One little word can mean so much.

 

Funny how the word “house” means a building, a place where people reside, but change that word into “home,” and you get a million more connotations. Family, warmth, happiness. But home is still a place.

 

Walking down the street with the neon lights glowing all around me, I found my mind wandering away from where I was to where I wished I could be. A heat unlike any other engulfed my heart, making it beat faster with every step I took. Weaving through the crowd, each face became a blur as I sped up to keep up with myself, my blood pumping in an erratic, high-paced tempo.

 

A loud honk and the screeching of tires made me stop short of becoming a pancake on the asphalt. I waved my apologies as the driver gave me the finger and took off, peeling out with a vengeance.

The near-flattening experience brought me back to the here and now, and I began to look around for my destination.

 

Crud.

 

I realized that I was in the middle of a city I wasn’t familiar with, and that I was lost.

 

I fished around in my pockets for the napkin with hastily scribbled directions, but I couldn’t find it. Damn. I looked around me. Suddenly, everything was in sharp contrast; I could see every pair of eyes on me as I looked like a fool, feeling myself up for a scrap of tissue paper with the most important chicken scratch in my life. I knew they were in my other pair of jeans, but I kept searching anyway, on the off chance that the napkin decided to be kind and teleport into my pocket. After a while, I stopped. It was hopeless.

 

But it was no use standing around. I lifted one foot, then the other, and soon I was walking once more, searching for an apartment that I didn’t even remember the address for.

 

 

 

“You’ll know it when you see it,” he said. “It’s a loud building, and it sings punk rock. You’d never expect me to live there.”

“Then why do you?”

“It was cheap. The city’s ass-expensive, you know?”

I nodded and remained silent. I wouldn’t really know, since I had never lived in the city, but I just assumed he’d be right. He was always jumping head first into new adventures and as always, he adapted quickly. I watched his lanky body as he stretched his back. Then he slumped over again and held up his beer glass.

“Here’s to you finally getting off your ass to visit me,” he said.

I smiled and lifted up my glass. “Sure.”

“You could have stayed with me instead of that dinky motel,” he added, his glass wavering in his hand.

I shrugged. “I didn’t want to impose.”

“Pffft, whatever. Cheers!”

“Cheers.”

Clink. Drink. Slam.

Our glasses empty, he told me how to get to his new apartment while I wrote it all on a slightly moist bar napkin. The pen tore holes here and there through the thin material, but it was still legible, for the most part.

“Alright. Come over tomorrow night around 8PM, and I’ll show you a good time,” he said with a wink and a slight slur in his ultra-smooth voice.

 

 

 

I had no doubt that he would, indeed, show me a great time. If only I could find the damn place. I tried to remember exactly what he had said to me.

 

“Take a left at the McDonalds on Fourth Street,” I mumbled to myself. I walked past the golden arches and stopped short. Looking around, I found the holy sign.

“Fourth Street, yes!” I exclaimed, garnering me some strange looks and muffled laughter. I didn’t care as I ran to the left and careened down the road. The faces once more became a blur. I ran for three blocks before questioning whether or not there was another turn. Was there?

I stopped running and looked around me as the fog rolled in. Hell. I was lost again.

 

 

 

“I’m gonna miss you.”

“Well, you won’t have to miss me if you come with me.”

I sighed. He didn’t understand. I was already so entrenched in this place that I couldn’t just get up and move. My home was here.

“Look,” he said after a while, “just because you’re born somewhere, or that you’ve placed roots somewhere, doesn’t mean that you can’t lift off and go elsewhere. Home is where the heart is, you know?”

“That’s so cliché,” I said with a hint of resentment. I didn’t want him to leave.

“Yeah, but it’s true.” He gave me his patented carefree grin and placed a finger on my chest. “My home is there, regardless of where I go.”

 

 

 

I had looked at him with an uncomprehending stare at the time; I still don’t understand. Home is a building with a roof and walls shelter you from the weather. Home is where family gets together. But home is still a physical structure. Isn’t it?

 

Around me, the buildings shifted shape in the foggy night. What I had thought were skyscrapers were actually just small towers, if you could call fifteen-story buildings small. I walked past one of them before stopping mid-stride. I backed up, nearly walking into sign post in my haste to see what I had missed.

 

That bastard. He was sitting there on the front porch of the very building he described and looked down at me with an amused smirk.

“About time you got here,” he said to me as he stood up and ambled down the steps of his apartment building. His snappy dark green blazer, black slacks, and beige turtleneck didn’t match his ruffled hair and 5 o’clock shadow. At least I coordinated my look: completely disheveled from head to toe.

I looked at him for a few seconds longer than is socially polite, my mind flashing from irritation to relief.

“Sooooooooo sorry, but I lost your directions,” I said sardonically.

Despite our nonchalant conversation, I could feel the air around us getting heavier with everything we shared as each moment passed. The intense emotion swirling in his dark eyes tugged at me, and I couldn’t help but grin back. My heart, which was beating so intensely before, now beat sedately, like a satisfied beast basking in afterglow.

I understand now. I'm home.

A bus pulls up to the curb, stopping just long enough to let off three grumpy residents and two wide-eyed tourists. The people waiting to board are given the cold shoulder as the vehicle pushes away from the sidewalk, like someone trying to get away from a leper.

 

“That wasn’t very nice.”

“Well, the bus IS full to capacity.”

“He still could have let a couple people on.”

“But who to choose? There were fifty people out there!”

“Not THAT many.”

“I was being, um…”

“Excessive?”

“Yes, that’s the word.”

 

The bus zooms down 24^th Street, clipping trees and the occasional pedestrian as it passes. The mirrored sides of skyscrapers reflect the bus and its passengers, distorted images of funhouse proportions.

 

“Did you hear? The circus is in town.”

“Where would they put up their tent? The city has, like, three inches of open space.”

“I believe they put up at that old parking lot, you know, the one near the abandoned strip mall.”

“THAT’S not in the city.”

“I never said city, I said town.”

“Same thing.”

“Not really.”

 

The passengers are flung to one side as the bus driver takes them all around the corner of Fourth and Maple at 45 miles an hour. People in the McDonalds on the corner watch in morbid fascination, speculating on whether or not the bus will tip over, and if so, how many people would be thrown out the windows.

The driver mumbles an apology over the intercom, and continues driving westward on Maple. Two more bus stops are ignored.

 

“Jeez, this bus driver is hella mean.”

“When are people getting off?”

“…”

“Why are you sniggering at me?”

“It’s slang. I’d suggest not using the words ‘getting off’ and ‘people’ in the same sentence.”

“How is that… oh. Dammit! Stupid people and their colloquialisms!”

“...”

“Stop snickering!”

 

The ‘Stop Requested’ sign lights up. The bus hops over two lanes and pulls up at the bus stop on 56^th and Maple. Everyone inside is thrown to the front of the bus. Pigeons, lacking the fear of humans that they really ought to have, flutter around on the sidewalk near the door of the vehicle, hoping for a handout.

 

“We need a new bus driver.”

“Don’t SAY that.”

“Why not? Everyone else is thinking it.”

“Doesn’t mean you can verbalize it.”

 

Chasing after the pigeons, five school children hop off the bus, while five elderly folk slowly climb in to take their place. Five business people hastily get up with some resentment and offer their seats to the chronologically impaired.

 

“Freakin’ old people. Think they’re entitled to space just because they’re old.”

“You really shouldn’t say that. I would offer MY seat if I had one.”

“That’s because you’re a goody-goody.”

“I resent that. Besides, they’re better than children.”

“Dude, they’re SO taking up more space than those brats.”

“Yes, but they aren’t as loud.”

“Hm, good point.”

 

As the bus hurtles down the road, the skyscrapers give way to shorter buildings and the four-lane city street becomes a six-lane highway. The bright red and pine green bus stops become less frequent, but the bus driver passes them all anyway, desperate to get the passengers to their destination.

 

“Not much traffic today, I see.”

“Really? It’s usually like this.”

“Oh? I’ve never taken the bus at this hour.”

“When do you usually take it?”

“Around seven.”

“That’s the worst time, buddy. Right now is when it’s smoothest.”

“But this driver is always ignoring the other bus stops.”

“Well, it’s the guy’s last round of the day. I’d rush too if I were up half the night.”

“I didn’t know that this bus ran twenty-four hours.”

“You don’t know a lot, do ya?”

“No, I— Hey!”

“…”

“Laughing, are you? That’s not very nice.”

“I never said I was a nice person.”

 

A soft pitter-patter of raindrops soon becomes a torrential wall of sound as a large, dark cloud floats above the bus. The sound of thunder echoes between the buildings, which have once again become skyscrapers. Maple turns into Cleveland Boulevard, and the highway becomes a city street once more.

The bus takes a right onto Market Street and makes a stop on the corner. Half of the passengers filters out, mostly tourists. The interior of the bus suddenly gets less stuffy. Seats that were originally taken are now gobbled up quickly by those who have been standing since before the highway.

 

“I’ve always thought this part of town was rather nice.”

“Market is just a tourist trap, that’s all.”

“So?”

“So, it means that the government will maintain this part much better than the rest of downtown. You know, for the monies.”

“True, true. Ah, capitalism at its best.”

“Yup. Hm, it’s damn nice to sit down, finally.”

 

As the bus goes south down Market, the rain stops and the clouds part, letting the sun get a peek at the world for once. The buildings of the financial district loom above the street, the drops of water on their exteriors becoming jewels in the mid-morning light. The bus makes a left on Oak, entering the core of the district.

Like gilded walls, the corporate offices fence off their part of town with a cold, calculating atmosphere. Suits, skirts, neckties, and button-up blouses hurry towards buildings that swallow them up. Inside, they fly up twenty stories or more to sit in small open-top boxes, typing their lives away.

 

“One more stop.”

“Really? Me too.”

“Where do you work?”

“Charles Schwab. You?”

“Merrill Lynch.”

“The golden building with the zigzag façade?”

“That’s the one.”

“Ooh, fancy.”

“Hey, why don’t we meet for lunch today? There’s this great café—”

“—on Oak and Market, right? Yeah, I know that place. Great sandwiches.”

“Excellent. Shall I see you there at 12?”

“Sure, sounds like a plan.”

 

The bus stops for a moment, then drives away, leaving two people in suits and neckties staring at their respective offices, then at each other.

 

“I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m James Gallagher.”

“Patrick Stanton. Nice to meet you.”

“Goodbye.”

 

Fine. I didn’t want to see him again anyway. He didn’t understand. No one ever does.

He drove away from the curb, his tires screeching as if he couldn’t wait to get away from me. I don’t blame him. There are things I crave, things I need from other people that the average person isn’t willing to give. It’s so rare to find someone that can give me even a small taste of what I want.

 

Did I want too much? Was it too much to ask?

 

In this city filled with stuffed shirts, business suits, and neck ties, you’d think at least one or two of them would let loose at night, let their primal urges get the better of them. I prowl the night clubs, the bars, hell, I even walk the streets just to see if I can find someone like me. I never find anyone. The closest I got was him, and not even he was all that close.

 

I remember when we first hooked up. Ah, he thought handcuffs were a bit kinky. But he didn’t realize that I needed them. Something to tie me down, to take away all of my freedom. Only by forcing me into a corner could I get off properly. It’s not my fault when my hands are tied.

 

He soon tired of it, however. “Why can’t we have normal sex?” he asked. Why? Because this is normal to me. But he didn’t understand. And now he’s gone, and I’m still here. Standing in front of my apartment in the middle of a crowded, lonely city. A million people around me and I’m here alone.

 

So I walked down the street, past the giant tower shaped like a pear, past the old tea shop, past the record store, to a small club underneath an elegant French restaurant. Very few people know about this place, know that this place is not a mere urban legend. But the ones who do know keep it a secret from everyone who isn’t like them. I pulled my leather jacket closer around me and walked inside.

 

Once indoors, the sounds of people murmuring around me filled my head. I looked around and noticed the decorations: five different types of leather straps hung from the ceiling over the bar, where a bartender was fixing up drinks, wearing only an apron and a dog collar. At first I was scandalized, but then I realized that this is what I needed. A place where the unusual was the norm. Social standards wouldn’t touch me here; I could be who I wanted to be. I gazed around me in awe as I walked to the bar, nearly stumbling as I sat down on a cool, leathery, burgundy bar stool.

 

“First time here?” the bartender asked me in an amused tone, his elfish smile lighting up his green eyes.

“Is it that obvious?” I’ll admit I looked far too normal to be in here. My leather jacket contrasted with my knee-high, tan taffeta skirt and blue cardigan. Looking around me, I felt out of place. Many of the people here only wore straps. Some wore dog collars. Others wore sheer fabric that essentially left them nude.

“How’d you hear about this place?”

I looked at the bartender, who was drying pint glasses with a beige terrycloth towel, and shrugged. “I heard about it in another bar, but I didn’t know if it was real or not.”

“So you decided to check us out.”

“Yeah.” The fact that this place was way beyond even my sense of normal was slowly starting to sink in. Sure, I know I said I needed something unusual, but a little bit of bondage is as far as I ever went. A woman in the corner of the room was tied up like a pig ready for slaughter, and three men were admiring her as she struggled in her restraints. Something in my mind snapped; I wanted that too.

Another bartender, this time a woman with a tight, ripped pink shirt and black mini-skirt that was equally as torn grabbed the glass and towel away from the man. “Honey, you show her around and tell her what it’s like; if she can’t cut it, kick her out,” she drawled in a heavy southern accent.

“Will do, sugar.” He turned to me. “Come on, kitten, let’s go.” He took off his apron and walked around the bar towards me. He wasn’t as naked as I had thought, but he might as well have been. He was only wearing a pair of tan leather pants that fit him perfectly. “Our clothes match,” he commented, as he pointed at the blue orb imbedded in his collar.

 

What have I gotten myself into? Walking down a line between normality and the outlandish, I threw myself towards the latter with exponentially increasing speed. I tried to push my mind set back to comfortable middle ground, but it wasn’t happening.

It didn’t matter. The alienation that I would suffer at the lips of my peers up in the real world would mean nothing if I never went back there. Should I stay and play?

 

Like Alice, I followed the bartender down the rabbit hole, past the curtained booths where I could hear all sorts of things. All sorts of horrible, wonderful, nasty, delectable things. I heard the crack of a whip on soft flesh, and shuddered. I didn’t want to go that far.

“What’s your name, kitten?”

“Damali. Yours?”

“What do you want to call me?”

I was silent for a bit. What an odd question to ask. Then it occurred to me. “Puppy.”

“Alright, call me Puppy.”

He led me further down into the basement’s basement, to where the workers had their own private lounge. He guided me in. I looked around at the blood red sofa, the white satin sheets scattered in one corner of the room, and the myriad of straps on the mahogany table. I turned to look at Puppy as he locked the door behind him

“Now, where should we start?”

---

---

---

---

---

I can’t dance, but you float on the stale air of the club, the lights dancing with you as your feet find a rhythm that’s beyond me. You trap me with your eyes. I’m hypnotized by your steps. And I’m captivated once more.

I don’t hate you.

---

I writhe my body blissfully to the music, losing myself so that I can be someone else until the song ends. But I’m always keeping an eye out for you. I move and twist, and like a whirlwind I pull you into my arms.

Love me.

I can’t breathe.
         I… I just can’t. There’s nothing more to it. I walked in here, and now the oxygen which should be reaching me, isn’t. The window is open, the door is open; the only way I could make more air flow in here is to knock down the walls, but then it wouldn’t be a room anymore.
         And what’s with all this crap lying around? I thought I cleaned out this place last summer, but somehow more stuff just accumulated to take its place, like spontaneous generation. What’s the point in having a room if there’s no room?

         This room is where everything started and where everything will end. Cliché, I know, but the extent of my memory goes back no further than this room. Sure, I know I was born in Los Angeles, and sure, I know we moved around to different apartments before settling in this peaceful suburban house. But I don’t remember anything before this place. All I know is that my memories started here, and they will end here.

I’m going to die in this lousy room, with all my crap surrounding me, engulfing me in their crapulence, and there will be no one here to mourn me when I’m gone.

         Ah, I’m getting too cynical. I shouldn’t be so cynical at this age. What happened to all those dreams, my wings spreading and riding the wind of pure hopes? Did college change me? Do I regret leaving the nest for a faraway land, a place so foreign that its reputation is horribly inaccurate?

         No, college made life happy. It changed me for the better. Best thing that ever happened to me, leaving behind the sprawl and entering a masochistic hedonist’s urban paradise known as college. Every time I left this cesspool, I giggled with uncharacteristic glee. Giggle? Who, me? Yes, me. Hell, I’d even frolic through the green, green grass of Memorial Glade if I felt like it.[1]
         But now I’m here. In this room. Forever.

It’s not all bad. I’ve got some friends here, I don’t have to pay rent or do chores or worry about food. I suppose that my feelings are just one giant olio. Olio. That’s a fun word. Ah, this is the life. Flipping through Microsoft Bookshelf and finding the definition of strange archaic words that I’ll probably forget in the next hour.

Why can’t I still breathe? I need to get out. I must get out. There’s an “in joke” somewhere in there, but I’m so far from the source that I can’t find the energy to laugh anymore. The source is hundreds of miles away, in a place I long for and yet can never return. Well, I suppose I could return, but what will happen then?
          “Oh, good of you to come back. Got nothing better to do? You loser.”
          That’s what they’d say to me.
          So going back is out of the picture. Not that I had a choice anyway; the prison guards wouldn’t let me go even if I begged; especially Dad, he’d have a fit.
          Parents. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them. Well, I suppose I’d have to live without them eventually.

I’d rather not think about that.

Again with the death. Why does everything go back to that topic? Can’t television shows, movies, and songs write about something other than death or love? Are they just obsessively morbid? Isn’t there something better to sing about? “I looooooooove you, like hell I do, I’d rather kill you.”[2]
         Why did I connect love to this? Is there some kind of fucked up wire in my head that connects death and love? Is that why some people like autoerotic asphyxiation? Fuckin’ weirdos.

I shouldn’t cuss. And don’t they call an orgasm le petit morte? Hm, better Google that.

I can’t waste my life away surfing the internet, listening to illegal MP3s, and playing video games. I don’t want to just sit here. I don’t want to end up as one of those thirty-something slobs sitting around at home parked on the couch, remote in one hand and a bag of Cheetos in the other, smearing orange artificial cheese product all over a perfectly white shirt that my mother meticulously cleans for me every week. I can feel the dust collecting on the pores of my skin, the aging process cackling with glee as it works its gnarled hands on my body. No, I don’t want to get older! Fearing the future, fearing everything that is to come; it all comes down to fearing death. Humans and maybe elephants are the only creatures that realize their own mortality.

          So apparently having an orgasm will release the same chemicals in your brain as when you die. But in lesser amounts, obviously. Maybe death is just one giant final orgasm. I wonder if elephants know this. Ooh, this website has lots more information on orgasms.
          By the way, there’s nothing wrong with getting older. The whole aging thing is just a minor setback; the benefits are so much higher. I’ll get wiser. Certainly that must be a plus. I’ll be smarter. Well, such is the hope.

Why are my thoughts deviating so much? Are they always like this? They must’ve been; I’ve felt lost since I was born. Lost and useless, absolutely useless. No social life, not even a job. And I’m here, living in the room I’ve lived in for as long as I can remember. How the hell am I going to get some?

          Love isn’t always about the physical. It goes beyond that, doesn’t it?

Not like I’d know.

My parents love me. My friends, well, they tolerate me. Love does go beyond physical.

Right, right. Whatever. Got any other thoughts on this?

          My room is my haven, my room is my prison. Gilded wings won’t fly.

Ooh, so poetic. Whoop-di-freakin’-do.

          But it describes the situation perfectly.

Does anyone else realize that I’m just talking to myself?

I do.

Great.

Expect nothing, anticipate everything, my parents said to me.

So naturally when I moved into my studio apartment overlooking two of the busiest streets in the city, I soundproofed my windows and doors to block out as much noise as possible, and put heavy curtains to shield me from the blaring street lights. Yet despite all my attempts to lock out the city, it kept creeping in, through the cracks in my modest armor. Resigning myself to these annoyances, I grudgingly got accustomed to it all. The people, the lights, the noise. All that blasted noise.

 

Ever since I was little, I could hear things, voices. Growing up, my private tutors had chalked it up to me being psychotic. My parents, on the other hand, were more a bit more understanding.

“Listen with your mind, and the world will talk to you. The past will reveal its secrets.”

People thought my parents were crazy too; they were great archeologists who had the amazing ability to pick out where the choicest artifacts could be found by “listening to the past.” Newspapers figured they were extremely lucky. But no, they truly heard the past.

Why did I believe them? Because I could hear it too. The whispers of a culture long gone tickled my ears, ghosts of the past telling me bedtime stories. Not only that, I could hear people’s thoughts, their half-coalesced words and phrases. Unfortunately, I can’t sense the emotions behind a thought. That would have been useful; being young and foolish, I often acted without contemplating the full implications of a thought.

Maybe that’s why all my tutors thought I was insane.

My parents taught me how to block the voices out, for the times when I needed to focus. Having a million voices talking to you at once can be a little distracting. I didn’t master this mental armor until I was in college, however, where necessity forced me to keep out everything around me. People wondered why I was so anti-social. Actually, I rather like people, I just don’t want to hear them constantly, and having to concentrate all the time on keeping their thoughts out takes too much energy.

 

So why on earth did I move into the city? Proximity to my work place, naturally. I’ve gotten better at blocking out the din, so I thought it would be alright.

Silly me.

 

During the first week, voices kept me up most of the night, half-formed ideas of how to get away with some white collar crime, how to confess true love, or how to tell a white lie in the best possible manner intruding into my head. My boss wondered why I looked like hell those days. I told him I was having trouble sleeping, and he suggested I go see a doctor. Like that would do me any good.

Since I couldn’t sleep, I often wandered down the stairs of my building and sat on the first step, watching the cars go by. It was just more peaceful that way; it’s easier to block people out the farther away I am from them. The walls in my building are far too thin. At least this time around my neighbors didn’t have strange, stalker-esque thoughts about me.

 

I was beginning to think that there was no one else in the world I could connect with other than my parents; I love them and all, but honestly, I need someone my age to talk to as well. The generation gap isn’t all that wide, but it’s farther than even I can bridge.

Then I met someone so quiet, so at peace with the world, that it radiated from every pore of his being. He just needs be near, physically or metaphysically, and he will keep the dissonance at bay.

Even after three months, I still feel giddy when I see him, although I squelch that feeling as soon as I can. I don’t want to seem like I’m desperate.

 

Alright, at this point perhaps I’m a little desperate. But when you can hear the thoughts of other people, having intimacy is not the best idea.

“Wow, she’s not very good at this. Her kissing sucks. And she’s not filled out enough. Where are her hips? She’s like a little boy.”

Sigh.

It’s hard to find someone to be comfortable around. But he’s different. He seems to accept the fact that I’m a bit spacey, and that my work schedule leaves me so exhausted sometimes that we say nothing at all during dinner.

He’s the first person I’ve met since my parents who can block out their own brain waves. Or maybe he doesn’t have any at all. I’m not sure. Either way, the only time I can enjoy the city is when I’m with him. I can take in the sights and the sounds without having to distinguish between thoughts and spoken words. Look up at the skyline and see the fog rolling in over the skyscrapers and not be distracted by someone’s morbid notions. See the cacophony of headlights and shop fronts clash together before my eyes and create a symphony of visual candies for me to feast upon, without the disruption of cheating intents and honey-coated lies.

It’s so nice to be able to hear clearly for once.

 

Is it possible to be addicted to a person? In this city full of deceitful thoughts and contrary words, I’ve found a drug that takes me away from reality. I’m hopelessly falling.

 

This is stupid. I’ve always done things on my own. I don’t need this.

I tore open the curtains in my living room and stared out at the urban lights, dropping my wall. I let the tumultuous city wash over me. Maybe I can get lost in the world for a little while, because I don’t want to confront myself.

 

That’s odd. It got quiet all of a sudden.

 

I heard the click of a door being unlocked, then creaked open and closed softly.

 

“Hey.”

 

When he’s around, I expect everything and anticipate nothing.

“She’s so high, high above me,” he sings along with the radio as he swings about the bakery, pulling out a cake from one oven and placing it on the countertop, only to twirl around and pull out a cookie tray from another and slide the treats into the glass case at the front of the shop. I lean against the wall behind the cash register, watching him move about with feline agility. Men shouldn’t be that graceful; if they were, women would be in danger of mass hypnosis

Taking a bowl of frosting out of the fridge, he starts layering it onto the cake, all the while looking up at me every five seconds, as if making sure that I’m still here. The Saturday morning light hits the ground before me, and I look down at the light pool to avoid his obsessive glances.

He sings some more. “First class and fancy free, she's high society, she's got the best of everything.” Hm, I do believe he’s trying to say something.

The rest of the song goes on, but he’s stopped singing. I look back up and we stare at each other. I can hear the lyrics in the background:

          "What could a guy like me ever really offer?
          She's perfect as she can be, why should I even bother?"

          He smiles. I know what he’s thinking. You’re so great, so beautiful, and so intelligent. I open my mouth to argue, but he’s on me in a second. Shaking his head, he puts a frosting-covered finger on my lips. Don’t deny it. Because I’ll shove this cake down your throat if you do.

The frosting on my lips begins to melt. But licking his finger would not be proper. Anyone could walk by and see us. My heart kicks up the tempo.

He moves his finger. I’m relieved. I think.

Wait, he’s leaning in. My heart reaches a fevered pace.

He’s a centimeter away now. Is he…? Will he…?

“Can you get the ten inch silver engraved bowl from the closet?”

Shocked by the derailment of the situation, I numbly nod and head up the stairs near the kitchen, but not before I see him open the doors under the sink to grab some hand soap, next to which lies a rusty crowbar. Why is there a crowbar under the sink?

But I don’t dwell on things concerning him. I’ve learned long ago not to question him too much because after a while, it will cease to make logical sense.

Besides, I’ll get paranoid if I think about it too much; heavy metal object, sending me to a small, enclosed space… Yes. Don’t think about it.

I make my way to the closet on the second floor, licking the frosting off my lips. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved that he didn’t do anything.

The door to his room at the end of the hallway is ajar, but I’ve been there enough times to know what was inside: a giant mess with a bed somewhere under all the confusion. The closet, on the other hand, is new to me. I walk down the hall to the closet door and nudge it open.

The first thing that greets me is a cloud of dust. Choking on it, I brush it away and move further inside, pulling on a chain connected to a dusty light bulb on the ceiling as I walk by. The light oscillates back and forth, illuminating piles of old junk that lay about. Rubbermaid boxes filled with life’s crumbs are heaped to one side.

A silver bowl, he said. Can’t be that hard to find amongst all this clutter. Honestly.

            I start ruffling through the piles. I find a photo album and pause to flip through it. He’ll never know.

            There are his parents, posing in front of this bakery; his beautiful mother, half Japanese, half Irish with black hair and Damian’s green eyes. His father, a hearty Grecian with hair the color of beach sand and wearing those sunglasses that every tourist has.

There are the grandparents, one photo of his mother’s parents and one of his father’s. Of course, everyone on his father’s side is Greek. But on his mother’s side, his Japanese grandmother and Irish grandfather stand together, as happy now as they were on their wedding day. There’s a story that goes behind the photo, but he hasn’t talked about it yet.

There’s his uncle who owns the bakery, the one who is teaching him everything he knows, although Damian is the one who practically runs the place now. He’s also the uncle who taught him Greek. In the photo he’s standing in front of the acropolis, a child Damian grinning beside him.

Memories of my own youth spent with my parents in Greece fill my head.

The sound of a door slowly creaking shut makes me whirl around. I make a feeble attempt to pull out of my daydream and reach the door, but it’s too late. The door closes just as I grasp the doorknob. The closet suddenly becomes four walls. Shaking out images from all the horror films I’ve seen recently (Why does he love those films so?), I pull on the knob.

It doesn’t move.

I pull again.

And again.

Bloody hell.

I panic for a moment before taking a deep breath, then I start coughing again. Blasted dust.

A heavy knock on the door makes me jump.

“Door jammed?”

“Ah, yes.”

“Hold on.”

I was perplexed, then remembered the crowbar under the sink. Good, I’m saved. I think.

A sliver of light, and then his silly grin.

“Did you find the bowl?”

I shake my head. Images of blonde, big-chested women screaming in fear as a silhouette with a crowbar come unbidden into my mind. Bugger it, I’m becoming just as illogical as he is.

“Well, the store doesn’t open for another hour.”

What? He couldn’t possibly…

He moves closer. I squeak. The mouse is cornered. The cat is moving in.

In a corner of the closet, I see the silver bowl, hidden behind an old canvas.

 

Cheeky bastard. But I suppose this makes up for not kissing me earlier.

I stood there, staring at the old wooden door. My eyes traced the lines and bevels forming simple patterns carved into the weathered mahogany that had been recently sanded and oiled. The streetlamp reflected off the wood and threw shadows into the carved designs. I placed my fingers on the wood and stroked it, reveling in the smoothness under my skin. I pulled out an old key from my pocket. Slipping it inside the keyhole, I slowly turned it, hearing a very audible click.

I paused and looked around.

Then I reached for the newly polished brass doorknob. With my hand poised over it, I hesitated.

Taking a deep breath, I finally grasped the knob and twisted it tentatively. I nudged the door open and stepped over the threshold, the hinges creaking softly as if to whisper, “Shh, you shouldn’t be here.” I took my time without meaning to, looking at the sides of the door frame and observing that they too had been oiled. The fragrance of lemon fresh Pine-Sol wafted around me, and I closed my eyes. In between the molecules of chemical clean, I could sniff out his scent.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He worked in a bakery, of all places. Apprenticing there, in fact. He didn’t seem the type; with his muscular physique, I had pegged him for a mechanic or a construction worker. With his soot-covered shirt and faded blue jeans, he looked nothing like the jolly red-nosed bakers that danced in my mind with their German accents, plaid lederhosen, and chocolate smeared over their cheeks.

When I had accidentally run into him on my way home from work the other night, I thought I had bought it. He had an imposing stature and tied-up hair that looked a bit worn at the ends. Leaning against the wall with his hip jutting out, he looked like a street ruffian, ready to rob me and leave me bleeding in the alley.

Well, bollocks, I thought. I never should have gone down this blasted side street. Why couldn’t I have gone to the centre street like I usually do?

But instead of mugging me, he offered me half of his cookie.

“It’s not dangerous,” he said with a friendly grin. He pointed to the sign above his head. ‘Sweet Delights’, it read.

“Best treats this side of the Atlantic,” he added.

Against my better judgment, I took the cookie. I sniffed it first, and a wave of aromas came crashing into me. Smoky almond, walnut, and a hint of vanilla. I couldn’t help myself. I shoved it into my mouth rather ungracefully. Moist and chewy, it melted in my mouth like the three tons of butter that probably went into making it.

I almost moaned. I’ve heard mention of a ‘foodgasm’. I thought it was a joke, but I fully understand now.

“Hungry, eh?”

I nodded. I hadn’t had supper yet and it was already 8 o’clock.

He held up his hand in a ‘wait-for-me’ gesture and went inside the bakery. I suppose I could have left then, could have walked away and he wouldn’t have known until he came out again. But I waited. Captivated by a stranger with a cookie. An absolutely scrumptious cookie.

He returned a bit later holding his leather jacket, and after he locked the door, we walked to the nearest restaurant. It was so spontaneous, so completely random that I didn’t really know what I was doing. I was like a puppet on strings, surrendering to the moment and just doing with no thinking.

It felt really, really good.

While eating dinner, he commented on the way I held my knife and fork. I held my utensils continental style, which, apparently, was very odd to him. The conversation meandered from there. We talked about everything, from music to religion to pop culture to history. It was a strange mishmash of things, very much like the man who sat before me.

After dinner we walked back to the bakery. It was now closed, the only illumination coming from the streetlamp a few metres away. The doorway to the bakery was about three steps from the edge of the light, just dark enough to look suspicious. I looked up at the sign above the door and was grateful for deciding to take an alley tonight instead of walking around to the main street.

I felt myself being subtly nudged towards the door. It was locked, so I had no idea why he was—

The wood against my back and the pressure of his lips answered my question. But we shouldn’t be doing this! It’s not proper! Oh, his hand is on my cheek. Oh. Oh my. His lips are quite…

Then he pulled away. Pulling a key out of his back pocket, he handed it to me. I stared at it for a few moments before putting it in my purse. Leaning his forehead against mine, he stared at me with his green eyes, an unspoken invitation for the future.

Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be.

A sharp pain drew my attention from his eyes to my hand. A splinter. I stared at it for a few moments, then looked at the door behind me. He noticed too.

“I’ll sand and oil that as soon as I can,” he assured me.

He walked me home. I don’t know why I trusted him so much. There’s something so instinctual about it. But now he knows where I live. Will it be alright? He wouldn’t hurt me, would he?

Of course not. He gave me a cookie.

It was so childish, my trust, so naïve.

And yet…

As he leaned in to kiss me goodnight, I could smell the entire bakery on his skin. A plethora of ingredients: flour and butter, sugar, almonds, vanilla, and smoke from the oven. All combined to form a unique scent that I know only as him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Now he stood leaning against the wall, watching me enter like a wolf observing a rabbit coming out of its burrow. He grinned, his eyes reflecting the light from the streetlamp outside the window. And maybe some of the moonlight too.

“Hi Leila,” he said in a hushed tone. “Glad you could make it.”

Inside the bakery, cakes and other delectable treats sat behind a glass-walled prison, calling out for bail money so they could spend the rest of their brief lives in the arms of a sweet lover before being devoured voraciously.

I smiled and nodded at him. Walking into the bakery, I inhaled his scent.

Sleek and silver, it sits in my hand. Inert, it takes a headphone jack into one end and a USB cable into the other. I open its backside, slide the battery inside, and close it. I press the power/play button and the display screen lights my skin with an aquamarine glow as it turns on. With a click and a drag from my mouse, the computer pumps in data encoded in ones and zeroes. When it has finished the transfer, I disconnect the cable, put the headphones into my ears and hit the play button.

E-spidi is flawed. It can’t take a hit; barely a tap on its backside will shut it off. The battery life is about 8 hours, if I’m lucky. A mere 256 megabytes is the limit, only forty-five songs or so. But as the data translates into music and flows into my ears and into my mind, I forgive my player for its faults.

The name of the song appears on the display, but that’s not important. It is the lyrics that enter my head, the rhythm that moves my body. A wide range of music encapsulated in a single mechanism, simplicity incarnate.

 

My collection is strange, but I like to call it eclectic. Japanese pop songs snuggle up with American classic rock, Shakira sings beside Faye Wong, while Joe Satriani’s electric guitar and Aimee Mann’s sultry voice battle for superiority. The mix of meaning, the variety of tunes, it all reflects the elaborate tapestry that is my mind.

Jason, were you feeling what I was as you sang, “I’m just a singer, you’re the world,” as we stared up at the full moon in awe? Do you know what I thought, Aimee, when you said “I’d better take the keys and drive forever”? “Uruoshite hoshii kono atsui karada[1],” your feelings are so strong, Every Little Thing, that I understand completely. Train, will you save me while I save the day? And will the sun really come, and will it really be alright, John, Paul, George, and Ringo? Oh Roberta, they’re killing me softly with their songs.

Language, or even words for that matter, becomes a blur as E-spidi continues to play. I can feel the emotion through the melody to something more primal, something that can’t be described with words alone. I forget that all this is being channeled through a small instrument, a device no bigger than my hand.

And yet E-spidi is so much more than just a bunch of electronic gadgetry wired together. The whole far outweighs the sum of its parts; it brings together a discombobulated state of mind and turns it into the soundtrack of my life. Sure, it’s not the most accurate album and it’s overly romanticized; it’s in Chinese, Japanese, Spanish, English, and sometimes there are no words at all. But what do I care? It’s close enough, isn’t it? No one ever said the mind is easy to understand; it doesn’t have to be uniform, or even consistent.

 

My friends wonder why I keep such an outdated piece of junk. They keep telling me, “Life is random, iPod Shuffle,” but I ignore their patter. Why not buy a brand spankin’ new iPod Mini that can hold 4 gigs of music? Or if that’s not enough, how about a 40 gig standard iPod?

My uncle gave it to me, I tell them. Sentimentality can always get me out of a direct answer; they can extrapolate all they want. To be honest, if E-spidi stopped working, I’d toss it out in a second. But seriously, who needs four or even forty gigabytes, a millions songs’ worth of music to define who they are? Who listens to that many songs in one sitting, anyway? I need only my forty-five songs, thank you very much.

 

The music suddenly stops as the motion of walking taps the player against my house keys. Damn. See what I said about it being a wuss? Can’t take a freakin’ hit. I take it out of my pocket and press the play button once more, frustration welling in me. Why don’t I just buy a new player? Why do I even bother keeping this pile of crap?

I look around me and realize that I am far from home, in the middle of campus. I’ve forgotten where I was going, and I’ve forgotten the reason for going there.

As the display lights up and the song title scrolls by, the moment of anger and confusion dies down. The old adage is true; music soothes the savage beast. I re-chew my prior thought, now that I’m calmer. The player is not so bad; I shouldn’t replace it just because of a small defect. The fact that E-spidi keeps chugging on with its life makes me want to cling to it, makes me wish that it never breaks down.

I find myself walking again, towards a place only my feet know and for reasons I’ll only know when I get there. Eight minutes and thirty-six seconds of American Pie rolls by and I know every word. Pockets of ignorance in my mind are filled up with years of rock and roll history sung in Don’s silvery voice. Can music save your mortal soul?

 

“Excuse me?”

I look past the rim of my sunglasses, which have slid down the bridge of my nose, to see an elderly couple, holding each other’s hands. I take the headphones out of my ears.

“Yes?”

“Can you tell us how to get to the Campanile?”

I turn around to find that the clock tower, which was once in front of me, is now far behind. I’ve traversed the campus without even knowing it. Pointing to a path slightly to the left, I explain roughly how to get to the landmark.

“Thank you,” they say as they walk away. I put my headphones back into my ears and walk to the edge of campus, a mere forty-five feet away. I stare at the intersection of Hearst and Euclid for a few moments before turning around and walking back the way I came.

Now I remember why I was walking. I wanted to listen to some music.

It sat on her desk, quivering slightly.

Aimee stared at it silently, anxiously twitching her leg. Her computer hummed, waiting for her to resume typing. She reached for the keys, but instead picked up the ball and started tossing it against the wall behind her monitor.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Catching it every time with a practiced ease of someone who obviously spent far too much time playing with a ball than writing papers, Aimee’s thoughts drifted away.

 

It was supposed to be boring. A mundane event held to welcome the fresh meat that had just entered the university. Not that I didn’t remember that time when I was starry-eyed and had dreams of a wonderful time during college. Being a junior shouldn’t make me so jaded, but after all the hard work I’ve had to do to get somewhat passing grades here, I’m not surprised at my attitude. This sure as hell hasn’t been a cake walk. Who would have thought o-chem would be so damn complicated? But I digress.

I didn’t want to go to some stupid event that was just an excuse for companies to sell their goods and for the university to promote their services. Suffice to say, I got enough of that bullshit in my freshman year. Need I repeat it?

Then again, if Lars asks you to do something, you do it. Or else you’ll be hearing his wheedling for a whole week before he either gives up or you give in. Usually the latter happens. He has that way with people, I suppose.

So we walked around the shoddy stalls filled with vendors trying to sell cheap air fares, DSL and cable subscriptions, and anything else that a college student might need. We ambled about, shuffling through the hordes and looking for any freebies that would be worth the effort of reaching out an arm to grab.

“Would you like a super ball?” a girl asked us in a forced cheery voice. She was wearing a university sweatshirt and blue jeans that had holes at the knees and was holding a basket half-full of yellow balls. She had obviously been trying to give out the damn things for a long time and probably couldn’t leave until she finished handing them all out. Feeling some pity for her, I nodded and took a ball.

“Thanks,” I muttered. When I had left her stall, Lars reached over and pulled the ball out of my hand and smiled capriciously.

“Hey!” I said indignantly. “You could have gotten your own, you know.”

He shrugged, casual in his actions and words. “But it’s much more fun taking yours.” Then he took off for the field nearby, laughing all the way. He knows I’ll follow him, that bastard.

I tackled him in the middle of the field and we crashed onto the warm grass, the afternoon sun hitting us as we went down. Staring up at me while I pushed myself off his chest, a sly grin crept onto his face. With one strong shove, I flipped myself onto the grass beside him, evading his encircling arms.

“Damn,” he grumbled, “You’re too fast.” Sitting up, he looked down at me as I lay on my back in the grass, gasping for air. Shit, I’m out of shape.

He pulled the ball out of his pocket and lay back on the grass with me. Holding it up in front of the sun, he and I stared at the yellow orb, watching the light change on its surface. I shifted closer and put my head next to his. I held my hand out, and he handed me the ball. I grasped it tightly for a few moments before loosening my grip, then placed the ball into my pocket. I looked at him, and he looked at me. I think we had a moment. Not sure what kind of moment it was, but I’m sure we had one.

We lay in the sun, enjoying each other’s quiet company. It was such a nice day, the kind you see in Oceanside at the peak of the summer season. People walked by, dogs with their collar tags jangling ran around us, and the sun continued to beat down on us. I wish I had worn some sun screen.

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew the sun was setting and Lars was poking me in the shoulder with a stick. Where he found the stick, I don’t know. But groggily, I sat up and with my arms on my knees, I stared up at him. He stared back.

He offered me a hand. I took it and he pulled me up. Slowly, we walked back to my apartment, passing the yellow ball between us the whole way.

 

The yellow ball bounced off the wall and in a moment of disregard, it whacked Aimee in the forehead, shocking her back into the present. Shaking her fog from her mind, she glared at the ball as it rolled away towards the door, which was ajar. Strange, she thought. I don’t remember leaving the door open. She slipped off her chair and crawled towards the ball, picking it up as the door opened completely.

“Are you just going to stare at it all night?”

Aimee craned her neck upwards to see a towel-clad Lars in the doorway. Behind him, the hallway was lit up only by the lamp in their bedroom farther back. She stood and gave him the ball.

“Nah, I’ll stare at the real sun tomorrow,” she said, glancing at her clock on the wall. “Er, I mean later today.”

Lars chuckled as he left the living room. “Good night, Aimee.”

---

The Object

It’s a yellow, rubber bouncy ball that I got from Caltopia. The Student Store logo and phone number is printed on it in dark blue. The rubber is partially translucent so the light can shine through it, but not without bending the rays first to create a more concentrated quality of light. It looks smooth, but it’s a bit sticky to the touch. A line runs around the circumference of the toy, revealing where its mold came together. It shakes as I type, and if I drop it on the table it bounces up and down giddily like a little girl.

 

Context

Under my desk lamp, I can see the reflection of the light bulb in the glossy material of the ball. The ball leaves a halo-shaped shadow, light pouring through to the table just below the sphere. It’s late at night, and Aimee is located in the living room of her small apartment which Lars invades on occasion. The ball shakes slightly as she types, for the table that her laptop rests on is a bit unstable. The wood pattern can be seen distorted within the ball, changing with each movement.

 

Why?

I chose this because the ball was just sitting there innocently on my desk. Its simplicity and normalness really got me to thinking: could something so ordinary be infused with a strong emotion? I wanted to connect an ordinary object to a somewhat extraordinary event. Perhaps it’s not that extraordinary, but it’s certainly special for Aimee, who is generally nonchalant about everything. I tried to convey that down-to-earth feeling that she has while at the same time trying to make the event seem special.

 

Narrator Bio

It’s just a watch.

Aimee tried thinking that as she stared at the worn leather band, but to no avail. A heavy emotion settled over her heart as she poked the shattered timepiece on her desk. Tiny gears fell out and rolled away, dropping to hardwood floor.

Clink, clink.

It’s not just a watch.

Sighing, she picked up the pieces and put them in a plastic case. Pulling on a linen jacket, she took her keys and left her apartment, walking quickly to the closest watch repair shop.

“It’s going to be hard to fix this,” said the old man in the store. His wizened features softened as he looked at her downcast expression. “Why don’t you just buy a new one? I’ll even give you a discount if you trade in the old one.”

“I can’t do that,” Aimee replied, slightly aghast. “I need that watch fixed!”

The man clucked at her. “It’ll take some time. I might have to special order some of the parts. Of course, that’ll cost ya extra,” he warned. “Are you sure you don’t want a new one? It’s just a watch,” he added in a helpful tone.

Tracing the intricate Celtic patterns on the leather strap, Aimee shook her head. “No, that’s fine. I’ll pay extra.”

Shrugging, the man wrote her an estimate for the price and told her to come back in a week. Aimee left the store feeling naked. For the first time since she had graduated, she was outside without her watch. She rubbed at the pale band of skin on her right wrist and dawdled to work, her thoughts on the past.

 

“Congratulations!” Lars yelled to her as he came close. He sheepishly handed her a small, poorly wrapped box. “Here’s your graduation gift,” he said with a shy grin.

Aimee, dressed in her graduation gown, tucked her hat underneath her arm and opened the gift. Gasping in surprise, she lifted the watch from its packaging and dangled it in the sunlight. The delicately engraved timepiece sparkled in the sun, and the leather band was tastefully decorated with imprinted Celtic knots.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered in awe. Her hands trembling, she could barely hold onto the watch as she tried putting it on her wrist. She fumbled with the strap buckle, failing twice before Lars took over. Putting her arm out and admiring the watch as it shimmered in the light, Aimee smiled widely. “Thanks,” she finally said. “For everything.”

Lars just shrugged and smiled widely. “You’ve been through a lot. It’s time you went into the real world, you know?”

Aimee nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

 

It had been three years since then. The watch had continued ticking strongly, through wind and rain, through her move to Minnesota of all places, and her return to California five months later. On the other hand, her friendship with Lars had grown weaker by the month. At first they had called each other twice or three times a week. Now they barely called each other at all, even though she lived only half a city away.

Her new job here was hectic, but she enjoyed it most of the time. The watch was always an integral part of her wardrobe and she took care of it, making sure the leather didn’t get wet or that she didn’t accidentally smack the timepiece into a wall or something equally as hard. Yet as the months went by, it seemed as though the watch was chaining her to the past. Every time she looked at it, it reminded her of the good times she had in college, but also of the regrets that remained, words left unspoken. These days her constant daydreams of what could have happened distracted her from being as productive as she could be, and her laments weighed heavily on her mind.

She did not want to completely disregard what had happened in her time at school, but much had changed since then. Her attitude, her opinions, and even her fashion sense had altered as she got to know new people and found herself in different surroundings. She felt as though her old personality was a set of chains tying down her new, blooming character. If she wanted to grow and develop, she had to let go of the past.

In an attempt to do just that, she had tried to not wear the watch this morning. But as she stepped foot outside of her doorway, she realized that she couldn’t leave the house without it. Already running late, she returned to her room and had tried to grab it quickly, but instead she accidentally knocked it off her nightstand onto the floor, where it had shattered.

Now, as Aimee trudged into work a full two hours late, she faced an irate boss and a looming deadline. This was not turning out to be a good day. But she had already started to look forward to the future with optimism. She could not keep clinging to her memories the way she had been for the last three years. Living in the past was not a good way to live; in fact, it wasn’t really living at all. Smiling despite herself, she settled into her seat and began to work, letting the events of the here and now take precedence over her constant musing of the past. She would not forget, but she would not let herself live in a dream world of what-ifs, either. Slowly, she began to free herself from her chains.

 

One week later…

 

The bells on the door jingled softly, alerting the shopkeeper to Aimee’s presence. Frowning, he shook his head like a doctor in a hospital.

“I’m sorry lady, but your watch must have been specially made. The parts for it are all custom made. I can salvage the bands, but the timepiece has to be completely scrapped.”

Aimee smiled. “Sure, that’s fine. Actually, can you attach a new timepiece to the old straps?”

The old man blinked a few times. “Sure, but why the change of heart? Last week you looked like you were going to die without it completely intact.”

Grinning confidently, she replied, “I had an epiphany during the week. Besides, it’s just a watch.”