Smoke and Mirrors Electronic Magazine 1993

Smoke and Mirrors Electronic Magazine
    Vol. I No. 2  - April 1993.
This issue is formatted for the READROOM
door. It also includes a small text reader
for off-line reading. This version of
Smoke and Mirrors does not require IRIS.
This version also does not include any
of the VGA gifs.

 ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ

 ???????????????????????????Smoke and Mirrors ??????????????????????????????

 ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß

         Writing is an art and a science . . . and a little bit of magic.

    The storyteller is sleight-of-hand artist, guiding his audience with

    feint and flair.  The storyteller's aim is to entertain and inform by

    weaving a web of words scintillating to the senses.  Writers are

    storytellers, above all else.

         Gathered here are storytellers.  Poetry, fiction, gardening,

    and cooking--with a little bit of legerdemain in all.  It's all just

    smoke and mirrors . . .

 ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ

 °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°Laudamus Te°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°by Cecilio Morales

 ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß

                    Great dollar god

                    gracious dime

                    in this our time the unshod revile thee.

                    We work for thee

                    we give thee thanks

                    we whisper in thy Holy Banks

                    we bow before NASDAQ

                    before Dow;

                    the beggar knows not how.

                    

                    Infidel, he squanders healing

                    treasures not thy budget ceilings:

                    Panderer to the poor;

                    his spoor, a trail of children wanton,

                    haunts thy grail, skill-less,

                    debasing productivity and growth:

                    Thy hand, invisible, shall smite him.

                    

                    Thy prophets profit

                    thine acolytes count

                    thy trust rides secure the dreaded bust

                    thy stocks unlock the horn of plenty;

                    turn thy gaze to us, thy workers,

                    we discount all gloom

                    (at its proper rated credit)

                    and we abate the debit

                    of payroll-bloating shirkers.

                    

                    How sweet the scent of anxiety

                    its piety

                    its spur to maximize!

                    We awaken to thy prizes

                    to our video and to our VCR,

                    to our car, without a care ...

                    small, unstoppable

                    the urge to hold Thee in the palm;

                    another day, another pay

                    thy grace speeds my pace

                    leaves the maudlin to their own.

                    I avoid the goblins of doubt

                    and the pints of stout

                    that degrade and threaten thy empire:

                    I devote to Thee, to appeal and to desire,

                    my finest waking hours.

                                   ---

            

                 Copyright (c) 1992 by Cecilio Morales      

 ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ

 °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°Lead Antimonate Yellow°°°°°°°°by Phil Gottfredson

 ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß

                Some time back, we were discussing the fact

        that the Old Masters would use white pigment only as a

        highlight, and that they would cut their colors with a pale

        yellow to keep the colors from graying out.  I promised you

        that I would research what the yellow pigment was that was

        used to lighten other colors, and allowed the lightened

        colors to remain translucent, which doesn't happen when you

        lighten your colors with white pigments.  Bear in mind that

        there are both opaque and translucent versions of this

        pigment, the latter being a lake color.

                Lead Antimonate Yellow dates to the

        sixteenth-fourteenth century B.C.  It was the only yellow

        pigment in use in the Egyptian and Mesopotamian glazes.

                This pigment was most likely obtained from the

        deserts of Egypt, and the regions of Asia Minor, Greek

        islands, and Persia.  Since the ore was refined to pigment

        largely in Naples Italy, it was given the name of Naples

        Yellow.  The most historic formula would be Pb(SbO2)2 and

        Pb2Sb2O7 mixed with barium sulfate.

                The Naples Yellow of today is most likely an

        imitation of the original formulas, but I believe it is

        still available from a good Colorman, which I'm sure you

        have access to in your area.  Please keep in mind

        that because of the original Naples Yellow being made from

        Lead, and also containing tin, this is highly toxic, and

        today's manufacturers of the pigment will have eliminated

        the lead and are probably making the pigment from chromium

        and sulfates.  But the idea of not using pure white as a

        dillutant for other pigments resulting in dull and murky

        colors is the point of this discussion.  The Old Masters

        used white as a highlight only, this being the reason that

        their palettes were so translucent and opalescent.

                You want Pale Yellow, over moderate, or dark.

                A good example of its use can be seen in the

        painting "Arrest of Christ" by Matthias Stomer (1630-1632),

        and works by Thomas Bardwell (1704-1767), Rubens, and may I

        add that it was also extensively used in stained glass. 

                                    -end-

                     Copyright (c) 1993 Phil Gottfredson

 ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ

 °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°Jane's Baked Grits°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°by Jane Winer

 ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß

      Follow cooking instructions on Quaker Quick Grits box for "Stove"

      Top."  While grits are cooking add: 1/2 stick butter, 1/2 Cup or

      more of chopped onion, 1/2 Cup or more of grated sharp cheddar, 1

      Tablespoon of dry mustard, and 2 lightly beaten eggs.  You may

      wish to add a little cayenne pepper while cooking.

      

      When cooked, pour mixture into a buttered casserole and bake in a

      preheated 350ø oven for 20 minutes.  Sprinkle top with

      paprika.

      

      Serve hot.  Leftovers may be sliced and fried for breakfast, or

      topped with chili for an anytime snack.

      

      Adapted from "Fun for the Cook" from Satsuma Tea Room in

      Nashville, Tennessee.  If you are ever in Nashville, be sure to

      lunch downtown at Satsuma for authentic Southern cooking!

      

                                             ... Jane Winer      

 ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ

 °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°I'm Getting Better?!?°°°°°°°°°°°°°°by Michael Hahn

 ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß

        I'm turning thirty-five this month.  Yeah, I know it's not

    supposed to be a big deal, but after a lifetime of filling out

    forms of one kind or another, I find myself moving into a new set

    of demographics.  It's the box titled "Age:"

             -----------------------------------------------

             under 18 []  18-34 []  35-55 [] 55 and older []

             -----------------------------------------------

    and for the last sixteen years, I've been in the second category.

    This year I join the folks in the 35-55 range.

        What does it mean, exactly?  Well, those under 18 are "just

    kids."  The 18-34 crowd is composed of "young adults."  I'm moving

    into the bracket called "middle age."  Middle age.  It brings to

    mind mid-life crises, where middle-aged men divorce their wives,

    buy toup‚es, and date high school cheerleaders.  Middle age means

    spreading waistlines, gray hair (provided you don't lose it

    first), and a whole new set of creaks and groans.  Middle age is

    when the music of your youth is now playing on the oldies station.

        I guess I'm one of the lucky ones.  I still have my hair, I'm

    only ten pounds overweight, and I haven't developed any particular

    attraction to teen-aged girls yet.  The creaks and groans are

    beginning to surface, though, and I've found a couple of strands

    of silver among the blond locks.  The morning walk to the bathroom

    seems a little bit longer than it used to be.  I just quit my job

    of the last six and a half years to take a new job in a different

    field.  Oboy.  Mid-life crisis?

        Whatever the reason, I'm feeling this birthday a little more

    than the last few.  Maybe it's that little box on the form.  Maybe

    it's that I'm halfway between thirty and forty.  Maybe it's just a

    shortage of bran in my diet . . .

                                   -end-

                    Copyright (c) 1993 Michael R. Hahn 

                              MEMORANDUM

TO:       Mr. W. G. Caldwell, Senior Editor

          Washington Daily Journal

FROM:     Jeff Epstein

DATE:     March 28, 1993

SUBJECT:  Review of John's Diner

I have completed my assignment to review John's Diner for next

Thursday's Dining Out section, although I admit I am somewhat

confused concerning this matter.  Although I have grown accustomed

to many people in our fair city having some well placed political

connections, it baffled me as to why we would even consider

publishing anything about this particular restaurant.  I have since

learned that things are not always what they seem.  Following is a

collection of the notes which I have compiled concerning my recent

visit.

                         -   -   -

Somewhere along J Street near the heart of our nation's capitol can be

found John's Diner, an unusual dining establishment.  If you follow J

Street past the last of the male transvestite hookers of DuPont Circle,

going not quite to the fake Rolex vendors of Georgetown you can locate

the newest of Washington's pubs.  

John's Diner is sandwiched between the "Magic Crystal," a shop which

advertises metaphysical books, crystals, herbs and palm reading by

FAX, and a small rare bookseller who also peddles lottery tickets,

cheeses from around the world, and tatoos. It's an easy place to spot,

mostly due to the very creative and colorful neon sign which flashes

"EATS" in letters approximately four feet tall. Beneath this

monstrosity John boldly hawks his "Steaks, Chops, Cocktails, Beer,

Wine!" -- also noting that the Diner is open "24 hours."

Once my eyes managed to readjust and react to this visual assault, I

peered through the plate glass windows to note that a few people were

actually seated in the diner - in spite of the "CLOSED" sign which was

displayed prominently on the door.  A slight push to the door allowed

me entry into one of the more unusual places this reporter has visited.

The violation of my optic nerves which had been so painful on the

exterior of the Diner continued in earnest on the interior.  John's

Diner is filled with a collection of some of the most unusual

furnishings I've ever seen, a collection even the Salvation Army would

reject.

The bar was the least offensive of the furnishings, and was of a highly

polished cherry wood with the standard brass rail.  As I turned my

head from the bar I spotted 5 booths which were obviously original

equipment for the diner when it was first furnished in the early

nineteen twenties.  The booths had apparently not been refinished

since their installation, and boasted numerous tears, rips and

abrasions - many creatively mended with duct tape or merely covered

with scraps of cloth.  In addition to the booths there were five or six

tables, all different sizes and shapes.  These ranged from 1950s type

formica and chrome dinette tables to heavy round wooden antiques, all

in a state of obvious disrepair.  I noted that several of the tables

boasted huge chess sets and scrabble boards.  The odd collection of

tables was only surpassed by the accompanying chairs.  Truly a yard-

sale-junkies' gold mine, they consisted of every possible shape, color

and height.  There was even one obviously broken Barco-Lounger

which had been retired from use in some suburban home.

I returned my gaze to the bar where a smiling, bespeckled man was

wiping the polished surface with what appeared to be an old pair of

boxer shorts.  

            "Hi!" he said, "what can I do for you?"

I noted a distinctive southern drawl in the voice, and walked toward

the bartender saying "Hi, I'm Jeff Epstein from the Washington Daily

Journal.  I stopped by to take a look around for a possible article. You

are?"  The man behind the bar beamed and motioned to one of the bar

stools bearing numerous strips of duct tape.  "Have a seat.  John

Chambers, owner and barkeep." He stuck out his hand and continued,

"Coke or coffee?  Don't have my liquor license yet."

I asked for a coke, and watched John disappear around the corner of

the bar.  Located on the wall behind the bar was one of the most

fascinating paintings I had ever seen.  It was a view of Picadilly

Circus in London, and was painted to show the busy street scene at

sunset, just after a summer storm.  I gazed at the painting for a

moment, then noticed "John's Diner" on the left in pink neon,

positioned over one of the windows in the painting; on the right side,

in yellow, "Lucia Chambers, 1992" painted in as a theatre marquee.

To my left was a painting of swirls of blue and white, with a placard

underneath titling it "ANGELS by Michael Heinich DO NOT

TOUCH."

John returned with my coke and offered to show me around.

The first thing I noticed was a table in the corner of the bar that was

covered with a high structure made of saran wrap -- it looked like a

greenhouse.  "Oh, that's my wife Lucia's orchid collection," my host

explained. "Touch it and you're dead meat." I didn't touch it.  

We moved on, and John pointed out the ornate ceiling moldings,

custom-made by Phil Gottfredson, an incredible mural above the front

door of a french cafŠ street scene by "~MAX~" (Maxine Urso), and The

Bookcase. I should have noticed it sooner, because it ran the length of

wall along the longest row of tables. I jotted down some titles: "The

Collected Stories of Michael Hahn," "Ruby's Pearls Collectors' Set,"

"Poetry In Motion," "The Poetry of Cecilio Morales," "Recipes by Dave

and Jane Winer," and "Bedtime Stories, by Franchot Lewis."

Perched above The Bookcase, standing on a wooden dowel that

supported an incredible tapestry depicting the art of winemaking, was

a huge blue and gold macaw parrot, staring down at me with general

disfavor. He was just plain menacing. 

John told me the tapestry was by Karl Weiss and the bird's name was

Cosmo.  He said Cosmo was just a kid and didn't bite. I didn't believe

that for a second.

John opened a couple of doors and I couldn't see too well, but one was

a storeroom, another was the bathroom, and there was a huge room he

called "The Back Room" where a couple of people were screaming at

each other in Spanish.  

John offered me a meal and I accepted, expecting the worst. However,

John explained that while no-one fussed over any of the decor except

the orchid collection and the artwork, that John's Diner was about the

best food to be had in the District of Columbia!  The menu is a

gourmet fest.  John explained that the dining consultant, John

Wallace, has made a superb collection of dishes from different cooks in

the area. I took some notes off the menu: John's Teriyaki chicken,

Dave's Chili, Jane's Baked Grits, Dave's Foccacia bread, Jeff's Pasta

Salad, Debbie's Chicken Salad, Lucia's Rosepetal PatŠ, John's Bundy

Burgers...

I ordered the chili. It was delicious, and, I was told, contains a special

ingredient that Dave Winer will only tell while on a "Birdwalk,"

whatever THAT is.

I was so impressed with my meal, I asked John to introduce me to the

cook. John dragged out of the Back Room this guy who was whining

and screaming in Spanish and wringing his hands. John said, "This is

our chef, Raoul, please tell him you're not with Immigration.  He

doesn't speak much English.  We found him in a shopping cart out in

the alley."

Then, a tremendous noise shook the building. The walls shook, the

glasses rattled, and I thought we were having an earthquake.  A huge

motorcycle pulled onto the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. The

front door blew open.  The biggest guy I have ever seen in my life

stood in the doorway, blotting out the sun.  This wild-eyed fellow, well

over six feet tall and covered with tatoos, stared into the diner.  He

made a Hell's Angel look like Don Knotts. Suddenly I heard a woman's

voice coming from behind the man, "Get out of my way you idiot!" and

he was pushed aside by a petite woman with green legs who barged

into the bar yelling "John, Lucia!  We're here!"

The giant looked at the saran-wrap tent, his eyes grew big, and he

rushed over exclaiming "Phalaenopsis!  Lucia added a new

Phalaenopsis!  Give me some coffee while I look at the new orchid!"

The petite woman ran over to the macaw, yelling "David Look It's

Cosmo! We have fruit testicles Cosmo you sweet thing lookie what Del

brought for you!"

I didn't want to know. 

While Motorcycle Man "David" gushed over the orchids and "Del" fed

Cosmo strange yellow things shaped like walnuts and Raoul broke into

tears at the entrance to the "Back Room," I decided I should leave.

That's when I noticed the incredibly beautiful black Steinway partially

hidden behind the front door. The Steinway, as shiny and professional

as it looked, had some odd assortment of caramel and chocolate stuck

into the strings. John Chambers wouldn't say what had happened to

the piano except "Ruby" which I presume has something to do with an

exploded dessert glaze.

 

On top of the piano was a little bulletin board with some green

thumbtacks stuck into it. Ripped pieces of paper and dollar bills were

taped to the outer edges. Some of the tape was old and yellowed, but

the the newest covered a yellow post-it note that said, "Pen and

Brush, (703) 644-5196."  I plan to follow up some time, and give that

number a call.

(by John Chambers)

 ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ

 °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°Bringing On The Muse°°°°°°°by Phil Gottfredson

 ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß

             Bring on the Muse!  Muse is an interesting word, sounding

     indifferent to its intended meaning....."He mused awhile, but not

     in doubt, not trace of doubt was there, it was the steady solemn

     pause of resolute despair..." Is it not different for different

     people?  I muse awhile but not in doubt, no trace of doubt is

     there, just the steady solemn pause of resolute despair.

             Seriously.....I get my inspiration from the person I'm

     doing the work for.  I listen intently, not at the words so much,

     but to their heart.  I study the piece I'm framing, I look for

     line, balance, texture, color, subject, and most of all I try to

     see the piece I'm framing through the eyes of the Artist, or the

     client.  I use my imagination to empathize, feel what they feel,

     then channel that information to my artists' soul.  I become

     emotionally involved with my task, then I again channel that

     emotion into my artists' soul.  I then interpret all that I have

     heard and seen and felt into the piece I'm creating.  All of the

     parts and elements that I use to make my frame are my dictionary

     of terms, every color, every texture, each line and curve are

     words.

              To illustrate, I recall one evening when I sat with my

     client on the front steps of his house.  Above, the city below,

     we had this spectacular view of the valley.  In the distant sky

     was a thunderstorm, and as we watched the lightening and listened

     to the thunder, he told me something about himself when he was a

     boy.  "I was very frightened by thunderstorms," he said.." I would

     hide and cry and prayed that I would be okay.  When the clouds

     parted and I could see the shaft of yellow sunlight streaming

     through, I had hope, hope that all would be okay." He went on to

     say...."Phil, as you create the entry hall of my house, I want

     you to do something that will give me hope.  When I come home from

     a long day, tried and frightened from the battles I have fought

     to earn my keep, I want to come into this entry hall, look up and

     feel hope, hope that all is going to be okay."

             I sat there as the evening sun with its golden light

     broke through the clouds, just the way he had described it to me.

     I felt the warmth, I felt the hope about which he spoke.

             The focal point of the entry hall was the ceiling dome,

     twenty-two feet from the floor.  A perfect place to paint the

     storm that ends with the golden rays of hope.  Surrounding the

     dome, I placed seven mystical white horses with golden manes and

     hoofs emerging from the storm to carry my client to safety.

     Surrounding the dome and all its parts, I colored the ceiling

     with the softest azure blue, my way of saying, "All is well, all

     is well."

             As I relate this story, my eyes fill with tears.  I still

     feel the same emotions I had when he told me his story six

     years ago.  My client was an elderly man, and it was not easy for

     him to admit he was so vulnerable; to do so went against his

     ruthless masculinity.  As for me, being vulnerable is my asset,

     yet I'm ruthless when I create.

             My `muse' is awakened by my interreaction with the people

     for whom I create.  I engage them in conversation that causes them to

     share their passionate side, which sparks my imagination and

     desire to create for them in a way that has purpose in their

     lives.  I think motive has a lot to do with turning on the `muse;'

     without this interreaction with my clients, I have no `muse' at

     all, just wasted energy, and a palette of colors dry and covered 

     with dust.

                                      -end-

                        Copyright (c) 1993 Phil Gottfredson     

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 °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°Is There a Doctor in the Car?°°°°°°°°°°by Del Freeman

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          He replayed his friend's suggestions in his mind like

     fingering an endless string of worry beads. Should he? Should he

     not? No flower petals to disengage toward resolution of the

     problem. No eeney, meeney stuff. Only his own "good sense."

          "You have a problem," she'd said definitely. "Granted, it may

     be a problem no one knows about yet, but it is a problem with great

     potential for revelation. Now, just who do *you* think is in the

     best position to put a positive spin on it? I say this as your

     friend as much as a former investigative reporter, Don - take the

     bull by the horns before it throws you off and gores you to death.

          Well, he couldn't deny the good sense part. It could only help

     him to give his own interpretation - might even be a political

     asset, as she'd said, although he had his doubts. Still, facts were

     facts and if they came out - well, there would be nothing for it

     except to offer lame excuses that would ring as hollow as she said

     his head was if he didn't heed her advice.

          Jeez, what had ever possessed him to run for office in the

     first place, he wondered, knowing full well the answer. It was that

     part of his past life that best fed his ego - that time when he was

     firmly in office almost a decade ago - long before the booze

     brought him down from his lofty position; down all the way to his

     knees and beyond. Part of the challenge was to see if he could get

     there again. Part of it to see if he could resist the temptations

     which had destroyed him the first time around.

          He spoke about his recovery - frequently. She agreed with him

     that it was politically advantageous to do so. After all,

     statistics indicated the number of recovering addicts was maybe the

     only thing on the rise in the waning recession, which still clung

     to the economy like the aroma of early morning stale beer to a gin

     joint.

          "Hey, America loves a come-back," she said bluntly. "There

     are enough people recovering from something or other to put you in

     office with their votes alone, and the ones who've never been down

     and out will support you because they believe it is the humanely

     right thing to do. Who among your opponents is foolish enough to

     stand up and declare that you don't deserve a second chance?"

          He'd smiled. She was savvy, his new friend. He was inclined

     to trust her, despite their brief acquaintance. She'd moved to

     Miami after Andrew whipped through and left mounds of destruction,

     following her husband whose pseudo-construction line of work placed

     him in high demand and high remuneration. He'd liked the two of

     them immediately, but trust ... well, that was something else

     again. That she'd been an investigative reporter was an open fact.

     Whether she still was, was the question that bothered him; caused

     him to wake bathed in sweat after dreaming that the both of them

     were in cahoots to do an expos‚ on him. When he'd told her about

     that she'd only smiled. They both had.

          "It's only smart to reveal your shortcomings yourself,

     presenting them in your own spotlight, Don," she'd urged that

     morning. "God knows, the other side's spot is pretty intense and

     unforgiving.

          Hell, he knew that. What sort of moron did she think he was

     anyway? He'd figured all the odds before he'd gotten back into the

     crap shoot, and thought he had a pretty good chance. He also

     thought there was a good chance he'd skate through without

     detection. If he didn't, however, the advantage of presentation

     would be lost, just like she'd said. He felt like he was being asked

     to choose between column A, fatal accident, and column B, fatal

     disease. It was a little like committing suicide while still in

     perfect health.

          "What are you gonna' do lad," he murmured aloud. "What are you

     gonna' do?"

                                    ***

          The sunlight fell warmly on his thinning hair, bathing the

     crown of his head in a heat that caused a light perspiration to

     mist his brow. He shaded his eyes and looked up toward the podium

     where his opponent stood. Would he say it? Did he know? If so, it

     would be impossible to learn who might have told him... anybody

     could have done so.

          "Is that rental property where you live in the Gables, Mr.

     Harlan? Can you give me the name of your landlord?" The reporter

     had either been asking an idle question or was a heck of a 

     good actor. Don had casually answered that he was renting a room 

     from his former business partner while attempting to locate an 

     efficiency apartment in the area. The hurricane had placed a premium 

     on housing, as the reporter well knew, and Don thought his answer 

     had satisfied him, but the speaker's words would soon reveal 

     whether the phone interview had been a set-up.

          The empty rhetoric went on - droning like a fat, lazy bee. His

     thoughts drifted to the stunt that had turned this thing in his

     favor. That too, had been her idea. Of course, she'd presented it

     like a joke, laughing as she spoke. He'd laughed in response.

     Laughed, and then sobered. "Alert the media," she'd advised. "It

     can't hurt you, and it might just be the kick in the pants this

     campaign needs."

          And he'd done it - doubtful to the last. Still, she'd been

     right again. The media gathered around like zoo animals at feeding

     time - giving him the opening he'd needed and he'd swooped in for

     the kill. "That's a bit much, isn't it Mr. Harlan? Don't you think

     those who are truly down and out might resent this?" "What? Resent

     a man for carrying a sign saying 'Will work for votes?'" he'd

     countered. "I don't know why - it's true." "Sure, but everybody in

     the race is working for votes. What makes you different?"

          Ah! Pay dirt! Lord love the inquisitive, earnest-faced

     journalism graduate. He assumed his most serious expression.

         "You're incorrect in that assumption, sir, although it is a

     natural enough mistake. My worthy opponents are quite content to

     campaign for votes. Working for votes, however, is a concept

     totally foreign to the political persona. I think it's safe to say

     that I am the only one who will work for both votes and the

     voters."

          That had drawn a round of applause, some appreciative smirks.

     They had seen it coming - the veterans of campaigns of old - but

     they admired his finesse, just the same.

          The crowd's applause as his opponent finished up brought him

     back to the moment - the revelation obviously hadn't come. Stunned,

     almost as though he'd been awakened from a deep sleep, he felt

     himself moving lethargically toward the podium, slowly

     comprehending the latest narrow escape. Yes, he decided in the

     split second before he reached to adjust the microphone - yes, she

     was right. He'd bloody well do it.

                                    ***

          He looked out at the mass of smiley faces, recognized that of

     his friend and her husband. The husband smiled. It had been

     painful. And embarrassing. For a while, he thought he'd thrown away

     any chance he had. The press had questioned him - grilled him, more

     like. He'd held firm. She had sold her article, and it had helped

     as much as anything else. And she'd been right. Everywhere he went,

     people said they were for him - would vote for him. Hell, if he'd

     known it would be such a boost to his campaign, he'd have announced

     his candidacy from his back seat, he thought. Still, who could know

     the voters would understand a candidate who virtually lived in his

     car? And that's what it amounted to when it all boiled down. Maybe

     in another time, one less aware of how fast the good times can turn

     bad - some time when a killer hurricane and a faltering economy

     hadn't touched so many lives... . But this wasn't another time.

          They'd played it for that and a great deal more, maintaining

     that the address under which he'd qualified was that of a long-time

     friend; and a residence where he did occasionally sleep over,

     shower, shave, eat a meal; he'd also admitted that at least part

     of the time he lived in his car. And they'd bought it. In a Miami

     where the vacancy rate was less than one percent for rental

     property, the public understood and accepted his housing dilemma.

     In a world of therapeutic treatment for every known maladjustment,

     they respected his status as recovering alcoholic. The bugaboo had

     been let out of the closet, dressed in regalia of his choice and

     introduced to the world by his friend's article - in words he'd helped

     form. The image was favorable despite its dis favorable limitations.

          "See, I told you it could be turned to advantage," she'd said

     following publication of her article, when the phone at the AA club

     room had been ringing off the hook. "Who, but someone who's been

     there, could be as valued to the homeless, once in office? Look at

     these quotes...". Again, she was right. The newspaper was full of

     opinions from the man on the street, almost all saying they'd vote

     for what they considered one of their own. It had followed as

     naturally as could be - from his front-page photograph holding

     aloft the "will work for votes" sign as he stood in the middle of

     U.S. 1 afternoon traffic, to admitting that he, too, was literally

     as homeless and needy as the next guy holding a sign. It had been

     as easy as falling off the proverbial log. He looked out at the

     audience, caught her eye and nodded. And why not? He'd won easily.

     Thanks to her advice and skillful handling of the story, he was the

     first-ever homeless commissioner to be elected. He'd turned his

     addiction into an asset before she came along. She'd helped him

     turn his homelessness into the winning stroke.

          "Candidates will be moving into refrigerator cartons and old

     cars in droves," he'd laughingly predicted, patting the fender of

     his ancient Buick. "Unless somebody comes along who lives in a

     Volkswagon, I'll be in office indefinitely."

          "Don't get too smug," she'd cautioned.

          "Me?" He'd laughed. "Not me. But I'm going to plant a square

     foot garden under the radiator; erect a patio awning and buy a

     hanging plant." He felt like a million bucks. He'd had the best

     medical attention a would-be politician could hope for: that of a

     born spin doctor."

                                   -end-

                       Copyright (c) 1993 Del Freeman

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 °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°Landscaping a Fragrance Garden°°°°°°°by Lucia Chambers

 ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß

By following just a few simple guidelines, you can landscape

     for the purposes of utility, harmony, and fragrance, all at the

     same time.  The simple solution is to plant shrubby herbs in

     place of privets, and then orchestrate a potpourri of scents with

     the prevailing, ever-changing wind.

A fragrance garden becomes a large perfume vat, where the

     various scents intermingle on breezes, drift on the wind to your

     nose, and then change spontaneously with the next shift in wind

     direction.  You must plan your main garden feature around what

     you like, and most importantly, the scents that will move and

     combine to create your living potpourri.

First you must decide what your main feature will be.  Do you

     enjoy cooking with basil?  Do you snip rosemary for the stew pot,

     and lemon verbena for your iced tea?  Do you want a large swath

     of color in your garden, or would you rather have a colorful

     blend of flowers, a smattering of pointillism in the shimmering

     heat of summer?

No matter what style or palette you use, it's best to include

     several plants from the following list of "most pungent" plants

     as your "fixative" so that all other plants will intermingle in

     strongest combination:

     

       Lavender     Rugosa Roses      Lilies

       Sage         Wisteria          Stocks

       Mint         Daphne            Nicotiana alata

       Rosemary     Lilac             Hyacinths

       Camomile     Jasmine     Sambac    Orchids

       Basil        Gardenia          Mignonette

       Coriander    Boxwood           Carnations

       Wormwood     Fragrant Roses    Dianthus

       Southernwood                   Violets

       Savory

You can mix similar fragrances to heighten a specific effect,

     such as mixing lavender with fennel and mignonette to achieve

     an extremely sweet edible aroma, or basil with tomato and lime

     pelargonium (scented geranium) plants for a garden that smells 

     like a Bloody Mary!

When visitors discover the source of the fragrance, they

     often begin to touch leaves, to ask permission to pluck a leaf

     or tendril, and so you must consider the scented geraniums as

     important  additions to your summer garden as well as the more

     permanently resident plants. All pelargoniums* are excellent in

     combination too, and there is an enormous variety of fragrant

     flowering and non-flowering varieties, including: Rober's 

     Lemon Rose, Apricot, Peppermint, Lime, Grey Lady Plymouth, 

     Oak Moss, Cinnamon, and Rose.  

Boxwood is a good backdrop for any other plant, and in fact,

     makes a more beautiful and denser hedge than privet.  Boxwood is

     an acquired preference though; it's fragrance is both herbal and

     slightly stuffy, an instant reminder of English maze gardens.

Now that you have identified the base ingredient for your

     fragrance garden, feature it as the focal point to your garden.

     Put the plants right in the center in abundance; or edge your

     driveway with them; or if all you have is a deck, arrange them in

     tall tubs in the center of the deck and place the other plants

     around the perimeter so that their fragrances can easily mingle.

   Where you put the plants is nearly as important as 

     which plants you choose, because if they are hidden, or their 

     scents waft downwind and away from your house,     their scents will 

     be wasted -- lost forever to your neighbors. Use the main plant

     feature in a strategic place, and then carefully place the 

     "mixture" fragrances around it, or at least within range of

     the direction of the breezes.

For example, my own deck faces southwest, and a strong wind

     sweeps around the house from north to west, around from right to

     left and off into the woods.  I choose to trap the wind and force

     the warm convection to bring out the oils in the flowers and

     leaves.  How?  I planted a stiff line of rosa eglanteria, the

     "apple-scented rose" whose leaves smell like fresh green apples in

     rain, heat, and wind.  The eglanteria is right next to the glass

     doors and forms one arch up the wall and over the doors, and

     another arch along the shorter length of the (rectangular) deck.

At the adjacent corner is a large tub planting of a huge old

     bourbon rose, Madame Isaac PeriŠre, and her long canes wrap

     around the entire corner and extend almost half the length of the

     deck (which is 22' long).  Eglanteria's branches stop the wind,

     and the scented leaves give off a very pleasant sweet smell; when

     PeriŠre is in bloom she is covered with literally hundreds of

     rose madder blooms, each having at least a hundred petals, and

     each blossom absolutely *stinks* of sweet rosey raspberries.  The

     combination of fragrances is blown into the house through the

     screened glass doors; it is both heady and beautiful.

Think of the possibilities!  You can use this strategy on a

     line of scented basils with lemon verbena, lavender bushes with

     mignonette and stocks, or if you like the scent of cloves all

     summer, try rugosa rose bushes which will also reward you with

     bright orange hips in the fall.  Line your driveway, plant under

     a main window, or heap in tubs, on your deck.

Think of the moonlight, and the plants that perfume the night

     air, too.  Nicotiana alata for example, opens her long trumpets

     in the early evening and releases her fragrance to the the many

     moths attracted by the gleaming white flowers.  Plants such as

     this stately annual belong beneath an open window, or along a

     walkway that you favor in the twilight hours.  We have planted

     Nicotiana along the north side of the house, under the livingroom

     windows.  The fragrance mixes with the mossy scent of the woods;

     and the scent is there in the morning, lingering on even during the

     worst dog days of summer.  Dianthus ("pinks") are especially 

     fragrant at night, with the white-flowering varieties being the

     sweetest and strongest-smelling of all.

So far, you have been thinking about main odors, prevailing

     winds and mixed fragrances, and guests wishing to touch the

     fragrant sources.  Let's not forget about another very important

     rule: containers.  Containers can be carried anywhere you

     wish to mix a particular scent!  They are portable, and so

     becomes your fragrance garden.  Move them around, and feature one

     as a focal point.  Raised containers or high planters encourage

     touch, and also bring the fragrance closer to the curious nose.

  I have tried a number of combinations with raised tubs, and

     the least rewarding was a high white pedestal type containing a

     low mat of dianthus "Tiny Rubies." The "rubies" did *not* bloom

     all summer as advertised, and quickly became a boring fixture.  I

     ripped out the dianthus and filled the tub with "Sans Souci"

     lilies ringed with nepeta catmint; the pink freckled lilies

     flutter atop a mass of fragrant blue blooms for the better part

     of a month, filling a wide area with the heady perfume of the

     Nile.  When the show is over, I drag the tub from the center of

     attention to a far corner, leave the blue-blooming nepeta, and

     fill the center with a tall salvia ("Lady In Red," multi-tiered

     glowing rose-red spires), essentially giving it to the

     hummingbirds for the rest of the summer.

  I experimented one summer with a camomile lawn rather than a

     grass lawn.  Camomile has been used for centuries as lawn

     material -- it is beautifully fragrant, doesn't require mowing,

     and revels in being walked and stomped upon.  In fact, the more

     you roll and smash it into the ground, the more it takes root and

     flourishes.  I have since added camomile to various tubs and

     planters because when it is planted around the edge of a tub, it

     will hang over and down most gracefully, and the little yellow

     mid-summer flowers float sweetly in the breeze.  And, now that the

     camomile is in higher places, I am more tempted to snip the

     flowers to make tea or hair rinses, which is yet another benefit

     of a fragrance garden.

But the camomile example is more than that, it is a ground

     cover, and that is our final rule for fragrance: put fragrant

     plants underfoot so that your walking stirs the air while

     releasing the smell.  Other favorite ground covers for this

     purpose are the very low mints such as mentha corsica (the very

     strongest peppermint-smelling mint), various thymes such as lemon

     thyme or mother-of-thyme, camomile of course, which smells of

     apples, and oregano, which doesn't like to be walked on *too*

     much but will withstand some abuse if you're careful to not break

     any woody stems.

_______________________

*pelargoniums

     Pelargonium v. crispum varieties are the bulk of the

     lemon-scented plants and their leaf texture is notably

     "crisped," the plant, pyramidical.  Pelargonium v.

     odoratissimum (the apple-scented) has flat leaves that feel

     like cool silk and the plants bush low and drape down like

     fuchsias; they make good hanging container plants.  Scented

     geranium leaves are very pungent and contain enough

     essential oils that the perfume industry uses rose-scented

     geranium leaves more often than rose petals for expensive

     perfume extracts and oils.  Their flowers, however, are not

     extraordinary.  P. odoratissimum produces little white

     summer flowers, and the other varieties make small violet or

     pink single "geranium" flowers on and off through the year.

______________________ 

Favorite sources for fragrant plants (and seeds):

     

     Shepherd's Garden Seeds, Torrington, CT  (203) 482-3638

     White Flower Farm, Litchfield, CT (203) 496-9600

     Nicholls Nursery, Albany, OR  (503) 928-9280

     The Antique Rose Emporium, Brenham, TX  1-800-441-0002

     Park's     Seed Co, Cokesbury Road, Greenwood, SC  29647

     Wayside Gardens, Hodges, SC  1-800-845-1124

     

Books to read:

     "Landscaping with Herbs" by James Adams, Timber Press, 1987.

     "Geraniums for Home and Garden" by Helen Krauss, MacMillan, 1955.         

     "The City Gardener's Handbook" by Linda Yang, Random House, 1990.

     "The Scented Garden" by Rosemary Verey, Marshall Editions, 1981,

      published in the U.S. by Random House

NOTE: If you would like more detailed addresses, or a more thorough (and 

less discriminating) list of suppliers and books, please do not hesitate 

to ask!

      

-end-

   Copyright (c) 1993 Lucia B. Chambers

 ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ

 °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°    Submit!    °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

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                        SUBMIT!  SUBMIT!  SUBMIT!

                  (no, this isn't a hypnotic suggestion)

    It's a call to writers everywhere--

                            SMOKE AND MIRRORS

                      (a Pen and Brush production)

    Featuring:

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    Submit all stories, recipes, cartoons, poems, and articles to:

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    rights are retained by the respective author/artist.

About those taxes this month....

 ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ

 °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°Murphy's Law°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°by B. Z. Niditch

 ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß

                          The cashews

                          were cold

                          and you insisted

                          on watching

                          "The Day of the Triffids"

                          but the video store

                          was robbed

                          and so we agreed

                          to go to the opera

                          though you hated Boris

                          with a Russian passion,

                          kids knocked out

                          the shrubbery

                          and our cook

                          at the Italian was out sick

                          perhaps I should meditate today,

                          but on whom. 

                          

                                  -end-

                      Copyright (c) 1993 B. Z. Niditch

 ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ

 °°°°°°°°°°°°°°When You Ain't Here the Circus Ain't Fun°°°°by Franchot Lewis

 ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß

        "Yo, Wanda?"  He called from the other side of the park. She

    turned. She looked, taking care not to lose her place in the Book.

    She placed her finger on the word where she had stopped. She

    looked again. The blurred shape of his face formed. He was not

    in range. She sighed. She wished he would walk faster. She hoped

    he would learn to come on time. She mumbled to herself, "Why

    should he?" He knew that she would wait.

        His features formed slowly. Her eyes went back and forth,

    from him and to the Book. He took small steps. She mumbled,

    he was waiting for her to get up and jump. He was her favorite

    one. She mumbled, she would go anyplace with him, and even in a

    room where he had broken wind - providing he had cracked open

    a window, enough for a breeze.

        She saw him now. He brushed his hand across his crotch.

    The heat of the summer-like day was shrinking the cotton of his

    slacks.  He smiled at her, as she squinted her eyes to see him.

    "Where are your glasses?"

        She squinted more. He shook his head, "Stop peeping at me

    like that."  He took her glasses from the purse in her lap. "Put

    them on, four-eyes," he said.

        She glanced away from him, and at the Book in her lap, then

    she looked back, and when she did her eyes glared. They went

    through the puffy whites of his eyes and the red that seemed to

    have drifted to the side. She smiled when she realized, he was

    teasing and asking her to laugh.

        "How dare you call me four eyes?" she said. "Imagine

    how I would look with four eyes? I would have one in my forehead,

    the other extra one in my ear."

        He quickly bent forward and kissed her cheek. She frowned

    again. The stubble of his beard scratched her, and she remembered

    him bearded, with hair growing wild around his face, and her

    hair, bunched up, and in dread-lock rolls like his, and growing

    down to the top of their backsides. She wanted no more hair

    like that, or of them in their little hut house, the one room, and

    the shared bath down the hall. He shaved, kept his hair

    short, and she kept hers shoulder length and combed, but for some

    reason, he had not gotten all the hairy stubs. To her, for a

    moment, they looked the same as the thick beard that grew when he

    and she lived gross.

        He sighed. He said, "I can't think of anything that could

    make me happier now."

        She pulled back. He took her face in his hand and gazed

    as if considering kissing her again, then he heard her

    complaining, "You didn't shave?"

        "Man, I did," he answered.

        She pulled free, gently, and smiled softly, blushed. If

    she was not careful, then she would be right back in a grungy

    room. She knew why he was there, though he was late.

                                 II.

        She awoke. She saw her Daddy's eyes, his hawk face

    glaring. His gruff voice has caused her head to buzz like

    a swarm of wasps had stung her. She sat on the bed, shaking

    from remembering while she slept what her father had told her

    about junk. "I don't mess with that bad ass stuff anymore," he

    said. "Not this hard head, no way. When I got off the stuff,

    back then, in the not enlightened times, when nobody shed a tear

    over a fool. The way they got you off of stuff was to put you

    in a straight jacket and lock you in a cell. And they let you

    scream. I remember how I screamed - and everyone of the giant

    spiders that crawled out on me - and the gorillas, grabbing my

    bounded arms,  and my legs, biting them."

        "Ugh,"she groaned at the crumbs and the trash in the

    bed, the residue from the box of cookies he had eaten. She

    mumbled, "He's making roaches." He always left crumbs on the

    bed and floor. She knew the crumbs would draw more roaches.

    "Gawd!" she cried. He wet the middle of the bed with sticky

    glop. "What is that?" Chocolate syrup. She wondered what had

    he been doing? "Shit, this place stinks," she said. The smells

    of the sheet, the sweat and syrup, the sex and the feet were

    almost as bad as that of the dead mouse, she found under the

    bed the previous week. She had almost died. She only stayed

    in the room because the manager promised that professional

    exterminators had been killing the mice, and he gave them a

    night's free rent.  The smells of the sheet on the bed made

    her almost barf, but she could not barf. She had nothing on

    her stomach. She coughed up spit, and placed her hands over

    her mouth to prevent the spit from running. Still, some spit

    dripped from her fingers and on the sheet. She flung herself

    up from the bed and wobbled on her legs as she tried to stand,

    then she leaned against a chair.

        Four pages - one a summons, one a warning, one a notice,

    the other with the numbers of her lawyer and of her mother -

    lay on the night stand. These were important papers dealing

    with her court dates. She glanced at his paper - one raggedly,

    wrinkled sheet, with many stains, soiled like a mat on which a

    barnyard rooster had stood. The paper lay on the floor where he

    left it. Pieces torn from the paper, as though a rooster

    pecked and tore the paper - All over the paper, numbers and

    letters were  written as though the rooster had scratch them

    there.

        "Hey," she called to him. She reached for the paper, her

    legs were still wobbling. She mumbled. "His paper probably's

    too ruin to touch." She left it. "Do you know your court date?"

    she yelled.

         The door to their room opened and he walked in, "What

    you yelling about?" His hair was wet. He wore a robe. He had

    showered.

        "Oh? You were out there?" She spoke in a trembling, loud

    whine.

        "If I were you, I would get to the shower while it's empty,

    before the rock stars wake up, and the hot water's gone."

        "We're out our minds," she whined. "What are we doing

    here? On this floor are the rock stars, on the top floor,

    the winos."

        "You want me to help you in the shower?" he asked.

        "No."

        "You better put some speed on the rump," he said. He

    slapped her on the butt.

        "Darn, don't hit me," she said.

        "Don't be flaky," he said. "I don't hit you, that was

    a sexy slap on the butt."

        "I've got to get something solid on my stomach before

    I throw up."

        "Don't you want to shower first?"

        "Where are the crackers?"

        "Gone."

        "Food disappears when you are around, don't it?"

        "Do you want me to run and get you something?"

        "No, if it's not too much bother."

        "What do you want?"

        "Food."

        "Let me get dress."

        She dropped into a chair and waited. He dressed and went

    out for food. The room was quiet, except her head buzzed. Loud

    people in the hall, on the floor above, in the street outside

    her window, kept making noise. She cursed. The noise did not

    stop for a blessed moment. She mumbled, why had she followed him

    to this rat and roach hotel?

                               III.

        "What would Mama say about him? Daddy would hate him.

    He reminds Daddy's little girl of Daddy ..." she whispered

    and mooed softly, as she lazily rolled her tongue up his

    sleeping face, pouring gross amounts of love that she long

    held, stored for her prince. She stopped at his lips. Her

    tongue pushed opened his mouth. She showered her love on his

    two chipped teeth. "I've got bowls and bowls of good stuff for

    you," she cooed in his ear. "If you wake up now, you will think

    you've got yourself one flaky woman."

        She met him on the bus while she dropped sixty pennies,

    one penny after another, into the fare box. The fare was one

    dollar. She held up the line for two long minutes. The bus

    driver became angry. He growled, "Lady!"

        "What?"

        "There are people who want to get on this bus, some of

    them are on their way to work, others are on their way home

    to their children."

         She barked back, "I'm paying my damn fare."

         "Humf!" the bus driver grunted.

         At sixty pennies, she stopped, waited. The driver gave

    her a hard stare. After a moment, she sneered, "Now who's

    holding up the bus? Give me my damn transfer."

        "Put the rest of the fare in, lady."

        "Say what? You've got the fare from me, a solid dollar

    in pennies."

        "Look, this bus is going to sit here, and these people

    are going to get mad at you until you put the rest of the fare

    in the box."

        "I've put a solid dollar in. You want me to open up that

    damn box and count out all of those pennies for you, again?"

        "Look, lady, bring your head around here and look down

    there. See that? It's something new, an electronic coin

    register. Metro is concerned about passengers being short

    with the fare. This here registers the amount that people

    drop in the box."

        She looked. On the back of the fare box was a digital

    dial showing the number sixty in red light. "It must be

    broken,"  she said.

        "Lady, put the rest of the fare in or get off the

    bus."

        "I've given Metro all I've got," she said.

        "Lady, get off the bus."

        "Bertha," he called. He was waiting to get on the bus.

    Three people were ahead of him. "Girl, what you doing

    getting ahead of me? I told you, I've got the damn transfers.

    What you doing paying that man for? God in Heavens knows we

    can't have the same mother. Let me get up there." He pushed

    his away passed the three people ahead of him. He climbed

    the steps and pushed her away. "Bus driver, our mama dropped her

    when she was a baby and she ain't been right since." He

    stopped and glared as she rolled her eyes at him. He pushed

    her. "Girl, get back there and get a seat."

        "What?"

        "Get back there."

        As she sneered, he turned to the bus driver. "She's

    retarded. Here are our transfers."

        The driver nodded, "Thank you."

        "C'mon, Sis."

        She kept sneering as he walked toward the seat across

    the back of the bus.

        "Lady will you take a seat and let the other people on

    the bus?" the driver asked.

         From the back of the bus, he whistled, "Sis," and

    smiled. She went to him.

        "Who in the hell are you?"

        He put his finger to his lips and whispered the word hushed.

        "Fool, who are you?"

        "Sit, Sis," he grinned. "You're on the bus, right?"

        She pouted, "Will you answer me? Who in the hell are you?"

        He smiled.

        Her prince, that is whom he was. She looked toward him

    and smiled as she lifted a half pint carton of milk to her

    lips.

        "You like to drink milk, don't you? " he asked, displaying

    his elastic grin.

        She held the carton from her lips, showing the white

    circle on her mouth. "Don't you wish it was you drinking

    milk from my titties?"

        He laughed, "Yeah, why not?"

        She finished, discarded the carton in the waste can, and

    she belched.

        "Full?" he asked, grinning again.

        She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm full of fast food."

        "Fine, get your shower and we're going out."

        "I stink?" she frowned.

        "Yeah."

        She smiled, "I supposed I do. But, let me sit here for

    a moment. I suppose, I might need you to help me - to scrub

    my back and to help me lather up."

        She waited for a moment, until she felt steady enough to

    stand on her legs. She leaned on his shoulders and giggled

    girlishly, as he took her two hands in his and cradle her

    chin. She brought her hips up close to his. Her breasts

    pulsed, as she felt the heat in him, surging like something

    liquid. "Don't I smell?" she asked.

        "I can't notice," he said.

        "Why did you bring me steak-in-cheese when you know I

    don't like cheese steak?"

        "You needed something solid on your stomach."

        "Where are we going after I shower? Out to get something

    more to eat?"

         "No, I thought -"

         She stopped his mouth with her lips. His body shuddered. He

    pulled her tight, with one hard move, then he relaxed,

    accepting what his nose was telling him, that she needed to

    shower.

        "Let us go to Trios?" she said.

        "The Restaurant?"

        She giggled.

         No, I don't think so," he said.

        She remembered Trios as an early experience in their

    relationship. The day was warm - blue skies and bright sunshine-

    a perfect day for lunching in the sidewalk cafe. The food was

    fresh and good. They ate a big meal, double helpings of everything,

    and two desserts. The waitress was nice, a foreign girl from

    Tanzania who was going to school. They were both nice to her

    until the check came.

        "Leave the rest of the dessert," he whispered. "Don't

    stuff too much, remember you've got to run."

        "It has an almost light taste, I never had cake like

    this," she said too loud, her eyes trying to focus on the

    morsels still inside her spoon.

        He put the green colored check under the empty red wine

    bottle on the pastel colored plastic table cloth. He took a

    napkin scratched a note, begging the waitress pardon, and

    he placed the note under the empty bread basket. He breathed

    in once, then twice, and waited until the waitress had gone

    inside for another patron's order. He whispered, "C'mon,

    now, babe, time to split."

        They were both tall, with long legs and could run. "Trios

    has fat people working in the restaurant," he had told her to

    get her to join him for lunch at Trios. "The food is good. You

    can tell by the fat people working there. They got fat on the

    food. They are good cooks, but no good at chasing customers

    who walk out without paying, and customers like us who are

    going to split and run. Those fat people will get a heart

    attack if they try to chase us. They'll get heart attacks

    and die. They're all middle age anyway. The youngest one is

    thirty, and he's fatter than a hog."

         "C'mon, babe," he said, as she wiped her hand on the

     table cloth.

         She heard a scream. The waitress returned and suddenly

    realized the two of them were running out on the check.

         "Stop! Stop!" the waitress screamed. " Help! The manager

     is going to dock me. Stop!"

         "C'mon, babe!" She was running. She felt her breasts

    swelling, jiggling, as though she was not wearing a bra.

    Carefully, she picked up her feet and ran, as the waitress

    behind her howled. She placed her feet down faster and

    faster in front of herself, as she raced to cover the

    ground between herself and his bouncing butt, and his both

    of his thumping legs. He had the point, pushing people

    aside, opening a path for her to run. Her dress whipped up as

    she ran, exposing her thighs. She usually was careful of

    how she looked, making sure she covered her self. Now, she

    did not care how much her dress showed.

        The waitress, the cooks and the others in the restaurant

    never came close to catching them, and nobody along the

    escape route tried to stop them.

        As she walked with him to the hall bathroom to shower,

    she reminded herself of the incident's thrill. She smiled

    warmly at him. They were younger and invulnerable, and running

    was not as painful. After lunch at Trios, he took her

    to his apartment. It had a sitting room, and a bed, and a bath

    of its own. They fell into bed, she on him. She grinning in his

    face.

        She looked at him now with a look of appreciation. He

    had her stripped. He and her were in shower. He lathered

    both of their naked bodies.

        Somewhere along the line they had found their way into a

    rat hole. Rent had to be paid on the apartment, and the rent

    money went to the newest thrill he showed her, the injection

    of the juice delivered by the crack man. The landlord booted

    them out of the apartment.

         She was not dwelling on the lost of their private bath.

    She was shrieking. He was on her back with his tongue. She

    swore, she felt a telephone pole somewhere on her back. She

    howled and sent both of them flying to the shower floor,

    giggling.

                                IV.

        A week later, they were in the hotel bed. She had cleaned

    the room a little. He told her, he had a couple of dollars for

    food, and a couple of dollars was all the cash he had. She winced

    when he told her of his plan to get some cash by robbing a store.

        "Ain't got no money, we need some cheese," he said. She did

    not like his plan or the sound he made as he explained it. He

    spoke in sputters, in a voice, strained and hoarse. "Gotta get

    some cheese," he croaked like a frog. He cocked his head. "Think

    I'm breaking wind, talking through my ass?"

        She stumbled from the bed, opened the night stand's drawer

     removed her four papers, and the raggedly one, his.

        She said, "Don't need no more beefs, gotta speak to

    these first, Babe."

        He looked grim. "Hello?" he said. "No, you don't have the

    wrong number.  There's no one here named 'Kennedy' or 'Rich

    Heiress.' Either we get the cheese to pay the lawyer or that

    rat is gonna dump us on the tender mercies of the merciless.

    We'll be locked down in a hole until our short hairs turn

    white."

        "No."

        "If you're scared, say you're scared."

        "I'm scared," she said.

        "Ain't that terrible?  Obviously, you think I don't know

    what I'm doing? I know what I'm doing. That is why I don't

    worry about what I'm doing."

        "Man?" she said.

        "Put those papers down. They scare you with them. I

    don't look at such things when I plan."

        "Man, how are you going to rob a store?"

        "With a plan, a gun and a ... backup lady."

        "No," she said.

        "Look at yourself," he said. "Every morning, we wake up

    about this time, and every morning, I get out a ten spot and

    you tuck it in your hot little jeans, and you run out, if I

    haven't already run out for you, and you get a little piece of

    the rock. You never say no then. You never can wait to say

    yes. You need that little piece of rock, Man, like I need

    cheese. I ain't got no more cheese to get you those rocks,

    Man. You're hungry for it like you're hungry for me. I need

    cheese, Man. I need you to back me up."

        Then, she shook her head and softly said, "Oh, shit."

        He whistled and grinned.

        She remembers, something from high school, "Once more unto

    the breech dear friends. Once more unto the breech."

                                 V.

        She screamed, "Hallelujah! My Lord and Savior, Jesus

    Christ!" From the back of the hall, she opened her mouth and

    let out another scream. The scream came deep down from her

    stomach. She had screamed like that only once before, when

    early in her relationship with her lover, she wrapped herself in

    him, while he thrust in her, deeply, showing his love. Jesus

    was in her now. She felt Jesus deep, moving in her.  Every

    head in the hall turned to her. The preacher lady laughed

    and clapped her hands. The other women, except one, joined

    in the clapping. This one person stood in the back of the room,

    and watched the ladies' assembly. This one chuckled to herself,

    when her intended silent laughter got too loud, this

    person coughed, and then began to clap with the others.

        The guard was clapping, the preacher lady was clapping,

    everybody was clapping. The clapping got louder. She knew

    what it meant. Soon she would have to stand, let her

    emotions burst, and testify. Fifty of her fellow prisoners by

    their thunderous applause urged her to stand.

        She fretted. Her mind filled with thoughts, rolling all

    the scenes of her deeds and misdeeds that her conscious

    credited had merited her being there.

        He had robbed a store, and she was with him. They got

    caught. The detective said, they were such bad robbers, they

    were asking to get caught. She did not remember much of the

    robbery. He had let her get a toot. She needed courage. She was

    geeking. Her legs wobbled. She spoke fast, sounding like a bird

    who chirps. She needed the stuff to stay on her feet.

        After the police arrested her this time, her mother took

    charge, got her a legal aid lawyer. Her mother fussed like

    fussing was something a mother must do. "He is no good for you.

    How many times have I told you that? Look at yourself and think

    about where you are, and who you are. Did I raise a child to be

    a fool?" Her mother and her lawyer insisted that the court

    separate her trial from his. He entered a plea of innocence. Her

    mother and her lawyer got her to confess. The judge gave her only

    a quarter of the time he could have given for the crime.

         The court released her lover on personal bond pending his

    trial. He came to visit her in jail, asked if there was anything

    he could get her. "No, nothing," she said. She asked him how he

    was getting along.  He said he would be sweating until the trial.

    "Gotta get some money for my lawyer," he said. "I had a legal aid

    lawyer," she said. "Yeah," he said. "And you're in here." She

    said, "But, we did wrong." He said, "Yeah, but we can't give

    up. After I leave you, I've gotta hit the bricks hard. I've

    gotta get a thousand dollars in my lawyer's hot little hands. I

    gotta sell, gotta sling some rocks -" She said, "What?" He said,

    "You know, I've gotta stay out of jail, gotta get the lawyer's

    money." She said, "Be careful."

        Now, she was being cheered. In a calm voice she was telling

    her story of how she found Christ, and was in the process of

    being born again. She was nervous when she stood, but their

    cheers were like magic. That is how she will describe it in a

    letter to him.

                                  VI.

        "Yes! Yes! YES! I feel fantastic and clean, indeed,"

    are words she wrote him. "I am a witness to the awesome,

    forgiving power of God."

        He wrote back, carefully to print the words slowly, so

    she could read his handwriting. He had gone to trial and

    been acquitted by a forgiving jury of senior citizens, the

    majority of whom were old ladies who lived in government

    housing. Clean shaven and rid of his long hair, and showing

    watery, contrite, puppy eyes, he looked like somebody's grand

    son, a nice, sweet boy. His lawyer beat the prosecutor,

    like the prosecutor was somebody's raw hamburger from a

    Jewish delicatessen.  Feeling regrets, because she was were

    she was, but feeling no regrets because he was free, he

    wrote her a sweet letter, telling her how much he missed her

    and that he could not wait until she is free.

        She wrote back. "Baby, it is by God's Grace that I feel

    good about myself. I have grown spiritually and am a true

    witness for God. I am saved. Baby, I love you, and I want

    you to find Jesus too, and be saved. To help you, I want you

    to be my prayer partner. I want you to kneel everyday at the

    same time everyday and pray. Write me back and let me know

    what time is best for you, and at that time I will kneel

    with you, and stop  whatever I might be doing and pray for us.

    Is that a deal? Things will start going better for both of us.

    I just know it. Stop frowning and smile, and pray with me.

    Believe it or not, this will work."

        He wrote back. "Okay, Babe, how about at seven every

    morning for ten minutes?"

        "I hear you laughing," she wrote. "But, do this for me.

    If you haven't tried prayer yet, try it. Please?"

        He wrote her back, swearing that every day at seven he

    was on his knees.

                                VII.

        He sat on the bench. "What do you want me for?" he asked.

    "In D.C., they shoot wayward lovers, I know. They shot six

    of them in one night last week, all at about half-past three

    in the morning."

        "You're safe, it's just past three in the afternoon,"

    she said.

        "What do you want me for? To put me against the wall

    and shoot me? To have pools of my blood at your feet?"

        "I want to talk to you," she said.

        "Why? We're like dead leaves in the park even though

    it's a sunny day."

        "Shit," she said.

        He asked, "Why do say that?"

        "I love you," she said.

        "Love me? I'm a bit lost. Isn't this the woman who is still

    telling me that she won't leave that other dude?" He took

    her hand and squeezed. She thought of pulling away and

    stopped. She was drawn to the scar on his arm, and she remembered

    a drug deal that went bad. She and he were selling crack to a

    blonde couple. The blonde girl did not want to pay. He threatened

    the blonde girl and her blonde boy friend. The blonde girl began

    to curse. She slapped the blonde girl. The blonde girl went to a

    car and returned with an aluminum bat, and beat her about the back

    and legs. And, he was beaten up by the blonde girl's boyfriend.

    The blonde couple chased them down the street.

         "Baby?" he called her from her thoughts.

         She answered, "Man, I really wished you had come back in

    my life before I fell in love with him. You know, I really had

    intentions on marrying you. Maybe if we had been together,

    and I had been stronger -"

         "You're in love with him? Why do you keep calling me?"

    He scratched his head. "Man, I get this mental image of

    you with this middle age, old dude. He's sixty. He's

    dressed up in a black suit. You have on a black dress.

    It's a cold, gray day, like night, though it is day time.

    He's dropped his black pants and has pulled up your dress.

    He's got you bent, face up, across a short brick wall, and

    he's doing it to you. I know why you keep calling me. It is

    because you need some. You need to melt again. You get no

    thrill, no nothing from him. I see no love there. It gets

    messy between your legs with him. It gets like a waste dump.

    Maybe if you would come clean we can get to developing

    something. We can get busy together and make something

    happen."

        As he talked, she turned out some of the stark ugliness

    of his words. She heard herself thinking, almost aloud.

    This muffled some of his mocking tone. She saw herself

    walking.

        She walks up the stairs toward the bedroom, to sleep

    with dear, old, weather beaten, hard working, long-time

    employed by the same employer, Mister Green. Mister Green is four

    years her senior, but he seems like a thousand years older. Her

    mother likes him. When her mother comes to visit, her

    mother always looks at Mister Green's face and smiles. Her

    mother keeps a smile for Mister Green. Like her mother, at the

    first sight of Mister Green, she looked up and smiled. She calls

    him, Greenie.  However she feels, she always has something nice

    to say to him. She likes him. She is like a child toward him. She

    trusts him. Mister Green is like the windows of his house, clean

    and clear, giving light an easy surface to pass. She opens the door

    to the room. Though the house is big and they are alone, Mister

    Green wants the door closed when they are in the room together.

    Mister Green said, closing the bedroom door is a good habit to

    develop even before the children come. Mister Green wants children,

    as many as he can count on one hand, five. Mister Green has a

    bathroom on every floor for the children. Yes, she is willing to

    be the mother of his babies. She feels Mister Green will be a

    good father.  Mister Green has been borne again and is saved.

        "Maybe this is not a good day for this, you're in a moody

    mood."

         "One thing I want to know is, does that dude know

    about me? And what did you tell him? And have you told him

    about me recently? No, I bet?"

        "Baby-"

        "Man, you know yourself, I'm the one who will go over

    there and tell that dude about us, and if shots get fired,

    well, let the thing be."

        "Why?"

        She has asked herself many times, "why?"

        Why? The need, she answers. The buzz in the head like

    fuzzy whizes until she can't see. She needs clarity. The

    charity of of his penis, she thinks, as she needed the

    charity of his dope.

        She became angry. "Look, Baby. I don't know what kind of

    women you've been dealing with, but I can tell you they were

    not on their jobs." She stopped, listened to what she had

    said, heard herself whining, and started softly. "Don't mean to

    talk about them, but that is really how I feel."

        "My women?" he shook his head. "What about your dude?"

        Her dude, Mister Green - Mister Green or him? She thought.

    With him people disappeared, friends, associates, people you

    knew. They were in jail. Some were dead. Some got tired and

    left. She did not see them anymore - only him. With Mr.

    Green - well, Mr. Green was Mr. Green.

        She thought, she dreamed, she remembered.

        Even with light in her eyes as she lay naked, waiting for

    Mister Green to begin the baby making, and feeling that she

    likes him an awful lot, probably loves him, she can not help

    thinking of him who was her lover before she was born again

    and saved. After sex with Mister Green, she feels less tired

    than she had with her ex-lover. On that first night with Mister

    Green she felt a slight buzz.  With her ex-lover, she thought of a

    rooster, saw a barnyard cock. Mister Green is a dependable husband,

    a homebody. To her, sex to him is like climbing the front steps on

    a slippery icy day - careful, so not to fall and hurt herself. She

    remembered racing up a hill with her ex-lover, fleeing around the

    corner, to the blacksmith's, watching the hammer going hard.  She

    has not counted the number of steps Mister Green climbs as he huffs

    and puffs. Sometimes while Mister Green is climbing, she turns and

    looks at the closed door; other times, she recites in her head a

    poem  she learned in the third grade, a poem that starts, "How do I

    love thee? Let me count the ways."

        "Babe," he tapped her gently on the shoulder. "Where 's

    your mind?"

        "Huh?"

        "You 're not listening."

        "I am," she said. "And, if I left him, I wouldn't have you,

    you're still messing with that crack."

        "What?"

        "Still letting it get the best of you? Huh? I told you

    when I got out of jail if you were still messing with shit -"

        "Shit? Watch your language. You're a church lady now."

        Her face twitched and she looked from him to the

    ground. He laughed. She glared. "If you had stuck with me

    when I got out and stopped messing with all those crack head

    bitches, you'd be better off. Now, see if I left him where

    I'd be?"

        "Crack head bitches?" he grinned. "Church lady has

    dropped her religion. Her religion is a twitching corpse,

    fallen into the dust." He giggled.

        She asked, "Did you ever love me?"

        He replied, "Yes."

        "When?"

        "From the beginning, when I first saw you on the bus.

    Why do you think I gave you my transfer?"

        She smiled. "Are you still hustling transfers?"

        "Man, where is this going?"

        "You're on shit, aren't you?" she asked. He did not

    answer. "Because if you weren't you would have been at the

    circus, yesterday."

        "I'm here today."

        "After I had to call you and leave messages everywhere.

    Anyway, I still love you, though I had to spend my damn

    money on tickets, and I spent the whole afternoon waiting for

    you."

        "I didn't want to go to the circus," he said.

        "You said you did."

        "I didn't want to go."

        "It was your idea."

        "I talked about going -"

        "That's was all you talked about the other day."

        "Since I was a kid, I've always liked going. I mentioned

    it, and you took up the ball and ran with it, said you would

    get the tickets and we would make a day of it together. You

    even suggested a little nookie afterward. But, I couldn't go."

        "Because?"

        "Don't know."

        "Because?"

        "Not going to tell you."

        "BECAUSE?"

        "The circus wouldn't be fun, with you not there for me

    to take home afterward."

        "Baby," she said, "I can't."

        "You've got to go home to that dude, don't you?"

        "Yes."

        "Nothing I say can change that?"

        She stood. She knew. Each night when Mr. Green finishes

    with the baby making, Mister Green smiles and is happy.

    Knowing that Mister Green is happy makes her feel better.

        "My birthday is next month, " she said.

        "You don't want me to forget that, I won't forget

    that."

        "Don't forget," she said.

        "Wait," he said. "Maybe we can go someplace for the

    next couple of hours?"

        "No, you promised me you would get off the shit

    first."

        "Oh, Man," he said.

        "No, baby," she said.

        He raised his hands up in the air, said, "See you," and

    he began to walk away. She called to him, "I'll call you?"

        He waved, acknowledging, and kept walking without

    turning to look back. She watched him until she could not

    see him any longer, then she tucked her Bible under her arm

    and took the subway home.

                                 -end-

                    Copyright (c) 1993 Franchot Lewis

 ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ

 °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°The Wall°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°by Karl Weiss  

 ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß

              I walk along the path

              and a chill wind sends shivers up my spine.

              I reach panel 9E

              and my unseeing eyes look beyond

              to the crash and flames of the past.

              My fingers press into the stone, unfeeling,

              bringing remembrance.  Again,

              the pain, the sorrow.

              I look inward, and see through my tears

              long forgotten places, our callow, shallow faces,

              aged long before our time.

              I remember!  I remember the wrath

              of the Gods of War,

              bringing fire, shrapnel,

              burning flesh, loose entrails,

              ours, theirs.

              Wiping my eyes, I continue

              down the stone path, hearing my heels

              click in the dark.

              It is 2 in the morning.  Dark.

              The best time to be here.

              I see others, dressed like me,

              field jackets, boots.

              We acknowledge/don't acknowledge each others presence.

              With a nod, or not.

              Lost in our own memories,

              sharing a common bond, never

              understood by those who were

              never there.  Brothers.

              Each of us lost in our own memories

              from that time of the not distance enough past.

              I stop at 5W.  Tenderly run my fingers

              along the stone, remembering friends,

              days of heat, light, sound, fury that came from the

              clear sky, ending day and night for so many.

              My eyes fill once more.

              When I can see again I look at

              the things left behind.  Detritus of our

              past, or healing?  Boots, medals, pictures.

              Some have meaning to me, others I can guess at.

              Some are totally private.  A stuffed bear, an

              empty candy box.

              I cry again.  Through the tears I

              see pictures - some against the wall, others

              from my past, lost in time and space and my mind.

              I wander to the end of the wall, not seeing

              the others, them not seeing me.  Each alone.

              I wonder why I am here, and others are not.

              Will I ever find peace?

      

                                   -end-

                       Copyright (c) 1993 Karl Weiss

 ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ

 °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°  Figs and Walnut Bread  °°°°°°°°°°°°°by Dave Winer

 ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß

     5 C bread flour                     6 oz (1/2 pkg) dried figs

     1 C whole wheat flour               1 C English walnuts

     4 T dark brown sugar                2 oz dark rum

     1 T salt                            2 C water

     1/4 t cinnamon                      3 T butter

     2 pkgs yeast

     

     Prepare figs: Remove stems, chop coarsely; soak in rum for an

     hour or more. Makes about 1 cup.

     

     Mix all dry ingredients in a Kitchen Aid bowl with a beater or

     whisk.  Switch to dough hook.

     

     Cut butter into pieces, add to water, heat to 130ø F.  Add

     water slowly to dry ingredients while beating slowly.  Add figs

     and rum mixture, and walnuts.  Knead for 6 minutes at speed 4

     (medium).

     

     Put the (sticky) dough into a buttered bowl, cover with plastic

     wrap and place in a warm place to rise for one hour or until

     doubled in volume.

     

     Punch down dough and form into four equal balls.  Knead each one

     briefly.  Arrange the four loaves-to-be on one or two buttered

     baking sheets; with space for expansion.  Dust with flour. Slash

     tops in any desired pattern, e.g., criss-cross.  Let rise one

     hour or until doubled in volume.

     

     Preheat oven to 400ø F and bake at this temperature for 30

     minutes.  Remove loaves from baking sheet and cool on rack.

                       Why John's Diner?

I remember the first time I ever visited a diner.  The memorable 

event occurred in August, 1968, in Red Bank, New Jersey.  Being 

raised in the South, I had never seen such a marvel before.  Things 

in the South close at 10 pm each evening, just before they roll 

up the streets.

I was delighted to find that the local diners in Jersey were open 

24 hours a day, and that I could order a steak at 3:00 am, or

breakfast at 5:00 pm.  It was a whole new concept for me, and a 

very convenient one. I was 22 years old at the time, and spent 

many late nights and early mornings running the streets of northern 

New Jersey.  A guy could build up quite an appetite doing that 

sort of thing.

When my tour of duty in New Jersey ended, I very sadly left the 

diners and submarine shops of the northeast for the New Mexico 

desert.  It was back to the South again, and diners were gone 

from my life for many years to come.

In the eighties I moved to the Washington, DC area.  While I didn't

find any diners (at first), I did find the love of my life.  Lucia

was living in New York and making many business trips to DC.  I soon

began making frequent visits to Long Island to woo my future wife.

And there I found them.  Names like "Embassy," "Empress,"

"Princess," even the "Sayville Modern Diner."  All shared similar

decor, and that 5 pound brown leather covered menu that diners like

to drop on your table.  I visited almost every diner I saw, and

delighted in an array of giant plates of hot food, freshly baked

breads, pies, cheesecake, and endless cups of coffee.  I had truly

found "Diner Heaven!" For each of my birthdays I was taken anywhere

I wanted for dinner.  You guessed it - a diner!  Back in Washington

diners weren't so plentiful, so I plodded along with unacceptable

substitutes.

John's Diner first appeared a couple of years ago.  Lucia was

suffering from "painter's block," and was looking for a subject for

an oil painting.  In the interest of getting her painting again I

"commissioned" her to do a painting for me.  We agreed that I would

provide the subject and the canvas, and she would produce the

painting.  I had a small postcard of Picadilly Circus in London.  It

was a very colorful and "busy" little postcard of this famous

square.  I purchased a HUGE canvas and presented both items to

Lucia.

She spent almost a year on the painting, and the final product is a

joy to behold.  The oil shows London at sunset, just after a rain

storm (among her many modifications). Amidst all the buildings, 

automobiles, neon signs and posters stands one little store with a 

bright pink neon sign, hidden away in the lower left corner of the 

painting.  "John's Diner" was now a permanent part of the London

cityscape.  A little gift to me, my name on a diner!

The diner surfaced again several months ago.  Lucia was naming

conferences on our bbs, and suggested John's Diner for the Cooks

Conference.  She passed that by for the time, reserving the name for

a future newsletter article instead.

So John's Diner came into being, and has now evolved into what we

see as a diner in downtown Washington.  It's a nice place to visit,

and very unique in it's own way.  Open 24 hours.  Stop by and visit.

                                 -end-

                   Copyright (c) 1993 John Chambers

A Story from John's Diner:                     

                          RUBY DOES D. C.

     

     The small group of regulars were gathered at the large corner

table in the rear sharing a plate of John's Melon Spice, a varied

arrangement of fresh melon balls lightly sprinkled with a mixture

of fresh nutmeg and powdered sugar, and sipping mugs of fresh 'house'

coffee, brewed with just the right amount of cinnnamon, when the chime

of the front door indicated a new arrival. They looked up, and

quickly returned their eyes to the melon plate, recognizing the

nemesis of the Chambers household at once. Starving writers and

artists they might be, - stupid they weren't. John and Lucia fed them

out of a concern for the advancement of the arts at no cost, and if

Ruby Begonia was a thorn in the Chambers' side, well, that was reason

enough to avoid her.

     "Hi, gang," Ruby greeted them brightly, and they collectively

murmured polite acknowledgments, concentrating intently on their

melon balls. "Where are John and Lucia?" she asked of the group

collectively.

     Everybody responded at once, making it difficult to determine

who said what, but she clearly heard "...French Foreign Legion..."

and "Died. Very sad."

     "Ah, you guys are a great bunch of kidders," she grinned. Just

at that moment, Raoul emerged from the kitchen with a steaming plate

of fresh pasta and homemade marinara sauce with baby clams which he

deposited in the center of the large table, removing the empty melon

ball plate. He deposited bowls and small bread plates in front of the

regulars and returned to the kitchen, emerging once again with

a basket of fresh-baked garlic rolls. The regulars looked at one

another, shrugged, as if to say 'we tried', and fell to devouring the

food. Raoul moved to a small table for two and continued to read the

book he had been reading before the regulars appeared. Ruby sauntered

over and joined him.

     Raoul looked up from the book and crossed himself, murmuring "Es

muy mala."

     "What'cha readin', Rools?" asked Ruby.

     "Es o si que es," answered Raoul, flinching at her

bastardization of his name but flipping the cover over for her to see

nonetheless.

     "1,999 Ways to Prepare Fowl," said the title. Raoul had

earmarked the page dealing with South American birds.

     "Ferget it, Rools," advised Ruby. "The Chambers are never gonna'

let you get your mitts on Zack or Cosmo. Besides, I got something

even better," she promised.

     "No theen ees batter than cook bird," pronounced Raoul. "I

know." He glared imperiously at Ruby. "Een my country I am master

kook," he reminded her, emphasizing the ooo' sound.. "I have master kook

hat." He pointed at the jaunty chef's hat, with 75 flutes, set

rakishly atop his dark curls.

     "Yeah, well in America hats are pretty commonplace," Ruby

answered, indicating her own chapeau, complete with ostrich plume and

felt-heart dotted veil. "A hat's not enough, Rools. You got to have a

gimmick."

     "Geemeek? What is this geemeek?"

     "It's a ploy. A come on. Something unique to make the customers

stand up and take notice. And I got it," she grinned proudly. "Now,

where's the boss?"

     "Boss and Missus gone to awkshun. Buy meny nice theens... make

restaurant sheek. Back late. Vary, vary late," he added, seeing the

determined gleam in her eye.

     "No prob, Rools. You an' me'll just do a little innovative

experimenting while they're gone. Come with me," she ordered,

plucking him from his chair and propelling him toward the kitchen.

"You guys stay right there," she called to the regulars. "You can be

our official tasters."

     Assorted murmurs rose from the table in protest. She made out

"scheduled root canal," and "open-heart surgery," and turned, placing

hands on hips.

     "Okay, you bunch of ingrates," she charged, "if you don't want

to help your patrons turn this into just the hottest eatery in

Washington, that's okay by me."

     The regulars flinched under her gaze, dropped their heads and

meekly nodded acquiescence. She disappeared into the kitchen,

dragging a reluctant Raoul along with her.

                             ***

     "I'm stuffed," said Jeff Epstein, reaching for another

french-fry. David Winer and Michael Heinich nodded in agreement,

continuing to much happily. "Ruby, I think you've got a winner,

here," said Howard Palmer. "What did you say these are called?"

     "Hot mustard fries," Ruby answered, popping one into her own

mouth. Raoul stood by, watching anxiously as the group polished off

the last one.

     Randall Hahn, who'd dropped in just as Ruby and Raoul presented

the first plateful, smacked his lips and winked at Ruby. "They're

sensational, all right. What's in 'em?"

     "John's secret ingredient," Ruby winked back. "If it works for

an old white-haired guy in a funny suit with chicken, it'll work for

John," she declared confidently. John and Lucia entered just as Raoul

brought forth the second platter-ful from the kitchen, Cosmo and Zack

seated comfortably atop Lucia's shoulders. Cos promptly hopped off

and inspected the platter.

     "Fowl?" he inquired, eyeing the crispy-ochre wedges.

     "No fowl," promised Ruby. "Eat it. It's good."

     Cosmo tried one. "Good schtuff, good schtuff," he pronounced,

snagging another.

     Raoul crept into the kitchen, emerging with a baking pan which

he held up against Cosmo's length. Cosmo eyed him darkly. "Pierce

your nose, pierce your nose," he offered, snapping in the direction of

Raoul's face.

     "RAOUL!" John bellowed. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

     "Slow-witted, slow-witted," explained Cosmo, helpfully.

"Brain-dead, brain-dead," he shrieked.

     "Ees beeg bird," explained Raoul, dark eyes pleading with John.

"Make mucho good pollo en shallot weet babee carrots."

     "I don't care what you do in your country, Raoul. In America, we

do not eat our pets," John insisted. "Now just forget about it."

     "Buzz off, buzz off," ordered Cosmo, capturing another fry.

"Pierce your spleen, pierce your spleen," he offered again as Raoul

moved quickly away.

     "So, Ruby, what have you done now?" asked Lucia, approaching and

peering into the quickly-emptying plate.

     "Only come up with the ultimate weapon to make your diner a

culinary success in Washington circles, that's all," bragged Ruby.

"Here," she proffered one of the still-warm fries. "Taste this."

     Lucia took it delicately, examining it closely.

     "Eat it. It's good," advised Cosmo, diving back into the plate.

     Lucia munched tentatively. "Hmmmm," she murmured. "John," she

turned to her mate with a confused expression, "I think she may

finally have done something right." He, too, tried one of the

french-fries. "Wow, Ruby, this is really good," he said.

     "Well, of course it is. When have I done anything that wasn't

good?" she asked huffily as all eyes turned to look accusingly at

her. "Okay, okay, maybe coating Lucia's sleep mask in avocado-puree

wasn't such a good idea. How was I to know it would melt all over the

couch like that? I still say nobody should sleep that close to an

open fire, anyway. And didn't the eye doctor say that the green tint

would wear off her eyebrows eventually?"

     "That was six months ago," Lucia reminded, batting green-tipped

eyelashes at Ruby.

     "Well, this'll make up for it," Ruby promised. "In fact, it'll

more than make up for it. It and the mmmpho," she dropped her voice.

     "The what?" asked John and Lucia in unison.

     "The peeahmo," Ruby lowered her voice even more. "Never mind.

It'll clean, and I can retie that string thingie myself," she rushed

on. "You'll make millions with these fries. Zillions. You can buy

another one, if necessary."

     "Did she say piano?" John and Lucia asked one another. "Oh GOD!

Did she screw up my Steinway?" moaned Lucia.

     "Screw up is far too harsh a term," judged Ruby. "Now about

these fries..."

     John patted a distraught Lucia on the shoulder and followed Ruby

and Raoul into the kitchen.

                             ***

    "Yum," exclaimed Ruby Begonia, lifting another forkful of

John's 'Loaf de tuna with persimmon sauce to her mouth.

     Every available seat in the restaurant was taken and Lucia stood

at the front door taking names for the waiting crowd. Raoul and his

cousin, Jesus, worked frantically to prepare meals for the clamoring

group, of which all but a handful had ordered Washington's new taste

sensation - hot mustard fries.

     "Ruby, I have to hand it to you... you've come up with a winner,

this time," John allowed as he watched the patrons exclaim over the

side dish. "How'd you think of it, anyway. And how do you make it? I

can't always be waiting for you to come in and add a secret

ingredient, you know. Raoul has to be able to whip these up himself."

     "Well, Raoul knows everything but the base coat for the fries,

and I mixed up enough to last 'till my next visit," Ruby said. "Let's

face it, John - I'm not sure how hospitable you and Lucia might be

next time I'm in town if I just tell all," she said, studying him.

     "You've got a point. I don't think I've ever seen Lucia quite so

upset about anything as she was about that piano," John agreed. "She

spent three days just cleaning the caramel popcorn out of the keys

and then when she found that broken string I thought she'd have to be

sedated. You know the piano tuner literally cried? Of course, he's an

old man and he's been doing this for years, but I don't think I've

ever seen a man weep quite like that."

     "Sure you have," Ruby reminded him. "Don'cha remember those

friend of yours that went on the tour of Washington with us when they

visited last summer? That guy... let's see, Dick... that's it, Dick

Barkhammer. Don'cha remember? I had that whole case of those

knock-off perfumes, the ones that came in those cute little

containers shaped like hand grenades? What was that... Devastate,

yeah, that was the name of the perfume. Anyway, remember I gave them

some just to be friendly, and then when Dick wandered onto the White

House lawn that secret service man grabbed him and frisked him and

they took him away? He cried. Cried like a baby. How was I to know

they were real hand grenades? I didn't open them up to smell the

perfume. That wouldn't have been polite to give a guest a gift and

then open it. You ever hear anymore from Barkhammer? I thought I read

that they tried him for treason or some such."

     "Burkhalter. The man's name was Burkhalter, and no I didn't hear

anymore from him. I understand from a mutual friend that he's still

on soft foods and lithium, though."

     "Well, anyway, he DID cry, so I don't know why you say you never

saw anybody cry like the piano tuner. Why, I've seen lots of men..."

     John wandered off, shaking his head as Lucia approached the

lunch counter, reservation list in hand. As she neared Ruby, Cosmo

reached out to snatch the jalapeno pepper from behind Ruby's left

ear, murmuring "It's good. Eat it."

     "Absolutely everyone is here," said an excited Lucia. "I could

almost forgive you for ruining my piano," she told Ruby. "Almost."

     "You know, I don't understand you, Lucia," said Ruby. "Okay, so

the caramel popcorn wasn't a great idea, but how about those little

kitties and bunnies I decoupaged onto the cover? Ya got to admit it

adds a nice homey touch and it took me hours to cut them out of all

those children's books you had on the shelf. Jeez, you'd think a

person would be grateful," Ruby huffed.

     "That was a Steinway, you twit," Lucia said. "And those cute

little bunnies and kitties you cut out came from an illustrated first

edition, a personal gift from David Holloway!  Next, I suppose 

you'll try to sprout carrot tops and potato vines in the Baccarat."

     "Not if the Baccarat is that big glass bowl with etched purple 

zebras on the coffee table, I won't," promised Ruby. "It's too 

big for growing veggies, and besides, that's where I put my marble 

collection. They look real pretty through all those little 

handcut designs, except that one rock I had in there sort of 

chipped off a little piece of the edge."

     At Lucia's horrified gasp, Ruby rushed on. "Now don't get your

panties all in a wad, Lucy. I fixed it. I super-glued the little

chunk back on and you can hardly tell it was ever broken. If I hadn't

been eating that peanut butter Reese, you couldn't tell at all. I

kind of think the chocolate streak adds more color, though."

     "Do NOT call me Lucy," said Lucia, low and menacing. She studied

Ruby intently. "I may kill you," she mused. "I may have to. I think

the world will understand." She smiled a satisfied smile at the

thought.

                             ***

     "Ruby alert! Ruby alert!" shrieked Cosmo, watching her enter

during the following day's lunch time rush.

     "Yo, Cos, I thought we were friends," Ruby admonished.

     "Bribe me," said Cos. "You got cherry tomatoes?"

     Ruby opened her purse to reveal an assortment of grapes and

cherry tomatoes.

     "Never mind!" shrieked Cosmo and fell to devouring the fruit.

     "Behave yourself, Ruby. We've got important customers. Senator

Doal is over in the corner," shushed John.

     "Doal? DOAL? What are you doing serving Sweet William's

albatross?"

     "The poor guy's having a hard time, Ruby. Give him a break. Seems

like he's the only one in Washington who is not employing illegal

aliens. His constituents think he's gone uppity on them. He just

wants to sit over there and munch a few ouzo Baby Ruths to get his

perspective back," said John.

                                ***

     "Ye Gods, they've been over there for three hours, sucking up

ouzo Baby Ruths like they were going out of style," complained John

later in the afternoon to Michael Heinich.

     "Well, looks like that's about to end," answered Michael, as an

unsteady Senator Doal and a perfectly sober Ruby Begonia rose to

leave.

     "S'no problem," protested the Senator when John expressed

concern. "My driver's right outside and the lovely Miss Begonia has

agreed to take a turn around the fountain with me. Perhaps you could

fix us up a box of those chocolates for sustenance on our journey?"

     John checked his pockets, finding nothing. He remembered the

last time Ruby tried to help the President. She'd spent a long

afternoon consuming tequila bon-bons with Senator Joe Byeden. Byeden

ended up being carried out unconscious and a sober Ruby Begonia left

the restaurant alone. Later that evening, John discovered where she

had been secreting the unconsumed chocolates only as a result of an

amorous advance to his lady fair which left Lucia stuck to the wet

bar in the rumpus room by a mass of dark goo smelling of tequila.

     Ruby winked at the crowd as the twosome exited into the night.

                                *****

     "Wow, have you seen this headline?" asked David Winer the next

morning.

     "SENATOR DISCOVERED DOING BACKSTROKE IN FOUNTAIN" Screamed the

bold, black type, and underneath, the drop head: "Unidentified female

companion remains unidentified."

     "How's everything this morning?" called a cheery Ruby Begonia as

she entered.

     Lucia emerged from the kitchen at that moment with David's

breakfast, Cosmo on her right shoulder. The scent of fresh basil

wafting heavenward from the fresh, soft-scrambled eggs. As the

twosome passed Ruby, Cos reached out and captured the apple slice

hanging from Ruby's dangle earring, muttering, "Eat it. It's good."

     "You have absolutely no scruples, whatsoever, do you?" charged

John, glaring at Ruby.

     "Sure, I have. I put the chocolates I didn't eat into the

deep-fat fryer this time, didn't I?" responded an irate Ruby.

     "Eeeeek," shrieked Lucia, running for the kitchen. She emerged

with a plate of home fries with onions in some sort of dark sticky

mass and slammed it down in front of John.

     "This is your fault," she accused. "We are NOT wasting food. Now

eat it."

     John looked down at the mess. Looked up at Cosmo. "Hey, Cos," he

coaxed, "Eat it. It's good."

     Cosmo trained one bright eye on the mixture and shook his head.

"Not none a' me," he declared and snatched the apple chunk from

Ruby's other ear.

     All watched as John tentatively tasted the unappetizing mass.

     "Hmmmm. You know this isn't half bad," he pronounced. "What do

you think about hot chocolate fries?"

                                 

                                -end-

                  Copyright (c) 1993 by Del Freeman

 ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ

 °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°Writer's Block°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°by B. Z. Niditch

 ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß

                          Among sunless times

                          falling like paperweights

                          in polished midnights

                          wanting pot

                          when I do not smoke,

                          railing to ride out

                          this second wind,

                          looking at playbills,

                          bookjackets, my watch

                          thinking of moron jokes

                          about time,

                          murdering this donut

                          taking the whole spring

                          to lose out,

                          hating this winter cold

                          but without family remedies

                          for a cough that droops

                          into the morning.

                          I watch the large Evergreen

                          socketed by rain

                          wondering if it's all

                          about reflection.      

                      Copyright (c) 1993 B. Z. Niditch

 ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ

 °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°Virtually A Summer's Day°°°°°°°°°°° by P. A. Brush

 ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß

        I sit in the darkened room, the soft glow of the monitor before me

   is the only light in the house.  Nothing breaks the silence.  After

   taking a few more swallows of that amber liquid that quiets the fever in

   my brain but makes my throat burn, I lift a wisp of gray hair from

   before my eyes and turn to face the computer.  The antique keyboard is

   warm and comfortable under my hands.  If only my dreams were as empty as

   my days life would be tolerable.  Not pleasant, or the least bit

   worthwhile, but at least livable.  But memory doesn't sleep, and

   without the liquor to damp it at night it comes alive and invades my

   dreams.  If only I could suffer a mere nightmare!  But no, all too often

   my dreams are the real images of the terrible past I want to leave

   behind and recreate at the same time.  It is the only way I will ever

   see any of them again, and wanting that more than anything, I still

   can't pay the price of my dreams.  You see, in spite of all that

   occurred I am still proud.  Oh Arabella and Markus, forgiveness is too weak

   a word for what I have to ask of you!  How could a man be as arrogant as

   I was, and as blind to the danger that I put us all in.  If only I could

   pay for my conceit myself, but no, if there is a God it is crueler than

   that.

        I watch my age-spotted hands on the keyboard as they call up the

   communications program and begin the nightly ritual that I long since

   gave up hoping would help to right some of the horrors that I

   perpetuated that January evening so long ago.

        Those of you who still have your youth probably know something of

   what I felt.  Knowing that I was different, special, could do more than

   others, and do it better.  I was going to leave my mark on the world

   (and so I did, but in so awful a fashion that I could not speak of it to my

   closest friend).

        All was light and laughter when the experiments began, and it

   stayed that way much longer than it should have.  That is what deceived

   me.  That something that appeared so innocent could have so much power,

   and be so vengeful still seems incomprehensible.  It was just the next

   logical step in the exciting microcomputer revolution at the end of the

   millennium.  The experiments with virtual reality were of special interest

   to me, and I must admit that I accomplished things in this field that

   have never been equalled.  The price I have to pay for my success is the

   two silent boxes in this dark, dusty room where the two people who meant

   most to me in the world once sat.

       I reached for the tattered postcard once again, and in the dim light

   reflected by my ancient monitor, read aloud the phone number

   shown in smudged black ink.  "Take A Chance BBS" was embossed on the

   front of the card. "Most interesting," I thought,  "indeed."

           My hands trembled for just a moment and then my fingers swept

   the keys so expertly that individual motions were impossible to detect.

   I whispered, "Computer please dial now," and reached for my glass,

   waiting to see what would happen next.

           All of my promises and all of my dreams merged for one flat

   instant when all was forgotten and time collapsed into trivia. I was

   young and excited for that second between DIALING and WAIT and Markus

   and Arabella grew dimmer and dimmer in the shadows of my room...

           The screen flickered and then went black except for the green

   characters in the center,

                             Who are you?

   

           I typed,          Dr. Alfred Stringer

   

           and pressed Enter.

   

   The screen returned:

   

                    Thank you.  One moment, please . . .

   

       "Welcome to Take a Chance.  You've stumbled upon one of the truly

   unique opportunities in today's modern society.

       This electronic bulletin board is dedicated to enlightenment,

   encouragement, and excitement.  Too many people in today's

   technological jungle feel isolated.  They spend their days entering

   useless bits of information in computer terminals much like this one.

   This is the era of simulated realities, instantaneous travel, and

   globally networked environments.

       Many people have advocated a return to the ways of simpler days.

   We at Take a Chance regard our modern society as a new opportunity,

   however.  Take a Chance is an avenue for personal growth, wealth,

   and sexual satisfaction.  In this information renaissance, more is

   available than at any other time in our past.  The key is in finding

   your access to opportunity.  With Take a Chance, we hope to provide

   that key.

       Please, sit back, relax, and prepare yourself for a new adventure.

   In a moment, your journey into the world of Take a Chance will begin.

   We are sure it will be a truly rewarding experience.  You may leave

   the world of Take a Chance at any time by typing "Stop", or pause your

   session by typing `p'.  Type `help' for assistance.

                   Hit `enter' to continue, please . . .

   

           "Useless bits of information," I echoed.  Yes, that was what

   Markus had said when our virtual reality experiments had just begun and

   we were only defining universes and not immersing ourselves within them.

   I started, rubbed my eyes, and vowed to not get lost within my memories

   until I'd at least tried out this BBS.

           I pressed enter, and watched a delightful menu print out

   on my screen. The options:

   

                   1. Enlightenment.

   

                   2. Intense Sexual Gratification.

   

                   3. Soul Mates.

   

                   4. Personal Wealth

   

                   5. Power and Fame.

   

                   6. Global Thermonuclear War

   

           Enlightenment.  Arabella often said that a new Renaissance was

   upon us, but that to partake of it, we must prepare to add to it.

   She was convinced that the term "enlightenment" referred to a state of

   mind and in fact, her insistence was what inspired me to propose our

   initial experiments.

           I could hear my heart pounding as I reached for the "1" on

   the numeric keypad. I typed the "1," and then pressed Enter.

           The screen cleared to black, and then an image which sent me

   careening into the depths of horror presented itself with utmost clarity

   on my screen:  Four Doors.  These doors had no description, no

   numbers, but each was a different color.  They seemed to be suspended

   in space, and as soon as my mind registered "space," clouds appeared behind

   them.  I wanted to turn off the machine and I wanted to try each door

   simultaneously.  I could not resist the temptation to explore what was

   presented to me, yet I knew with certainty that each door was a virtual

   reality unknown to me and yet all too familiar in my worst nightmares.

           In the end, I couldn't resist.  I typed, "The Red One," and

   the red door within the universe of my screen slowly opened wide.

       Behind the door was an intense, three-dimensional red grid.  At

   its center was a silver, sexless figure.  The figure approached and

   began to speak.

       "Good evening, Dr. Stringer.  Welcome to the world behind the Red

   Door.  I am your guide--you may call me Derfla.  You are here seeking

   enlightenment, and I must warn you:  All enlightenment carries a

   price.  Are you willing to accept the terms of this universe?"

       I reached for the keyboard to respond, but my fingers had become

   silver, digitized images.  I floated toward my guide, settling inside

   the virtual universe.  I regarded the grid around us; I gazed for a

   long moment at the figure before me.  We were mirrors of one

   another--silver and sexless.  "Yes," I said, "I accept your terms."

       "Very well, Doctor," it responded.  "Follow me."  The grid

   expanded, rotated, began to swirl.  It formed a vortex with a dot of

   blue at the center.  We swept toward the blue dot at a dizzying speed,

   the spinning of the virtual whirlpool increasing as we approached its

   center.  We broke free of the vortex, and the blue dot expanded

   rapidly.

       It was the earth, floating in a field of stars.  We rushed toward

   it, the continents resolving themselves as we approached.  We rushed

   nearer and nearer, toward North America, toward the eastern seaboard,

   toward Boston.  I suddenly realized our destination, and with the

   speed of thought we settled before an apartment house in Cambridge.

   It was a place I hadn't seen in forty-five years.  It was the place my

   torment started.

       We passed through the walls of the building like ghosts, moving

   toward the large apartment in the back.  In the apartment were three

   people--myself, as I had been at eighteen; Markus, my older brother

   and closest friend, and Arabella, the woman we both loved.

       And I fall into melancholy, into thought and into

   memory. "Arabella... Arabella?"   I think of Arabella.  I see my

   Arabella.  The fragrant maiden who the angels named--Whore! No! No,

   no. . .  She was my friend.  My sweet friend.  My blessed friend.

        "I am back there--in a rain storm. I'm rained upon. I am a

   rubella: a fellah without an umbrella, all because of Arabella.

       "Arabella, Arabella--my silent Belle.

       "I dwell in this cell where I fell. It's hell, this shell.

       "Arabella--I worshipped you, mademoiselle. I cursed you as a Jezebel.

   I mocked God. I was an infidel. I cried at the highest decibel.

        "I bellow like a noteless cello. I was yellow. I wouldn't say

   hello, it's me who needs you. I was jello.

         "Arabella, I dream of your bella--ah--your belly. It's naked. I

   kiss it. It's delicious like deli jelly--and I read to you from

   Shelley.

       "How could I?  Arabella, not then, you belonged to another, who was

   my friend and brother too. What could a poor depressed, repressed fellah

   do?

       "Over the years I've thought of you and little else.  I've kept my

   jealousy to myself. Why now is all of this bursting forth? I am an old

   man. I know I am an old man. I am young. I am here. I am there. I am

   eighteen. I am sixty-three.  My body is hard and lean and young.  I feel hard

   and strong and want and need. I have the power to take. You, Arabella,

   are beautiful.  But, oh, darn, darn, darn, Markus is still my brother."

        These are my thoughts, only my thoughts. I dare not speak them

   aloud to myself, or to Arabella or to Markus.

        Arabella sat curled up on the upholstered chair with a glass of wine

   in her hand.  Her long curly red hair framed her delicate small face--

   such a beautiful face with features so soft that they belied the

   intense intelligence within. She was laughing that easy laugh she

   always made available for one of Markus' risque jokes.  He was

   so much better at telling jokes than I.  I always screwed up the punch

   line.  Markus was sitting on the couch opposite of Arabella and I was

   perched on the stool in the middle.  We were having a wonderful time

   just as we did 45 years ago.  Drinking, laughing, so full of promise

   and hope, ignorant of what lay ahead.  God, I miss them so.

        But this was the night that it all began, the night when we began to

   lay the foundations of a new level in the information renaissance that

   had swept the nation and the world--virtual reality. We had often

   talked about the promises of virtual reality and what rewards that

   could be realized for the betterment of humanity, but tonight we

   would embark upon the journey to a new plateau of awareness. A

   new development in virtual reality that not only gave the individual

   the perception of being in an artificially-generated environment, but

   also provided stimulus to the remaining senses of the human

   experience, i.e., senses of touch, taste and smell. A complete

   environment of escape from the present into alternate worlds without

   the use of chemicals or hypnosis.

        Tonight, we began that journey to create a world that gave so

   much, but took much more in return.

           Arabella's smile slowly faded into the prisms within her eyes,

   and she distractedly tapped a fingernail on the rim of her glass.

           "Alfred, all of our preliminary tests indicate that our original

   premise was right on target.  You can't isolate one specific incident to

   the contrary.  So why are you so nervous?"

       "I'm as excited about this as you and Markus.  I just don't feel

   that we're ready to launch a human being into any of our pre-defined

   virtual realities.  At best, they're too sketchy."

       Markus recrossed his legs and rolled his eyes. "Alfie, you're

   wrong.  Arabella re-defined the weight ratios, and every single

   result indicates success.  You can't argue with Crayon!"

       "I'm not arguing with the Cray. I just don't think we've thought

   of everything.  And stop treating the Cray as though it were a

   real, thinking human being; you trust it too much."

       Arabella stood up and began pacing the room.  She looked like

   a caged animal, tense and ready to leap at the slightest provocation.

       She suddenly stopped in front of the window, looked out into

   the snowy streets, and said, "Okay. Let's define our first human

   reality.  Alfred is right, we've been playing with mice and it's time

   to develop the next level of depth.  I say we begin our structure by defining

   the sense stimulation realities for, oh, a grassy park somewhere."

       Markus and I exchanged silent nods, he walked over to the

   blackboard, and I flipped on the video-recorder and sat on the edge of

   the old oak desk. Arabella turned to face us both, and we all three felt

   electric, the adventure beginning all over again.

   

       Markus reached up and pressed the "clear" button, and the

   blackboard first turned gray and then black, clean and ready. He leaned

   back and glanced at the paper supply, and then picked up his stylus.

       "Arabella, you go first.  Give me all the sensations a woman would

   detect in a grassy park."  His stylus was poised over the blackboard,

   waiting for input.

       I felt uncomfortable again.  "Wait.  We must refine this with

   empirical fact.  Let's agree to make some preliminary definitions

   and then back them up by going to the grassy field and recording our

   sensations."

       "Agreed."  Markus smiled. "Always the skeptic, and rightly so."

       "Right," Arabella grinned at me.  "First, smell.  Slightly ozone

   such as ten percent, and perhaps another ten percent sweetly mossy. I

   think another ten percent should include whatever trees are nearby,

   including their bark and if there are flowers on them, and add five

   percent for damp and humusy earth.  We can refine these numbers later,

   oh and let's add two percent body talc, presuming awareness of self."

       I was suddenly in agony.  I looked at the Cray and began to back

   out of the room, painfully aware that this moment in history was the

   exact beginning of our disaster.  Arabella's words continued to echo,

   and the three of them continued to define that grassy knoll, as my

   present self was swept out of the room and backward, weightless, through

   a red door.

       "Tumbling through the crayon door, and for a canyon that seems

   to have no floor, I begin to fall like lead.  Mists, sounds, and ghosts

   rethread dread in my sorehead. I've been a blockhead, I know.  A

   bonehead.  Never a hothead--still my forehead burns!  What's ahead?  More

   of what I dread?"

       "Doctor Stringer!" Derfla snapped, breaking the spell.  He was

   once more an image on a screen, and I was once more a flesh-and-blood

   entity.

       "Why must we always return to the beginning?" I asked.

       "The enlightenment you seek must begin with an acceptance of the

   causes of the disaster.  In all the years you've suffered, you've yet

   to accept the full measure of your responsibility in what happened."

   Derfla softened his tone.  "Doctor, you must accept what happened and

   your part in it before you can put it behind you."

       "You're right, of course.  May we begin again?" I asked.

       "No, that door is now closed to you," my guide responded.  "You

   must choose another door."

       "Then I choose the yellow one," I said, and as it opened, my

   consciousness once again leaped into a virtual universe.

       I and my silver companion sped along a landscape that strongly

   resembled the circuit diagram of a computer.  A very powerful

   computer, it seemed, and I realized we were moving along the

   data pathways of the Cray system Markus had called Crayon.

       We reached an output junction, and exploded into a meadow.

   Arabella, dressed in a gossamer gown of pure silver, stood gazing at

   the grass and flowers that surrounded her.  She took a deep breath,

   and I could see the delicious curves of her breasts outlined by the

   sheer fabric.  I felt a flash of arousal, followed immediately by a

   flash of guilt.  She sighed, said, "Exit," and began to fade.

       My silver guide and I also faded, rising into a room with a couch,

   medical monitors, and a terminal for Crayon.  Arabella was regaining

   consciousness on the couch, as Markus monitored Crayon's output, and I

   monitored the medical displays.

       Arabella sat up, and smiled.  "Very close, guys.  We still don't

   have the scents down, though.  I could only smell the ozone, not the

   flowers."

       "Neural induction has its limits," said the young Alfred.  "We

   need some way to enhance the interface."

       "Little brother, you can figure it out.  You've put us on the

   right track with this direct neural stimulus.  Programming Crayon for

   the environments is easy--converting those environments to a form our

   sensory nerves can directly access is difficult.  But we're getting

   there!"  Markus seemed so sure of himself and of us.

       I had my doubts.  I had my jealousies, too, as he bent to kiss

   Arabella.

        I knew that if I wanted to change anything, to recreate my

   present and future, that I would have to stay in this past, but I

   couldn't bring myself to do it.  I just couldn't.

       Once more I tore myself out of the simulation--a trembling,

   sweat-soaked human in an old leather armchair, sitting before an

   obsolete video monitor.  The expressionless face of Derfla regarded me

   from the screen.  We watched each other for a long moment, human and

   video image, before he spoke.

       "Dr. Stringer--Alfred, we must continue.  You were very close just

   then, before you abandoned the scene."  He swept his arm backward to

   the two remaining doors.

       I shuddered.  I'm an old man.  I don't have the capacity for too

   many shocks at one time, at least not any more.  But I felt compelled

   to play out this little drama, perhaps to find what I once lost.  I

   took a deep breath.  "The blue, please," and once again found myself

   moving at lightspeed, a silver image in the mind of Crayon.

       We were pioneers in a technology that would become the standard by

   the end of the twentieth century--and be outlawed a scant ten years

   later.  The crude neural induction system I designed became a direct

   cortical implant.  People could feed information directly into their

   synapses.  The world was a better place . . . for a while.

       Too many people began to live in a virtual reality.  The real

   world became a pale imitation of the scenarios they designed.  The

   first deaths took the world by surprise--locked in a world of their

   own making, the victims died of dehydration just a few feet from the

   kitchen taps.  The disappearances were even more startling.

       These were my thoughts as I sped along the circuitry of Crayon,

   the Cray mainframe that housed our early programs.  It was on display

   in the Smithsonian now, and this electronic bulletin board had somehow

   accessed it.

       Derfla and I left the Cray, travelling along the cable to the

   neural induction array that a young Alfred Stringer was working on.

   We entered his hands, his mind.

        Goddamn William Shakespeare. Shall I compare thee to a

   summer's day? shall I create thee a summer's day? Shall I make THEE

   a summer's day?  When I heard Markus muttering these hackneyed

   sonnets to Arabella, I began to lay my plans.  They wanted the

   virtual reality of a summer's day?  Well how about I make Markus

   into a summer's day?  Arabella could only love a summer's day so

   far, no matter how beautiful and temperate.

        I began studying wet ware, and biosensors, everything having

   to do with biological components of electronic systems.

        Everything worked perfectly.  We all three "went in"

   wet wired through the contacts most people would have permanently installed

   to directly access their cortexes at the end of the 20th century.  Arabella

   and myself were standing in a beautiful park.  Markus was nowhere to

   be seen.  She wasn't too upset at first.  I reassured her that it

   was probably a hardware problem--a malfunctioning line or jack,

   and that Markus would be sitting in the computer room when we got

   home--fuming over missing our first outing.  In the meantime I

   basked in the glory of her undivided attention.  We strolled down

   the lawn, and paddled our feet in a little pond, and fed some

   squirrels.  Both of us marvelled at the reality we were

   experiencing.  We were so proud of our work.  I was especially

   proud, because I thought I knew exactly what happened to Markus,

   and knew that now Arabella would be all mine.

        But she kept saying "I can't believe Markus isn't here!  It

   just feels like he should be here."

        And indeed, I felt Markus's presence strongly.  Especially by one

   large live oak tree in the middle of the park.  Right where I

   sent him.

        When we finally exited the program and she found Markus's

   empty contact-cluster sitting on the floor she was distraught.  Then I

   pointed to the time.  What had seemed minutes to us, and taken

   slightly over 12 hours.

        "Markus is probably at home sleeping, or getting something

   to eat somewhere."

        "No, He went with us didn't he?  You know something you

   aren't telling me!"

        "Really, Arabella,  I'm sure that you are overreacting.  You

   call his house, and I will look through the house here."

   

        I wandered upstairs calling his name.  My heart was full.

   Arabella was mine at last, my brother was gone forever. When I

   got back to the comp room Arabella was gone.  There was a note to

   me on the screen of the small lap-top computer that just said.

      "I've gone looking for Markus."

       At first I assumed that she went to Markus's home.  Then I

   saw the program on the screen of the Cray, and realized that

   Markus's cable now ended in Arabella's chair. She had re-executed

   the virtual reality program using Markus's terminal.  Now they

   were both a mere summer's day in the virtual reality we had

   created.

        No matter how many times I tried to go back to that summer

   day I couldn't find it.  I began to feel that Markus and Arabella

   were playing games with me.  Leading me on a chase through the

   microcircuitry, and laughing like children behind my back.  They

   obviously had the ability to change the virtual realities from

   within because I accessed the same programs to find alien

   landscapes, arctic winters, and sometimes total blackness.  I

   always felt them nearby, but never managed to connect.

       They were gone, and they'd left me behind.  They were dead, and I

   had killed them.  Guilt drove me out of the program once again.

   

       As we faced each other now, I recognized my guide.

   Derfla--Alfred.  He was me, I was him.  He was the part of me I left

   behind with my betrayal, the part that reported two missing persons to

   the Boston police.  I knew where they were, though, or at least what

   was left of them.

        "Let's go for the last door."  I said, and allowed myself to

   be swept through on a tide of electrons.

        I was sitting in the den once again.  But I couldn't

   remember if this was real or created.  There was only one thing

   left to try, and I knew there was no going back once I tried it.

   I picked up the cluster that I had rigged for Markus so long ago and

   slipped it onto my head.

   

   It was a summer's day in the park.  Markus and Arabella were

   feeding the ducks at the pond.  Arabella turned and looked up at

   me as I approached.

       "Oh look, Markus, he's finally here!"

       "How long has it been?" Markus asked as he turned and laughed.

       "Forty-five years."  I began to sob.

        Arabella came and held me.  As my sobs slowed, I began to

   beg them to forgive me.  I looked up and saw Arabella scowling at

   Markus.

        "You'd better tell him.  I told you it was a cruel thing to

   do!"

        "Hey, he was going to turn me into a tree!  Listen, little

   brother, don't feel bad.  You didn't do anything to us.  We've

   been fine.  I saw what you were doing, and wrote a different

   virtual reality program working on a closed loop and taking

   feedback directly from your subconscious.  You see, you've never

   left your virtual reality.  Wherever you've been--whatever you've

   done from the moment you plugged into that Cray was created by

   your own devious mind.  It may have seemed like 45 years, but in

   real time it's only been about an hour.  I had it working off a

   timer in the den."

        "What are you saying Markus?  You mean that you and Arabella

   have been sitting around the park here while I've been suffering

   the tortures of hell for killing you both?"

        "Well, the short answer is yes.  But remember that whatever

   tortures you suffered you also created for yourself.  Your

   conscience just wasn't up to fratricide, little brother, and I

   guess we both knew it at heart. "

        I didn't know what to feel.  Relief, anger, and dismay fought

   for attention in my psyche. Before I could say another thing

   Arabella spoke.

        "Why, it looks like rain, did either of you program rain

   into this reality?"

        "Hey, you did remember to turn on the surge protector didn't

   you?" Markus asked.

        A huge bolt of lightning flashed out of the sky and hit the

   live oak tree that I was once convinced was my brother Markus,

   and everything went black.

   

                            #        #        #

   

        When the smell began, the neighbors called the police

   department.  A few firemen and cops were casting about in the

   ruins of what was obviously a long-abandoned house.  There were

   no records of the owner, or owners, and it was a bit of a mystery

   what should be done with the house and lot.  They found a room full

   of ancient electronic equipment, and what was left of the body of a

   man seated in an old leather armchair.

        "Jesus, Al, look at all of these antiques!  They must be

   worth a fortune to a collector.  There's a keyboard and a two-

   dimensional monitor, and look--printers that use paper."

        "Yeah, and look at this little dandy." Al said holding up a

   dusty cable with a nasty looking bundle of wires on the end.

        "Wow, bioware.  That's been outlawed for at least 20 years.  I

   wonder what happened here?"

       "We may never know, you know."  Behind the two men, a single line

   blinked on the ancient monitor:

 

  

                              NO CARRIER

                                 -end-

Contributors:  Lucia Chambers, Michael Hahn, David Holloway,

Franchot Lewis, and John Wallace.  Final edit by Michael Hahn.

Copyright (c) 1993 Pen and Brush

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 °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°° A Messaging Aid for BBSers °°°°°° by Jack McGeehin

 ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß

  Do you ever feel strongly about something but find that you just don't

  have the time to put in writing? The following simplified message form

  will help you put your beef into words, quickly and accurately, without

  having to mess with all those annoying grammar rules and punctuation. Give

  it a try on any of a thousand and one issues...

  

  I have had it up to here with ___________; clearly, the fault lies with

  __________; I feel strongly that what should be done is ________. While

  your opinion that _______ was certainly ________ I would have to say that

  _________.  (Optional words of encouragement) __________________.

  

  Example: the flap over gays in the military

           inexorable homophobics

           let the gays serve in the military

           gays should not be allowed in the military

           well-expressed

           you were wrong

           Hope you have a nice day

                                          Copyright (c) 1993 Jack McGeehin