Hell is what we make it.

THE OLD MAN AND THE MAN FROM THE BOOK

(c) Copyright 1993, by Franchot Lewis

The old man rubbed his neck above the shoulder, allowing
five seconds to pass, a break in his concentration, to ease
the strain on his eyes.

"Good book?" another man asked. "Would you mind if I sat
here?" This man looked a few years younger. He began to sit
before the old man made the jerky motion, giving a nod of the
head. The man asked, "What are you reading?" He looked to
see. The old man held the book flat to his lap, and placed his
eyes back on the book pages. The man said, "It must be good?"
The old man said nothing. He kept reading. The man asked, "This
is the red line train?"

"Yeah," the old man mumbled.

The man smiled. "By the way, my name is E.M."

E.M. stared, kept his eyes still, waited for the old man
to reply. The old man's eyes dribbled like a ball passing an
intruder. Then, the eye balls returned, bouncing back and
dropping onto the old man's lap, and onto the book. The younger
man continued to wait. The wait took a full minute for the
reply finally to come.

"I take it that you're a tourist?" the old man said.

"Nah."

"You make sounds like a tourist."

"I do?"

"This is my time to read and -"

E.M. smiled. "Before job and home?"

The old man mumbled aloud his thoughts. "This won't be
easy. Why won't he sit somewhere else? Bother somebody else?"

"What are you reading?"

The old man was about to curse. He stopped, took a pause.
He rubbed a pained bump that suddenly came to the surface of
his neck. He mumbled aloud, "This isn't going to work."

E.M. stretched, squinted, as if straining to see
through weak eyes. He looked at the book in the old man's lap
and skimmed the top paragraph. "What kind of book are you
reading? By a new author? I have never read him before?"

The old man closed the book and held it between his legs.

E.M. saw the title and exclaimed, "Subway reading,
nothing to cause alarm or shame."

The old man turned the book to its flip side, the side
without the title, and put it in his coat.

"Don't hide it on my account. Now days, everybody reads
horrible books."

The old man had a film of sweat on his lower lip. He wiped
the sweat off with his hands. In a moment, the sweat passed
from his hands onto the back of the book. He gripped the
book as he spoke. "What game are you playing? For a long
time, I have taken this train and I have yet to meet one
more disrespectful ..."

"Sir?"

"What do you want? Money? Are you a beggar?"

"Sir, me?" The slightly younger man stared into the old
man's eyes. "Do I look like I'm begging in these clothes?"

The old man's eye balls started dribbling again.

"Sir," the younger man opened his wallet, called for the
old man's attention. "Sir." He showed him the wallet's contents:
fifty dollars, in fives, tens and ones, and two major charge
cards.

The old man looked relieved. The relief was short-lived.
The younger man by a few years reached toward the old man's
coat and with little difficulty took the book.

"You're with the insurance company?" the old man sweated
profusely. "I didn't know that they check on what you read."

The younger man looked serious. "What have you done?"

The old man protested, "I know you check on people, but
this is too much."

"What do you do?"

"You're not an insurance investigator?"

The younger man shook his head. The old man grabbed back
the book. "You are gay?"

"Sh- no!" The younger looking man snarled, then stopped,
grinned and spoke calmly. "Nah. No. Just want to talk to pass
the time. We're seat mates."

"We're nothing. "

"All right. We'll soon pass your stop anyway, and go on
together."

"Leave me alone, before I pop you."

The younger man put his face up to the old man's and
frowned. He moved another inch closer and the old man moved
exactly an inch back, red-faced, his cheeks the color of
fear. The younger man kept still as he stared, and took
his measure of the old man. The old man's eyes went back to
the book.

The younger man said, "You can't pop me. Your gun's too
short."

"My fists -"

"Mustn't. You'll catch what I have."

"What is it with you?"

"Something that comes with being a man, a 100-proof man."

"What are you saying? I'm a man, 100-proof," the old man
was angry.

"Who said so?"

"I do!"

"You and the ladies, goddamn it?"

"Sh-"

The younger man grinned. "If your balls are all right,
you have nothing to worry about?"

"I'm not worried about you," the old man said.

"But you keep thinking, I'm going to do something?"

The old man raised his voice in anger. "I don't think,
you had better try," he said.

The younger man smiled. "Take it easy."

The old man stared straight into slightly younger man's
face. "You take it easy." The younger man grinned. It looked
obviously that the old man was bluffing. He held in his breath,
to make his body look leaner, his face meaner, and himself,
younger, stronger.

The young man smiled. "Take it that you use your sprout
for more than to make water? You use it to please the
ladies? You've made a few babies at your age, huh?"

"It's no good talking to you." The old man stood. "Will
you let me by?"

"This is not your stop."

"Do you think it will do any good?"

"What?"

"I'm changing seats."

"Of course it will. Running makes some people feel
better. Track and field stars, not cowards."

The old man walked half the length of the train car to
the front. He sat down and opened the book and commenced to
read. The younger man could see that the old man had lost
interest in the book. Now and then, the old man would look
up and around, and then back, to see if the younger man would
follow. The younger man called to the old man, told him that
he would not follow, but after the old man finally stopped
reading all together, the younger man changed seats too,
taking the seat next to the old man.

"About how long do you think it is going to be before we
exchanged blows?" he asked.

"What do you want?"

"About how long will it be before you sock me and I
sock you?"

"You aren't going to sock me."

"Oh, yes, I am."

"What's the matter with you? Are you a nut?"

"I've had men say that to me, a thousand, two thousand."

"Did you hear what I said? If you put your hands on me,
I'll kill you."

"A hundred, two hundred have said that."

"There are people on this car. I'll call for the engineer."

"Operator. Subway operator. Yellow. Old, yellow sissy,
asked me if I was a fag, sh- ! Don't call for help, fight
like a man, with your fists and not with your mouth, with
your guts and not with words."

"You'll be arrested."

"People don't give a doodle if two old cussers fight. We
both look like we have a hundred and fifty years between us.
We would look silly. It would give them something to talk
about."

"You would look silly with your jaw broken."

"Old men fighting look silly, like their heads' broken."

"Get away from me."

"- Oh, yes, they do. When I was a young man in France, I
watched to dutifully record for posterity the conflict
between two old men fighting over who did the most against
the Germans back in '70."

"Huh?"

"Don't interrupt me, I'm telling you something
important."

"You're crazy," The old man shouted. The slightly younger
looking man grinned and continued, "One old boy told the other
that his contribution wasn't enough. That old boy couldn't live
with that. They had forty-four years of anger to get out. You
can't live with that kind of anger. That's been nearly eighty
years now."

"What?" the old man interrupted again, shouted, "This
train doesn't go to the nut house. You're have to take the
green-line and an A-bus."

The younger looking man spoke sternly. "Old man, how long
have you been waiting for a good fight? I mean a rumble?"

The old man stood. His face, white now. The slightly
younger man placed an intense gaze on him, from head to foot,
as if closely examining him. Then, the younger man said,
calmly and slowly. "Since five thirty this morning when the
subway opened, I've been waiting all day, itching for a fight.
I've waited all through the morning rush hour. It's nearly
eleven, a good time to knock somebody's block off."

"Excuse me."

"Changing seats again?"

"Will you let me pass?"

"You, poor scaredy cat. Scared when the big bad hound dog
comes to fight. Why don't you jump off the train, and lay down
in front of the tracks?"

"Sh-t."

"Talk to me, babe?"

"I'm going to kick you if you don't let me by."

"Oh, you're a man? How many babies did you have? Boys did
you make? Sons? A man makes sons."

The old man raised his right foot. The slightly younger
looking man didn't move. The old man stepped across the
younger looking man's legs. Suddenly, the younger man grabbed
the old man, held him tight, and whispered in his ear. "I had
three sons who made male babies of their own, my sons are
men. I made men and they've made men."

The old man struggled, "Get off me!"

The slightly younger looking man continued whispering in
to the old man's ear. "Finally, when the son last had left me,
I was very sad."

"Help!" the old man called to the people on the train.
People stopped and looked, but no one moved to help him.
The slightly younger man kept whispering in the old man's ear.
"But the next day, I was in the tub scrubbing my ass, and I saw
my balls."

"Get off me." The old man continued the vain struggle.

The slightly younger looking man continued to whisper,
"They looked quiet, were very quiet, but they hadn't died
in their sack. They were there. Those magnificent creative,
man-making things -"

The old man screeched, "Let go of me or I'll kill you!"

The slightly younger looking man didn't pause, continued
to whisper: "- and every thing else was easy, and of no
importance. That was so long ago."

He stopped and released the old man. The old man
shouted, "You are crazy?"

The slightly younger looking man shook his head, "Nah."

The old man balled up his fists. "Why am I talking
to you?"

"Because you box with shadows. Your life is over. Your
sons are gone."

"I'm going to get you."

"Every wife you had left you. Your work is through.
There is no one left for you to fight."

"The next thing I'm going do before I get to my stop is
punch you one."

"C'mon, there's time. This train's doesn't stop."

"It does! It does. I have a stop where I get off. I
have things to do."

The slightly younger looking man grinned, "That's what
they all say."

{END}
(c) Copyright 1993 by Franchot Lewis. All Rights Reserved.

Man is insignificant.

DINNER WITH K.

(c) Copyright 1992 by Franchot Lewis

"We are insignificant. God is irreverent."

--K.

Now, I shall tell you of my dinner alone with the
famous writer, novelist, and adventurer, K.

He is a tall blond one. He is always attached to a
communication device that constantly sends and receives
messages to and from the universal communications net. He
remains in touch with his various interests. As he sat at my
table a box on his lap buzzed and beeped and rang and chimed
and constantly demanded his attention. He begged me to excuse
the interruptions as he took and sent messages. I would have
been annoyed by any other guest who kept allowing a squawking
box to interrupt our dinner. K. is different. If you can get
him to sit still for a millisecond the quality of that moment
of his conversation is worth the inconvenience. K. has the
ability to get one to think, and to do more than think, to
get one to participate in life, to get off ones duff and live.
K. is one of the biggest brains and do-ers in the galaxy and
is probably worth two or three million interruptions.

I see that most of you are familiar with K. from his
many books and guest appearances on the nightly galaxy view
tele-wide screens. So, perhaps you think I am a long
suffering, short little one in a shadow, a friendly cuss,
always in search of a good conversation, who likes K. and
plays dumb to his animal behavior? Perhaps, you think I am a
joke? I know, I should have balked at having to stand second
to a talk box during that dinner I had with him at my home.
My wife thinks I worship him as if he is a god. When K. came
to our house to prepare the meal, my wife left to visit her
friends. She does not like him. She says he teaches me bad
habits. She thinks that like most artist K. has a picture of
himself which out shines the image others have of him. In his
own eyes he is a heroic cynic who is brave and bold, and
unafraid of challenging universal conventional notions. Well,
in my eyes he is a romantic. He is a hero, too, an aging one,
who sallies forth from his artistic fortress, into the wilds.
I have known him for fifteen years, and well for five. He has
played the part of friend and guru.

K.'s face was lit. His eyes shined. He looked delighted
as he declared, "I have a treat for you: fresh meat. Killed
it myself."

I may have moaned. I tried not to show how I felt. I
think I whispered, "They don't allow that much?"

"Only if you go out of the galaxy to the hinter worlds
for it," K. replied.

"They let you bring it back?"

"Yes."

"My Uncle Zowie was forced to dispose of the fresh meat
he had smuggled in," my voice may have sounded like a whine.

The shine in K. eyes was gone, he groaned,"Was your
Uncle Zowie part of the scandal in dead meat stock?"

A soft murmur escaped my lips, "My Uncle Zowie?"

K. began to lecture. The tone of dread and disgust was
in his voice."Vermin were scavenging the outer rim of the
hinter worlds for dead meat. They sold their hauls to local
vermin distributors. Their stock was bug infested, and it
infected some of the best guts on the home planet."

"Shucks," I mumbled, summoning up memories of how my
uncle suffered last summer through stomach wrenching pain. I
remembered how he howled and the way my aunt screamed at
him for abusing himself by eating the dangerous and rotten
filth.

"Some vermin were raiding zoos and even pet farms," K
continued to state his disgust.

"I heard of them, but not my Uncle Zowie," my voice
sounded almost like a lament.

"He was not involved?" K. raised an eye brow.

I shook my head.

"Just a thought," he nodded, and the shine in his eyes
returned. "This is fresh, wild game meat," he tipped his
head up. "I shall eat nothing but the best. This is for my
gut and yours."

He opened the package of meat. It was a huge piece,
enough to feed a dozen. He laid the meat out on the kitchen
table.

I stared and spoke down into it, "Looks different--"

"Sure!" K slapped me on the back. "You can buy meat in
the store - after that pore ol' soybean has had all sorts of
new finagled designer chemicals punched into it, and its been
mangled into bits, then re-arranged to be a pithy flesh-like
pulp and made the object of endless enzymes for hours at a
time. It's textured, flavored and tenderized, but it has no
taste. Not a smidgen of taste - the chemists' concoction is
far too much of a wimpy, heartless thing for any self-
respecting diner to try to approach. It is a sorry entity
onto itself that only the tasteless are fool enough to get
near."

"Oh?" I said softly.

"You should see the lack of blood cells that inflict
the asses who eat store-brought meat," K. belabored the
point.

"Yeah," I said softer.

"Gimme wild, game meat anytime. My stomach can no longer
handle soybeans," K. grinned.

"Yes," I nodded. "But, how do you cook it?"

K. gave me the recipe, repeating it as he prepared
the meal. He said: "Wash the meat and soak it overnight in
brown ale. Ryan V ale is best. Place the meat in a large pot.
Lay upon the meat sliced onions, bell peppers, Vox seeds
and salt. Roast on low heat with the lid on in a maxi-oven
for four minutes. Add some more ale and roast for another two
minutes. Now, for the sauce. Take a deep dish. Put in two
slices of the roasted game meat, a thin layer of Roguer's
mixture, a pinch of Toning celery, and pour in enough meat
stock to cover the meat. Place for fifteen milliseconds in
the maxi-oven to boil down the liquid. Remove the dish, let
it cool, then extract the juice. Return the dish to the maxi-
oven for another fifteen milliseconds. The meat stock should
now be a dark brown coating on the bottom of the dish. Scrap
this coating into chunks of bits. Pour clear Von soup into
the dish and stir until the brown bits are dissolved. Place
the dish in the maxi-oven at low heat for a few milliseconds
until it comes to a boil. Skim the soup of all undissolved
bits. Add parsley stems, dried Raffia leaves, cracked
peppers and brown onions. Let the dish simmer in the maxi-
oven for three milli-seconds. Let cool, then strain it
through an Yuan cheese cloth. Serve and enjoy."

The meal had been prepared. We were eating. K began to
tell a story. K is known as one who likes to tell stories.
Some of his yarns are rather long. He is known to make each
interesting by adding humor, or by telling them while serving
an exceptional cask of ale, or an extraordinarily unusual
slab of meat.

"On Guff are found the worst detention centers. I was
detained in one of them for twenty four hours in an air tight
cell with just enough air for one docile one, and I was given
the warning that the air was sufficient if one behaved, and
if one did not, one would suffocate and die."

"Oh," I shrieked, a scrap of meat was stuck between my
teeth.

"The air was bad, thin and it smelled," K. chatted on.

I took hold of my knife, my weapon of dissection, and
grunting, pried the meat splinter loose from my teeth, as K.
continued to narrate his adventure: "I laid on the bunk and
waited until the grinning, sadistic guards released me."

K. treated the meat as if each piece was a chewy morsel.
Using a knife and fork, he nipped little bits of meat at a
time loose from the slab and nimbly popped them into his
mouth. The meat snapped at me. I snipped at it with my knife,
sliced and speared it. The meat crackled back, fighting in my
mouth, attacking my jaws and leaving my gums irritatingly
tingling with pain. I had too spit it out.

"Does it smart?" K interrupted his tale.

"No," I lied.

"It is not sweet, confectionery, candy meat," K.
cracked. " It stings, unlike the lush, charming, juicy,
tender, luxurious crap that comes in those luscious looking
store-brought packages, the nicely nice stuff that will
shorten ones life."

I tried again. After several minutes I had been able only
to get down a few meat crumbs. My stomach was grumbling with
hunger. A great gaseous blob came bellowing up from my belly,
a cry, a yell, a roar, demanding that I feed. I scolded myself
and swore I would not allow this tough meat to break me. I
cut into it and shoved a large piece in my mouth. It pinched
me, but I was determined to tame it. My teeth would be like
scissors and presses. The meat was strong. It held fast, as
my teeth closed against it to squash, grind, pulverize it. I
mashed my teeth together, squeezing my jaws--

"You should relax," K. suggested. "You are dinning, not
fighting."

"Ugh?" I uttered with my mouth closed and filled.

"The meat is resilient," K. spoke in a low voice.
"Enjoy the challenge of eating real food. Ones who grow
sinew bones, powerful bodies, robust constitutions, the
hardy ones, the immovable males, feast on real meat. It will
make you solid."

My jaw muscles worked themselves into an awful state of
painful rigidness. Stiff pieces of the meat were stuck in my
aching gums, but I would be firm, and tough enough like K. I
closed my eyes and worked my jaws, harder, up and down. I
ignore the sharp pain the hard and fast chewing of the meat
had brought to my jaws. I would devour the food, consume its
essence, chew it to its core, annihilate its gristle. K.
now nodded approval of my ferocious effort and continued his
tale. After three minutes more, I finally had the gunk of
meat into manageable shreds and on their way down toward my
hungry stomach.

"I was aboard the maiden voyage of the Dasas II, the
first ship into hyper space," K. began to recount another
chapter of his well-known adventures.

"I know."

I attacked the meat slab again and took a larger portion
on my knife. K. indicated approval, and continued the tale.
"The additional speed at the time was not worth the
inconvenience."

"The Dasas was a pioneer ship," I mumbled behind a full
and chewing mouth.

K. replied, "Was very cramped, not very clean, very sour.
The ship's captain was a bore. He leaned a bit too much to
exaggeration. I quote him : I am authorized to tell you that
this the most important trip of your lives is the most
important trip in history."

"Wasn't it?" I asked, my voice muffled through food.

K. put a sour look on his face and answered sharply, as
if his wit had curdled at the thought of my question. His
acetic tongue wagged, "Of his life, maybe, but not of mine.
And, who can speak for history?" K. sighed, instantly no hint
of the tart look remained.

He was well into an amusing description of what life was
like for him when he was an eighteen year old conscript in
the army of the Canting warlord Mucks II. I had been
laughing along with his comic mimic of his drill sergeant,
when I shook and cursed as a glob of the meat scrap got
caught in my throat.

He stopped the tale, transfixed an intense gaze upon
me, who was squirming with embarrassment while coughing and
spitting to keep from choking on the chunky glob of meat
scrap that for the horrendous moment was unmovable in my
throat.

"What did you say?" he demanded to know.

I said nothing, just coughed violently, in a tremendous
effort to expel the glob caught in my throat.

"I am a collector of expletives. I know tens of
thousands cuss words from thousands of worlds." K. eyes bore
into mine, as he talked, all but ignoring my loud coughing
and barking, as I tried to force out, to even barf up the
meat chunk. K. questioned me about the cuss word I had
shouted at the moment the chunk got stuck in my throat.

"I rather avoid domestic cuss words altogether," he
said, "and refer to the exotic ones I acquire during my
travels. You chose to use the word, 'Senna'. I've never
heard it used that way. I suppose it is a fine word choice if
you are referring to an object that is the mother of a minor
irritation, but a major cause of pain merits a much grander
epitaph. I use often a word that I picked up from the natives
during a Terran hunting excursion. The word, Hell."

My eyes had become red. I was in deep distress, snot
was running down my nose, and I was hacking loudly, trying to
expectorate the irritant from my throat. I whimpered,
"Aren't you going to help me?"

K. rose from the table, walked behind me and whopped the
flat side of his open hand against my neck. Out of my mouth
came spittle and the gunk and a sudden wail of pain. "That
hurts!" I complained.

"Are you choking?" he retorted.

"Hell," I replied.

He laughed. "Novice diners on good meat always choke
at first," his eyes twinkled.

"Why didn't you warn me?" I pouted.

"Would you have listened? A one of adventure like
yourself?"

"I am not a one of adventure."

"Not yet? Right?"

I pointed out to him that in my book, I was very
religious. I had faith. I believed everything. Tell me any
thing and I will trust you.

His eyes twinkled again. "Really?"

"I believed what I am told, I listen."

"There is much of my younger self in you," he grinned.
Next, he turned the word, belief, around on his tongue, and
he took off gossiping about his beliefs during his childhood.
He concluded this recollection by saying, "My parents always
observed the holy high holidays. They were conventionally,
moderately orthodox. During the most important religious
holidays my whole family went to the temple dressed in our
best clothes. Going to pray was an important social occasion--"

"You're not an atheist now?" I asked.

He shook his head, "Never."

"That's good," I nodded mine.

He added, "Naturally, my childhood beliefs did not add
up. I could see that religious celebration was more important
as a social event, and that the sacred meaning of religion
had been lost. For example, we pray in an ancient tongue
that few understand. We learned our prayers by rote and
constant recital. I have prayed without understanding a
single word, or having to-"

He said that he doesn't go the temple, although society
throws a fit, and levies the heavy no-going-to-temple tax on
him, but that won't force him to pray publicly.

"I think I am as religious as anybody," he affirmed my
faith in him, " but I can't take praying in public at the
temple, repeating words that mean nothing. I seek answers
as to the meaning of life, and other ways to be in
communion with the Creator."

"Good, good," I all but applauded him. I told him that
his spiritual search sounded like a similar experience of
mine. I told him I had read his book on spirituality,
including the banned one.

"Smart Ass?" he grinned. "Thought I knew everything
when I wrote that one."

"Who hasn't thought that?" I asked.

He answered, "In all seriousness, personally, I believe
The Creator is in each of us, and all of us are of The
Creator."

I began to squirm again in my seat with my mouth open,
but this time my eyes danced around in my head like a school
child's. My voice sputtered out in quick ejaculations. "Would
you mind a new, novice on your spiritual sojourns to Kyats?"
I leaned forward, pressing him eagerly for an answer.

"You?" his eye brows lifted up an inch.

"Yes," my head bobbed up and down like an excited young
male one asking a favorite uncle for a favor.

"You're a quiet one, more likely suitable for a day trip
to Joaquin than a safari," K had a serious look on his face.

"I-" I sighed.

He spoke critically."I've placed you in the quiet portion
of my mind." I groaned signaling my disappointment. Then, he
smiled, "One who might occasionally slip out to watch the
exotic females of Ra sna V." I returned the smile. He
finished the comment, "A gentle one who never makes
trouble."

"Making trouble, how can --" I pressed him further.

"The authorities think that no-gooders like me who seek
the fulfillment of life are trouble makers."

"How can the spiritual hunts for food and the
fulfillment of life cause trouble?"

He threw his hands up in the air and shook his head.

"I have asked that of the authorities!" he exclaimed.

"I don't make trouble," I said. "I have a phobia for
pain."

"Brother, welcome aboard!" he shouted. "I shall take
you on."

"Good." I was happy. I leaped a bit from my seat. I was
so happy.

"Our first stop will be to sign in with the brotherhood
of the hunt on Margo ta's Place on the Reis Sphere. If you
prefer the quiet section of the clan --"

"No, adventure."

"I should explain: there is no quiet section, only a
quieter section. Just a few brothers belong. The quiet ones,
the high adventurers, the true gamblers, the big game
hunters."

"They're quiet?"

"And serious. In the other sections are the loudmouths,
the braggarts, the drunks and the hot shots. The ones there
for the show."

"The quiet section are for the ones in the know?"

"Exactly."

"What about the inner sanctum on Raffia VII?"

"Raffia was the entrance point for new recruits when it
was secluded. Now, it is semi-secluded, the front door to
every want-a-be."

"I see."

"The truly-ares and will-be-es have left."

"You are going to take me on a get-together for the hunt?
And on to a real hunt?"

"Forget what you think, I shall show you the right
way," said K. "You have heard of the get-togethers for the
hunt? The get-together has become some strange kind of game,
where all sorts of ones mingle freely. You're in dangerous
territory at one of them."

"Uh?"

"Raffia is where fools mingle freely with correct
behavior cops."

"Cops?"

"Rocked heads, the strident nannies who have arrested
minds, the stick and foils of the authorities. Raffia is a
little thick, but if it suits you, go ahead and go. One of
the rocked heads will approach you and take you for all you
have in a minute: your time and your freedom."

"Oh, I didn't know," I moaned.

"Don't feel bad. I never knew what went on at a get-
together either until I crashed at a few, so I am not
surprised by your ignorance."

"Gee."

"Don't worry, good old Uncle K will get you to a hunt.
With a little trusting magic I shall get you thinking like a
hunter."

The meal was finished. The dishes were cleared from the
table. We went into the den to finish off the cask of ale.

"You have mumbled something along those lines," K. said.

"Huh?" I shook my head.

"Of course, much planning must go into a successful
hunt. What you have in mind is some sort of combination, party
and hunt, I think. I never know what you are actually
thinking."

"Me?"

"It's difficult to figure out ones thoughts. They must
come out in the statements one makes." He tensed, "Now, you
are thinking about what?"

"The hunt I want to go on," I insisted I was a serious
candidate for the hunt. He frowned. I grinned to try to roll
back the frown from his face. "K., you use to say you could
read my mind?"

"Not accurately. Everybody is different, nobody is the
same. I actually do not know what anyone is going to do until
they do it."

"Do you think you will take me on a hunt like the one
you wrote about in your last book?"

"It depends on where we go and who comes along."

"Who should we take?"

"Make a list and see who will be free at the time."

"Let me see," I started to consider a list.

"Shush," he said abruptly. "I just had a thought that
you might be serious."

"Yes?"

"Then, why do you want to take a mob?"

"Huh?"

"The hunt is a spiritual search; that what you hunt for
is not the prey, the object of the hunt is self. One hunts
to discover ones self."

"I'm sorry," I mumbled.

"If you are serious I shall take you with me to Terra."

"Terra?" I asked. He glared. I mumbled, "I mean,
Terra -- I will have to take a week off from work."

"What?" he asked in a low, quiet voice. He sighed. "If
we were arranging a quick get-together, I would answer: why
not make it a closer destination? Terra is on the farthest
rim of the outer spiral. A trip there wouldn't be cheap in
time or credits. Just from thinking of a list of those whom I
think might be interested in coming, I believe they could not
afford such a long journey. I would suggest that we consult a
chart of the hinter worlds, and find something closer. My
guess would be the northern sector, or maybe even closer
north than that."

I mumbled, "If you prefer Terra."

He replied, his voice thick with the syrup of sarcasm,
"You don't think that's a good idea?"

"Life is short," I said. "One must live now."

"Yes," he answered.

"Blasted, let's go Terra then."

He smiled, relaxed. "I have just come from there," he
said, "I had a nice time."

"Just nice?"

"You read my books?"

"Yes, nice."

"I bagged a cellar full of good meat," he smiled. "We
had some tonight."

"It was nice," I said, and remembering what K. had
written on the ritual that is the hunt, I quoted him. "The
hunt is for finding ourselves, meeting the challenge of the
hardships of hunting in the wilds, and it is a hunt for
food."

His smile broaden.

"You brought back the best meat of the hunt," I said.

He nodded, "The very best."

I nodded.

He began to tell me his secret of hunting. "To get good
meat," he said. "You must chase it, and you have to let the
meat know you are chasing it. The secret of good meat has
something to do with the natives' glandular system. When they
get frighten and run their glands secrete adrenalin--"

"Huh?"

"Adrenalin, it's some thing found in them; and the more
adrenalin in the meat, the tougher, chewer and the better
the the meat is for the masculine appetite."

"I see, " I said.

"That slab we had tonight came from one of two natives
of Terra, two no more than fifteen of their years. Good
tough, young males. I chased that meat for two miles through
a field, over a gully, and when the pair had crossed the
gully, I let them think they were free. I pulled back. Their
adrenal glands must have been pumping. I saw them pant for
breath. Then, I came on them again--zip. I was right on them.
Suddenly, I was right on them and they were horrified. I
yelled, screamed at them. Shoo! They ran. I didn't let them
both get too far. I shot one of them, stunned him. He went
down, screaming. The other native glanced back, saw that his
companion was down and panicked. I pulled back and waited.
The native went back for his fallen companion and began to
try to carry him. I waited, knowing that the meat was getting
better as they were pumping more and more adrenalin. Ah, God.
Hmmm."

"Great," I said.

He sighed, "Yes."

Everyone Needs A Mom

A GOOD MOTHER, MOTHER GOODE

copyrighted 1994 by Franchot Lewis

Maggie Goode and her little grandson rode out of Anacostia
on the Green Line, they were on their way down town to shop, and
were seated opposite two young girls, ladies, who were just
out of their teenage years, wearing T-shirts and jeans. The
T-shirts advertised a rap group, the Wasted, Wretched, Dreadful
Dead, and the girls defied you to think they were talking about
anything less important than a music video until the bigger one
cheerfully explained to the slender one why she was pregnant again.
It didn't have anything to do with anything, just that it was
something that people like them did.
"That baby's going to stare at you if he learned what idiocy
you're up to?"
The pregnant girl's head bobbed, agreeing entirely. She said,
she has been trying without any success to make herself believe
that the child she was bearing was part of some great plan. "The
fact is," she said, "Mark wants a son." Mark was her live-in boy
friend. She sighed, "Starting out with two kids is -" She
stopped, frowned - "This won't be another girl."

Maggie stared at them. They stared back. At first the pregnant
girl looked puzzled. The puzzlement quickly turned to defiance.
The other girl, with a sweep of the eyes, mumbled towards Maggie,
"What's wrong with her?" Maggie considered moving her grandson
to another seat. There was one far back in the car. If she moved,
she would have to stand. She glanced at her grandson, to see if
he was listening to the young women. He was looking out the
window, into the dark tunnel, at the flashing green lights passing
by. Fifteen seconds passed and the train began to come into a
station. The women stood and walked towards the door as though
they planned to alight at the station. Maggie relaxed, the women
were about to leave.

As she waited for the train to stop and the door to open, the
pregnant girl leaned against a rail and sighed a bit wearily, "I
never thought I would get pregnant again?"

Her friend asked, "Why?"

"The pain. I knew it hurt before I had my first, but I never
thought that it would hurt like it did."

"It hurts," her friend said.

"I know," she laughed, "my baby girl almost killed me, I
screamed, hollered, nuts. I hope this one won't hurt like that,
I'm going to tell that girl when she grows to some size: girl,
you almost killed me, you had your mama crying, girl, screaming
like the pain wasn't going to ever stop."

"Yeah?"

"Did yours hurt too?"

"Yes, they all do, but when it's over, the pain goes and you
forget about it like it never hurt at all."

"Yes?"

Maggie shook her head, said to herself, "The hurt never stops;
God made mothers to cry."

The train stopped, there was a wait before the doors opened.
When the door did opened the pregnant girl said, "I was beginning
to wonder if they'd were going to let us off this darn train,
that driver better go back into training."

"Come on, girl friend," her friend said. "It all works by
computers."

The two girls left. Mist was dripping behind Maggie's eye
glasses. Her grandson glanced up, "Grandmom?" Maggie was silent;
her grandson waited for about a second, looking at his grandmother;
then the train was starting up, a few more seconds, and it was
weaving through the tunnels, making noises, going heavy on the
track, passed the Navy Yard, on its way downtown, through the gray
light of the tunnel under the Capitol's streets. Suddenly, Maggie
squeezed her grandson's arm, hard, and he gaped, mouth opened
wide, eyes in a stare, sore arm, and she cried, softly, "Sorry,
Baby." She let go, "Eddie?"

"Grandmom?"

"I'm sorry."

"My arm's all right," he said.

She nodded. He looked away, at the tunnel lights passing by
the window.

****

"Christ ... Christ! We're in Hell. We're broiling. Yes,
broiling."

Maggie stared at a balding head, a man who still sometimes
courted her after a yard of years, her fellah with a humor that
was sometimes ill, but never meant anyone any harm, her husband.
He had just stood guard outside the bathroom door like it was an
official building that required a pass for entry. The occupant
of the bathroom was Maggie's and his only son, Thatch, the
father of their grandson, Eddie.

Maggie's husband was sixty three but acted forty, or thirty,
sometimes. But, when their son, Thatch, last came for a visit,
Maggie's husband acted ancient, and Maggie's husband didn't want
the son in the house.

"Because? He's a thief, he steals; robs from his own mama's
pocket book, robs me."

"No, that's in the past; Thatch says -"

"Don't tell me what that sucker says, I know -"

"He's our son, your son, mine."

"We've had to put him out, you know? Three times, four times
already?"

"He's stopped."

"When?"

"You have to give him a chance to redeem himself."

"Still another chance?"

"He's our son."

"So he comes to you on his knees, begging, crying, 'Mama,
let me back in, you've gotta let me come back home for a visit,
to talk to you,' is that how he put it?"

"Edward!"

"Don't holler, woman."

"He's been to the treatment program."

"Again? I talked to him yesterday on the street. I am not
going to let him in the house. I walked pass him and sniffed. He
had a distinct odor and it was not a faint smell. The scent was
strong enough to leave a whole street full of junkies lit."

"He promised."

"The last time you left him here by himself, he sold our CD
player and our VCR, and he would have taken the tv but a floor
model is too heavy for him to carry, thank goodness that boy
doesn't do any heavy lifting."

"He's our son."

"We've got to be firm about this, strong. It is for his good
too."

"Damn, that tough love, Hell. I'm not going to keep him
locked out."

"Maggie -"

"He's coming to visit today -"

"Aw -"

"He's coming."

"Look, if he steals anything, you are going to have to replace
it. If he takes anything of mine, you are going to have to pay me
back. I'm going to be here while he's here, I don't want him here
when I'm not here."

Thatch came and Edward stayed home from work and followed him
around the house, from room to room, standing guard while Thatch
was in the bathroom. As Thatch was leaving Maggie told him, "I'm
leaving a light on in the window. I'm going to leave it there like
a lantern hung on a post."

"Yeah, " Edward said. "Be sure to call first before you come;
give us a six-month notice."

Maggie thumbed her nose at Edward. Thatch said, softly, with
a smoothness that seemed to have been practiced for a century, "I
understand where Dad is coming from; Jesus loves him, and I love
him too."

A week later, Thatch was arrested; the charge, trafficking in
narcotics. The first Maggie heard of the arrest was when Edward
saw it in a newspaper and showed her the article.

"That couldn't be Thatch?" she cried.

Edward groaned, "It's him, the sucker."

The next day Maggie went to visit Thatch's wife, Ava.

"Gee, I'm just getting it," Ava said. "Thatch won't be coming
home for a darn while. I'm so glad you've come. We've been having
it real, dirt ball bad. No money. Talking to you is what I've
always wanted, but Thatch has been so independent, didn't want to
ask for help. Too proud to ask his people, you know? He was odd.
Sometimes we had nothing, not enough to give to Little Eddie, and
Thatch would, you know?"

"Things should have been different ..." Maggie wept and
continued to cry, softly.

"Thatch could be a louse ... "

"Didn't you try to help him too?"

"Yes. He wasn't a louse all the time, only a short while.
Pretty soon it would dawn on him that he had a child depending on
him, and he would get a job, a piece of a job, like he did last
summer that lasted all summer long. People aren't hiring now, you
know? I would get a piece of a job, myself, anything to bring
money in, and pay somebody to take care of Little Eddie while I
worked."

"Here, take this."

"Gee, Thatch never would take anything from you or ask."

"It's for Little Eddie."

"I've always told Thatch that he has the darnedest attitude."

A week passed, another visit at Ava's --

"Yes ... Come on in. The day goes so fast. Maybe I'm pregnant
again or something. I get so sleepy, and then I'm not your normal
housekeeper. Thatch always said that. He thought you kept the best
house in the world, was a saint, too, in too many ways. Forgive me,
but I would always get so grouchy when Thatch would talk about the
way I keep house. But you aren't interested in hearing about how I
spent my day, you've come to see Little Eddie. I'm not a very
interesting person. Who wants to listen to me, right? Eddie's in
his room sleeping like a dog. He had been barking all day, like I
was not here but a million miles away, now he's tired himself out
and have gone to sleep. Uh? I fed him. What? The refrigerator? What
are you doing? Okay, I was about to go shopping. Things cost.
Money doesn't go so far. What? I feel like telling you about
myself. Yeah? You don't know me. Or do you? What did Thatch tell
you?"

"I don't know what you mean?"

"Oh, I should tell you about his idea of romance? Some time I'll
tell you, maybe? Maybe I will how he was not really a nice person
at all, but just a wild man out of his mind half the time, who
pretended to like his wife and himself. I tried to understand him
and got knocked up side the head for my efforts. He could get mean,
frightfully. I was scared of him, sometimes. Wait! Listen! Hear
me. What it is, is that you're still in denial about his meanness?
Thatch got that stuff up in him, he smoked that shit and drank
Hennesey, and he acted like a beast up from a tree, not like that
nice son that you knowed and owned."

That night in bed Maggie's husband woke, heard Maggie sobbing.
"Crying again?"

"Quit, leave me alone," Maggie kept sobbing.

"Can't. I'm worrying if I don't do something, I'll drown, I'm
already being soaked. May I turn on the light so we can talk, yes?
No? We'll talk in the dark. You can't see this, but my sleeve is
wet clear through. This arm I keep near you is water drenched.
But I don't mind getting wet. All I mind is being drowned. I'd
like for us to talk. I wish we could back the car up outside D.C.
Jail, tie a line to the bars and the car and ugh! Let the boy
escape. It's a good healthy feeling to want this. But I'm afraid
it can't be done."

"Shut up!"

"No."

"I'm not thinking about Thatch, it's Little Eddie, you fool."

"What's wrong with little Eddie?"

"That girl, I want to choke her."

"Ava?"

"Have you ever talked to her? I have? For hours and hours.
You were right about her. When you first laid eyes on her, you
asked what Thatch ever saw in her. Breasts, degenerated sex, you
said, she was a hussy. I said, give the kids a chance."

"Maggie -"

"She brings the worst out of me, the worst thoughts, my darkest
thoughts."

"Maggie -"

"She's on that stuff; she's neglecting Little Eddie. She's
taking the money I give her for him and is not using it on food,
but that stuff. "

"Maggie, you've gave her money?"

"I could kill her."

"You gave her money, no?"

"For her bills. Her bills and her bills. The same bills over
and over again."

"Why don't you ask her to let you watch Little Eddie for a
while?"

"I did."

"And?"

"And no!" Ava said. "Never! Little Eddie is my baby. He is
all I have. I don't want to live without him. He is mine."

The next morning came - before the morning, the dawn, and
before the dawn, Maggie was up. From her street of houses on a
hilltop, silence. It was too early for her middle class neighbors,
even the birds on the roofs were asleep. Maggie stopped, pondered,
before she broke the silence by starting up her still sleeping
husband's town car. The car seemed to turn over slowly, and once
going, move slower. The drive seemed to be longer. A drizzle
began; the windshield's slap-happy wiper sprung into action;
Maggie winced at its unhappy echo.

In front of the apartment building where her grandson lived,
Maggie parked. The drizzle had lifted. The morning light looked
still-born, too many choking clouds lingered. She grabbed the
sacks of food and cleaning tools, and locked the car. She climbed
three flights of stairs, quickly, she stepped with a fair spring.
She knocked on the apartment door, called her son's wife's name,
demanded to be let in. The door opened - her grandson, demanding
a hug and breakfast, and getting picked up. And lifted? Quickly,
he was in the arms of his amazed, angry, stuttering grandmother who
toted him about the apartment's front room and yelled about his
clothing, a long dirty shirt that looked more like a smock than
sleep wear for a little boy.

He did not know where his mother was. Maggie had, had that
feeling of danger and dread. It had awaken her, made her fill the
car with stuff and run, in the still night time, to see her grandson.
Perhaps, it was seeing the boy in a smock that decided it for
Maggie: Her son's wife had to be made to give up the boy.

Maggie washed her grandson. She couldn't find any clean clothes
for him, so she dressed him in his least dirtiest clothes. She
served him the cold cereal from the kitchen cupboard, and then
remembered the food she had brought and cooked crisp bacon and
eggs which she did not serve him, he had fallen to sleep.

She cleaned the apartment and waited for her son's wife to
return, and prepared things to say.

"You ought to be in a cage, your arms tied to the rafters and
you whipped."

"You're tripping?"

"I should report you."

"Me? That's a laugh. What for?"

"You know mighty well what for? Leaving a child alone,
sneaking out to show your tail off to some scum in all your naked,
slutty glory."

"I guess that's right. I'm just as bad as your jailbird son."

Laughter, mocking laughter - Maggie heard a herd of heifers,
their hoofs hitting hard against her forehead. The light of a
brightening morning woke her. Her grandson, a lively boy, was
awake romping, stumping on the floor. The sun had crept out, her
son's wife had not return.

Maggie asked her grandson, "Do you want to go to grandmom's
house?"

Five days. FIVE DAYS passed - and thumping on Maggie's front
door, and a dusty woman, with waggled steps, waddled into the house
and stood.

"Where is Little Eddie?"

Maggie had let her in, but wouldn't let her pass the hall.
The woman, her son's wife eyeballed Maggie, peering out the corner
of her eyes, "I'm warning you, I won't leave without Little
Eddie."

"Where have you been for five days? Where did you sleep last
night? In a hay-stack? There are clump balls in your hair."

"I want my son."

Maggie smiled and sighed: "I'm pretty tired of you, dear. I'm
going to keep my grandson. You haven't an idea in that hay-stack
head of yours to raise him -"

"I've always wanted to tell you off, Mrs. Church Woman, Perfect
Mama."

"I try to be a good mother."

"I hate you."

"Why? Because you don't try to be a good mother?"

"If you try to keep Little Eddie, I'm going to whack you."

"It's come to threats of violence? You'll take the fall for
I'll never let you take Little Eddie."

"You know, you can not take somebody else's child, you can
borrow him, but not keep him."

"Exiting, eh?"

Maggie's son's wife's legs made a wobbly move, she balanced,
then dug down into her jacket and found a slip of paper. "Bills,
your son left Little Eddie and me with nothing but his bills.
These bills have to be paid."

Maggie's mouth went dry, and she stumbled over her tongue
until she found one Christian word to say, then found another
and another. "I ought to slap you, " she said. "I gave you money
and you just threw it away, messed it all up. I've been giving
you money, and you mess it up on drugs. You won't get another
penny from me."

"Who's going to pay your son's damn bills? Me? I don't have
any money."

"I won't give you a cent to pay the same bills over and over
again. You have put drugs before your child and yourself. My
grandchild is staying here, you can get your junkie ass out of
my house."

"Shit, you not going to take my baby, you old bitch, you old
dried-up bitch."

"Get out of my house!"

POW!

It was afternoon when Maggie awoke. She sprang up and rushed
from her bedroom towards the room that had been her son's and now
she meant to be her grandson's. Little Eddie was asleep, curled
in a sweet little heap, his brown eyes closed, his resting face in
repose against a fluffy pillow as he was taking his afternoon nap.
He looked so peaceful and safe. She remembered Ava, and was very
angry with herself for letting that, "that!", junkie sucker punch
her on the jaw. She knew that she must have gone right out cold.
But where was Ava? And who had put her to bed? And given Little
Eddie his nap? Edward. Who else? When Ava came to the house, Edward
was upstairs.

"Edward!"

In the kitchen on the bulletin board she found his note: Gone
to get stuff for you, be right back. PS: Ava's in jail; and you
shouldn't be reading this. Doctor, says you need to stay in bed,
you'll be alright, but you need rest. I'll be back in ten
minutes.

"Ten minutes?" She put a pot on the stove to make tea. Before
the water boiled Edward returned with a bag from the pharmacy.
"Maggie, go back to bed."

She shook her head. Edward smiled, "Don't get into cat fights
with younger women."

"Never in my life."

"Got the tea ready?"

"Ava -"

"Let the cops handle her. She was lit up with drugs. She came
here demanding money and assaulted you. She'll get eighteen months
to three years."

"After that?"

****

For only a moment more did Maggie hate Ava, for the train was
slowing down. It was pulling into a downtown station, and her
grandson with his smooth politeness, smiled, "We get off here
grandmom?" His eyes shown with light and it was unbearable to
hate. His face has features that were half Ava's, and half her
Thatch's. Maggie would have wept, but her grandson's eyes were
staring at her so deeply, and he was desiring so much to get off
the train, that he stood, took her arm and pulled. "Dear,"
she said, "Go easy on Grandmom's arm."

"This is where we get off, isn't it?"

"Yes, dear," Maggie took her grandson's hand and they left
the train. She took him and brought him all new things at stores
where there were so many wonderful things for little boys.



{END}