men and women. Most of them wear jeans and T-shirts sprayed with bright rainbow colors. An old man sits by his trailer, braiding sage sticks and telling stories. A young blond woman dances dreamily while a skinny boy plays the guitar and hums an improvised tune. Several men carry drums to a small circle at the end of the asphalt. The smell of marijuana flows throughout the space and people laugh intermittently without any obvious joke having been told. The field beyond the lot is quiet. From a distance, it appears as a flat blanket of even grass, but up close, the grass is tall and thick, and it hides a treacherous layer of red stones and muddy dirt. There is no clear path through it, only the quiet mystery of the green leaves and the dark earth beneath. Closer to the forest, the grass is thinner and the rocks are replaced by tiny pebbles and broken twigs. The trees are thick and old, crowned with complex webs of leaves and branches, which intermingle with each other, forming a continuous dark green roof that only allows for some light to come through.
At the edge of a small incline, there is a small orange tent. There are two sleeping bags inside and two large backpacks. One is light gray and has been left against a very thick root that marks a natural boundary around the campground. The other one is light brown and is next to the tent. Birds sing continuously as they flutter from one treetop to another and every once in a while the sound of a drummer testing his instrument travels over the field.
Above the incline, there is a clearing. Its floor is made of a thick layer of twigs and rich brown soil. In the soil, there are five circles of white stones arranged in a particular geometric pattern. Each circle is wide enough for two people to sit in comfortably. Above each there is a small drawing on the dirt. The sky is a dark blue, cloudless but no longer bright. The full moon can be seen along with some very bright stars. Looking up from the center (where one of the white stone circles is placed), the stars themselves seem to form a vast circle directly above the clearing.
One hundred feet away, there is a smaller clearing overlooking a steeper cliff. Here there are many broken bottles, piled up into a kind of rough pyramid. A short thick man stands over the pile, wearing a light brown hat and eating a power bar. He surveys the whole area, the trees, the bottles, the field and the gathering near the parking lot. Every so often he smiles. A second man, taller and skinnier than the first, sits on a dead tree a few feet away from him. He is wearing a blue jeans jacket and black corduroy pants. He drinks water quietly from a metal canteen and looks up at the mountain.
Towering above it all, the mountain appears to carefully observe these small beings that stand at its feet. It is crowned by a single wide peak and two smaller ones on either side. At the top, it is lightly touched by snow and ice, and several wide crevices, covered in tall trees and darkness, that extend all the way to the bottom. Columns of pine trees reach all the way to the edge of the huge rocks that surround the tallest summit. A sense of quiet purpose flows from the top, all the way to the two men, the clearing, the field and the people in the parking lot. A sporadic flashing light cuts through the silent twilight of the forest every so often, twinkling rhythmically with a simple ancient form of communication.
The two men look around themselves and at each other, and they calmly wait, breathing slowly.

Endless School

The hallways extend in all directions, connected by stairways and ramps. Each hallway is lined with doors that lead to classrooms. There is a constant noise that swarms through the place, bouncing off the walls, seeping through little holes, taking sharp turns around corners. The walls are of different colors, some white, some blue, some bright red. The stairways are all metallic silver. No area is the same as another. The colors and turns intersect in unpredictable ways and form new structures in every direction. Most of the doors are closed, each with a number and a bulletin board to the right, most of them empty. There is a sense of a crowd but no sign of it, loose words and laughter flash through the noise here and there but nobody can be seen walking through the halls, up the stairways or into the rooms.
The building complex sits on top of a large grassy hill and continues inside of it. The structure extends under the earth and pokes out from gaps here and there, along the slopes of grass and between little patches of tall ancient trees. A wide concrete stairway cuts the hill in two and leads to a center plaza, a round space covered in concrete with a tall single sculpture at its center. The sculpture is a very abstract representation of a man with arms extended upwards. It towers over the plaza impressively, at least 30 feet tall. At its base there is a large bronze metal plaque that says "above" in a vast number of languages and alphabets. From afar the surface of the sculpture seems to be light gray, up close, it has a slightly green color.
The large central stairway leads to a secondary building complex at the bottom. Its first level is lined with glass doors, all of them closed and dark. Its second level is twice the height of the first one and it is made of a single large window that acts as a huge mirror, reflecting the buildings above it. There are further stairways on either side that continue moving downward. Inside the main building there is large lobby, with couches and tables. There are newspapers still open and scribbled post it notes scattered over the tables. Wooden doors to the south lead to a small movie theater. The main screen is blank but the projector is on, spilling pure light onto the white surface. There is a book open on the podium and a stack of papers on a small table to the right.
To the left of the screen, there is a small doorway. It leads to a dark staircase going downward. It ends in an even darker hallway, where the walls are painted black and the only light comes from small lights that are over 50 feet apart from each other. Beside each light is a door, unmarked and locked. The hallways extends back into the depths of the hill. As it reaches deeper, the air becomes more oppressive and the walls are covered in moisture. The sound of the crowd above is deafening, almost making the ceiling shake, and it is contrasted with tiny drops of water that echo with a bright crystalline clarity.
At the very bottom of the hill, the hallway opens up into a circular room. There are three other long hallways extending away from this room. In the very center, there is small pool. Above the pool, the ceiling is open and it extends upwards as a smooth concrete cylinder. In the center of the pool, there is a small concrete pedestal and on top of it, a golden chalice full of blood. On its side there is a large bronze metal plaque that says "below" in a vast number of languages and alphabets. The noise that extends through the whole underground seems to be loudest in this place, resonating through the cement cylinder that extends up towards the plaza and the tall sculpture above.

Powder Room

An archway leads from the main chamber to the bath and powder room. Just beyond its semi elliptical frown, the mirror shimmers, reflecting the world it can see, perfectly inverted. Around its edges, titian and cream colored seashells are arranged, framing the view. A large starfish adorns the counter, flanked on both sides by more ruffled seashells. Its top is void of cosmetics. Only a silver handled comb and hair brush lie waiting, attended by a row of empty perfume bottles fashioned of crystal and Egyptian glass. A velvet upholstered antique stool adds it’s own flourish to the baroque powder room. It is invitingly large, it’s fawn colored cushion, rectangular in shape, suggests that more than one lady could sit here if necessary. The cast iron legs bow flamboyantly, looking as if they wish to clearly demonstrate that they have held the weight of elegant women for at least the last hundred years. The bath is beside the powder room, through another open doorway. There is a Roman air about it, not only because it is larger than necessary for a solitary bather, but also because of the manner in which it is set in the floor, in the center of the room. The tiles are all white with blue designs like Dutch delftware. There are steps built inside the bath, like the steps of a swimming pool. They extend around the entire perimeter of the bath, which, like the stool and mirror in the powder room, is rectangular. The entire space seems to be designed for lounging both in and out of the bath. Tile settees are positioned with the walls as backings. Fresh towels and white terry cloth robes hang plentifully from ornate hooks on the walls. An additional surplus is folded and stacked on one of the four settees. They have been carefully laundered so that they are soft and springy to the touch and smell of unscented detergent. In the main chamber, the carpet is a pearly mocha shag which extends into the powder room. There are a pair of complimentary dressers, one tall and one short, both simple and unassuming in appearance. Fashioned of a dark stained wood they rest against their respective walls hugging their empty drawers and looking important. The short one is wider and supports a mirror. Strings of glass beads hang from the mirrors corners, (it too is rectangular). Both dressers are home to doilies, books of pressed flowers, and decoratively placed pearls. An antique crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling catching the light and transforming it into glittering butterflies. It’s lead crystals are amber hued. The bed is big and well dressed in a subtle paisley and tone-on-tone diamond jacquard comforter peeled back to reveal Egyptian cotton sheets. The thread count is high enough that they shine like ivory satin. In their tangled midst, nestled among the strewn pillows, two figures negotiate their positions in relation to one another. The man is both muscular and pudgy with the strength of a wrestler. His sandy colored hair has been buzz cut so that the rolls of flesh at the nape of his neck are visible when he moves his head. His buttocks appear to be a little flat and a long lions tale extends from above the crack. Completely nude, he alters his position as coerced by the woman who motivates him by rubbing between his legs until she can hold his erect penis in her hand and stroke it. The long blond hair cascading over her shoulders teases his skin. The bright red lipstick painted on her supple lips contrasts with the lavender corset and thong that squeezes her breasts to attention while leaving her soft rear exposed. Their negotiations are difficult and quarrelsome. A steel sword rests against the bedside, it’s point sinking into the shag.

Red Light

The bright light of early afternoon has blanketed the one-way city street. There are an assortment of semi- tall buildings and skyscrapers, some are sleek and new, their mirrored windows reflecting the perfect blue sky. Other are smaller, only ten stories high, remnants from an early period of architecture and city planning, the building faces are decorated with colorful tile work, geometric brick patterns, and wrought iron gates. The street is composed of three lanes, and I sit idling in the center lane, waiting at a red light. My hands are resting on the top of my steering wheel, gripping it out of habit. Within the small cab of my black truck, I feel the heat of the day amplified by the windshield. I am wearing a low cut T-shirt, and the exposed skin on my chest is warm and red from the sunlight. To my right is a man in a silver car, his hairy arm hangs out the window, his pudgy hand holds a burning cigarette. The smell surrounding me is a mix of smoke, car exhaust, and asphalt.
To my left is a liquor store, a black man in a black beanie emerges from the store with a poorly disguised vodka bottle in a paper sack. A short white man wearing a gray sweatshirt stands outside the entrance, smoking a cigarette. He looks up and down the street often, squinting his eyes with each inhalation. On the other side of the street is a small office supply store and an abandoned-feeling real estate office. Men in business suits move quickly on the sidewalks, a woman in a knee length brown skirt pushes a baby carriage toward the city center, and delivery men come and go with carts full of perishables.
My car window is open, and the sounds of accelerating cars and muffled ranchero music enters the space. There is a man pressed against my car. He is leaning in my window, his hands holding onto the steering wheel. As our eyes lock, he alternates between a human form, with distinguishable features and then, into a shadowy body with no face. He wears all dark clothes, black pants and a black hooded sweatshirt, and atop his bald head is a black hat. I smell his clothes, dirty and reeking of staleness. His face alternates from one of blackness without any shape to one of olive skin and a vague, stubbly beard. When he has eyes, they are dark brown and piercing, his eyebrows are thick with many long stray hairs turning away from any clear formation. He holds the wheel firmly with no intention of letting go.