I HAD NO CHOICE by Jay Wenk

Occupation duty began with a bang when, in different days of the week, we would sally forth before dawn from the Kaserne in Amberg, with loaded weapons, riding in 6 by’s. It was always chilly. We drove to small villages in the countryside which we surrounded. Some of us were on guard on the perimeter, some searching every house and barn and shed, looking for hidden weapons and soldiers, primarily SS. The job of searching was preferred because that was an opportunity to look for loot; Leica’s and Luger’s and anything else we considered valuable. Occasionally picture books of the Nazi regime, its leaders and its works would surface. I remember one that had blank spaces beside the text where the German civilians could glue in photos they purchased to aid the war effort. Never anything about concentration camps. Never anything about the disaster in the east.

The people in the homes we invaded were mainly resigned, stoic. A few were frightened but never crying. Not a word was ever said by any of them. Always, wherever we searched, in small farmhouses or larger blocks of homes, every place had lots of stuff that German troops sent back from all over Europe: things like ashtrays from Norway, fur-lined gloves from Russia, tableware from France. What goes around comes around.

On one occasion we came to a tiny hamlet, not even as large as a shtetle, seven or eight little cottages. The place was deserted. Every one of those cottages was crammed with unopened packages of food from America to GI prisoners of war in German camps. We had no idea how all those gifts to GI’s came to be there, but we called our trucks to come up from headquarters to take the boxes away. We were outraged and vengeful. We had seen Dachau and Flossenburg , but this was in our face, this was very personal. We burned very house to the ground. That’s something we never did deliberately during the war; you don’t destroy potential cover.

The rotation of guarding and searching was handled fairly evenly. I had my share of doing both. On this morning, I was guarding on the outskirts of town. There was a small sawmill close by and some piles of lumber next to it. The red glow of the rising sun made the world look pretty but not yet warmer. I saw a man slip out of a nearby house, furtively making his way from one pile of lumber to another, moving away from the town. He didn’t see me, he was facing the other way. He had a large green rucksack on his back. His clothes were typical of the time: ill-fitting army pants and jacket and the grey forage cap that all the men of every age wore.

As I wondered what he was up to, a feeling of lassitude invaded me. I knew he could be a war criminal trying to escape. My M1 was heavy in my hands. I wondered why I didn’t stop him; that was my duty. It was as though I was watching a movie, not having a part in it. I wondered if doing nothing was a protest against all the insanity and degradation that was involving me.

Finally, when he was about 80 yards away, still well within my rifle’s range, I moved into a position that gave me an unobstructed field of fire whichever way he might move. In the chilly stillness I yelled, “Halt, Hande hoch!” He stopped, put his hands up and turned towards me. Almost immediately, some of my brother GI’s came running, weapons ready. Harold Thane, who we called “Heavy” had the BAR but with very little ammo, and all were relieved that there was not going to be a fire fight. The German, who was about my age, was Landswehr, not SS, trying to make his way home from the front. He had no papers, of course, hardly anyone did then. The war had ended only two weeks before and there was no system set up yet to deal with returning German soldiers and all the DP’s.

He was frightened and sullen. I’m sure he was afraid that we, the victorious army in his native land, would throw him in jail. He started to relax when he realized that we were not going to beat him. His rucksack contained some bread and cheese, ragged clothing, an extra pair of worn boots, and a lot of letters and mementoes from his dead comrades that he wanted to bring to their families. This was something we could relate to, this was something we would want a buddy to do for us. We gave him a few packs of cigarettes that came with our C rations – I think there were three butts in each pack – and some matches. He had no weapons, not even a breadknife or a spoon, and no watch. Watches were commonly traded then for food and clothing.

He was placed in the Captain’s jeep with the Sergeant to guard him. I never saw him again, though I knew he would be taken back to rear echelon to be interrogated and eventually released, perhaps given a job assisting HQ in some way. There were hordes of Displaced Persons all over Europe then, all of them needing food, shelter, clothing, doctors, translators. Many Germans and other Europeans were employed in this work, and almost everyone was involved in the Black Market as well; it was a necessary fact of life then, for survival.

I still have no understanding of what came over me before I stopped that man. Something tried to keep me from doing that, though stopping him was the right thing to do. I never told anyone that I almost let him go. I knew that I would have been shunned forever. Why did I hesitate?

ESCAPE by Bennett Neiman

When I was in high school, the major conversation that went on between me and my friends was about getting pussy. Of course, it was all talk. In the summer of 1964, in Cincinnati, Ohio, there really was no place that any of us knew, where pussy was hanging out ready to be gotten. And, even if there were such a place, neither me nor most of my chums would have much of a clue about what to do with it once we had it—except perhaps Carl, who was the cool one of the bunch.

Nonetheless, talking about such a place, did occupy quite a bit of our time. I’m not sure how it got started, but one of us must have seen the old movie, “Shangri La,” about an exotic, hidden paradise island—because we started referring to that amazing place where pussy fell like rain from the skies—as Shangri La.

So imagine our joy when one of us—Kenny Baker be exact—announced that he had accidentally stumbled into Shangri La the past Saturday night. We were all so excited, or so it seemed. I, myself, was. “What if they find out I’m a virgin,” I thought, “or what if they discover that I had never even seen a pussy, much less know what to do with one?” But, there was no backing down. I had to go on this exotic adventure with my brethren, whether I liked it or not.

So, it was decided that the next Saturday night, that the four of us: Kenny, Carl, Marc and I, would get into Kenny’s car—he was the only one who had a car—and take the majestic journey to the place we had been fantasizing about for at least the past year.

Kenny told us that Shangri La was down by the Ohio River on the Eastern side of Cincinnati, a place where none of us had been because it was know for being a very rough red-necked part of town.

We had all been on Columbia Parkway before, the highway that overlooked the river basin area in which Shangri La was nestled into—but none of us had actually been down there. The only reason Kenny had found it, was that he made a wrong turn off the Parkway, and found himself down by the riverside.

Kenny described the place to the other three of us as a small town filled with bands of gorgeous high school girls who looked very cheap and tawdry, who just roamed around like sexual predators, looking for who they could give the next blow job to. Kenny, who we knew was prone to exaggeration and hyperbole, told us that he was certain that these packs of divine, nasty goddesses were certain to throw us all to the ground and have their way with us, just as soon as they spotted us. Even though we all knew Kenny was spinning a tall tale—we made him repeat his prognostication again and again—on our way to high school boy paradise.

When we got on Columbia Parkway, I felt my heart jumping. I was so scared that I almost started crying. I thought, “What if I jumped out of the car at the first chance—maybe I could make up a story later about why I had to leave.

At first, it appeared that I was going to get a reprieve. It turned out that Kenny did not really remember exactly where he had made the wrong turn before and, consequently, didn’t know how to get down to Shangri La. But Carl, who was a very street-smart, clever fellow, figured out how to get off the Parkway and down to the river. Fuck you, Carl. Once down there, Kenny had no trouble finding the place he had been to before. Fuck you, Kenny.

Since we didn’t know exactly what to expect, it was decided that we would park the car up on the hill road that ran parallel to the river—and then walk the several blocks down to Main St. of Shangri La. I was very nervous as we descended into the village.

Well, it turned out that Kenny had been half right. This was clearly an edgy red-necked place, populated by former and current inhabitants of trailer parks. And, on this particular summer Saturday night, much like the one of Kenny’s first visit—there was, indeed, a roaming gang of high school age girls—mostly gorgeous—and all very cheap and tawdry. And, it was pretty clear to us that probably every one of them gave very good blow jobs.

What Kenny did not tell us—which he swore later that he never noticed—was that accompanying the pack of felacio-addicted female rapists, was a pack of dangerous looking, greasy hoods with cigarettes rolled-up in their t-shirt sleeves—looking very capable of brutal mayhem.

By the time we realized what we were walking into, it was too late. The pack of cock-suckers and future wife-beaters had spotted us and moved their way toward us. I looked around to assess our troops. Let’s see….we had Marc, the intellectual, who I doubted had ever been near a fight.…Kenny, a big lug of a guy, who looked like a small sumo wrestler, but was unfortunately more like a Jewish teddy bear….Carl, the ladies man, who might have been very familiar with pussy, but not much good to us now, unless the girls decided to fuck us to death. Then, there was me—certainly the weakest link of the bunch. My mind went into red alert. I looked up and saw a little old lady starting to cross the street. I quickly ran over to her and said in a very loud voice, “Excuse me, ma’am, let me help you cross the street. I figured no one could beat up a guy who was trying to help a little old lady cross the street.

My friends quickly caught on and came over to assist me. There we were, four frightened high school boys from the suburbs, helping a little old red-neck lady cross a small street with absolutely no cars in sight—to avoid being attacked and brutally injured.

When we got half way across the street, one of the young Shangri La maidens yelled out, “Hey, they’ve got granny and they’re taking her away…what are they going to do to my granny?”

With that, things broke into chaos. The mob broke ranks into a full attack, and the four of us turned and ran like we had never run before. Kenny yelled to us, “Meet me up on Columbia Parkway!” Carl took off in one direction, Marc in another. I went with Marc, I think because he was my best friend, so when I started crying and pissing and shitting in my pants, I wouldn’t have been as embarrassed as I would have been with either Carl or Kenny.

None of us were caught that night. I never looked back, so I don’t know what happened. I could imagine no one trying to get Kenny, because of his size—in that his Jewish teady-bearness was not distinguishable in the dark night. Why the rest of us got away, I’ll never know. I was never known for my speed. In fact, I believe granny could have caught me if she wanted too.

Anyway, we did escape, with everything but our egos in tact. Eventually, we all made it up to Columbia Parkway. Marc and I first met up with Carl, and it wasn’t too long before Kenny drove up and we all got into his car and made our getaway.

None of us mentioned Shangri La again. Not the place down by the river, nor the imaginary one. It wasn’t too long after, that I lost my virginity—but it wasn’t to a gang of horny girls. I escaped puberty and made it past adolescence into young adulthood. Now, I’m 60 years old. But, the truth be known, for a long while, I stayed open to the possibility and fantasy that someday I would stumble into the real Shangri La, that is, until I fully grew up and embraced the beauty of true love as the true paradise and the other as only fools gold…….that was about a year and a half ago...….some fantasies last a long time.

CONVERSATIONS WITH MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY by Suzanne Bachner

Scene Two. I sit across from MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY. HIS vast green-tinted glass desk sits between us.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: The inclusion of a letter is recommended. It makes it more personal.

ME: A letter?

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Or a note. Nothing too overwrought.

ME: Do you want to dictate it to me? So, I'll say the right thing?

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: There's no right or wrong thing. It should come from me.

ME: I thought you said I should write it.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Did I say, come from me?

ME: Yes.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: I meant come from you. It should come from you.

ME: What should I write it on? Should I type it out?

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: You do realize that I get billed by the hour? I’m handing some of the work, as much work as possible, to my associates to keep your costs down.

ME: That’s very kind of you.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: I look everything over, of course!

ME: I bet you do.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: But she bills at about half the cost of me.

ME: That’s still pretty damn expensive.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY shrugs.

ME: So about this letter…

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: A note, really. A note. Did I say a letter?

ME: No, I asked you if it should be a letter.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Right. No, no, nothing too much.

ME: I don’t know what to do here. I don’t want to do the wrong thing. I don’t want to upset him.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: My guess is that he’ll be pretty upset when gets served the papers. That’s why we do it this way. For your own protection.

ME: But you want me to write this letter.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: A note. That’s just my professional recommendation. You don’t have to. Sometimes it’s just…softer. And it lands.

ME: Lands?

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Yeah, you know, he gets it. Because he knows it’s coming from you and not some disembodied court or attorney.

ME: I didn’t expect you to be this short.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Excuse me?

ME: When we spoke on the phone.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: What?

ME: You said “disembodied court or attorney”. So it made me think of you without a body. But you do have a body.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Yes.

ME: And he’s just going to get the papers. Or maybe talk to you on the phone.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Perhaps.

ME: I thought when I talked to you on the phone and I first came into your office that you were taller until you stood up. It may have been the big desk. You have a really big desk.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: I know.

ME: He could get a really slimy lawyer, right? You said before.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Yes. That’s why we’re being offensive.

ME: I don’t want to offend him.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: O-ffensive. As in de-fensive. Offensive.

ME: Proactive. That’s what you called it the last time. So, I guess we’re past the point of speaking euphemistically.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Billable hours.

ME: Right. I don’t know what to say. In the letter.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: It should be handwritten.

ME: More personal.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Yes.

ME: Nice touch.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: I’m going to have to read it.

ME: To make sure I don’t say anything wrong?

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Right.

ME: But you said I couldn’t say anything wrong.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Within reason. I need to check. To make sure.

ME: What should I say?

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: I can’t tell you that.

ME: I could write it on a Van Gogh card, maybe. He always loved Van Gogh. I can run down to the Hallmark Store. There’s a Hallmark Store on the lower level of your building, did you know that?

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: I don’t do greeting cards.

ME: I found it the first day. I was early for the appointment so I wandered around downstairs in the shopping area.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: I get my shoes shined down there.

ME: You don’t have a personal valet?

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Never mind my shoes.

ME: You brought them up.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Let’s focus here. We need to take care of this today.

ME: I didn’t know I'd have to write a note.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: You don’t have to, but I recommend it.

ME: Then I have to. Do you think that would be thoughtful?

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: What?

ME: The Van Gogh card?

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: You mean Van Gachh?

ME: Are you correcting me?

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: No, just clarifying.

ME: I hate when people pronounce it like that. It’s pretentious.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: It’s correct.

ME: Maybe a plain card. But the Van Gogh cards never have any sappy messages in them. They’re always blank. I got him a poster once. Of the blue café with the trees.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Starry Night?

ME: No, the café.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: I’ll tell you what, why don’t you draft the card, then I’ll approve it and you can pick out the card while we finish the paper work. I have to find a server anyway.

ME: Or maybe someone in the mailroom could do that. So, it’ll be more cost effective for me. What’s the hourly rate for someone in the mailroom?

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: You’re upset.

ME: Of course I’m upset. And now he’s going to be upset. No one else is upset.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Do you want some Kleenex?

ME: No. Thank you. I’m not a runny nose cryer. It’s all in the eyes. Hands work well enough for the eyes. See? And eyelashes. Luckily I’m not wearing mascara.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY hands me a white legal pad and a pen. I take them.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Here. Why don’t you pull yourself together. Take a breath. Write the note. Don’t over think it.

ME: This could be the last time I communicate with him.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: It won’t be.

ME: Directly.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Don’t worry about that.

ME: He was my husband.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: He still will be if we don’t move forward with this. It’s your choice.

ME: I’m not having any doubts. If that’s what you think.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: I’m just asking.

ME: You’re not asking. You’re insinuating. That’s annoying.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Write the letter.

ME: I did all my homework on legal pads because my dad used to bring them home from work with him. In his big brown leather briefcase. But they were yellow.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: We don’t use the yellow ones anymore. Too hard on the eyes.

ME: Yeah. This is much easier. A long pause.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: What? ME: It’s just not fair. I mean, that I have to be the one who does this. When he’s giving me no choice. What is it called—the person who brings the action?

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: The Petitioner.

ME: Yes. I shouldn’t be the Petitioner when I’m really the what?

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Respondent?

ME: Yeah. The Respondent. I shouldn’t have to take responsibility for both of us when I’m just responding to his actions, his withdrawal, his lack of intimacy, his disappearance, his violence and utter inability to actually work through the underlying compulsion that drives his alcoholism, that makes his being a sober nondrinker, a dry drunk, worse than when he was a raging in-denial binge drinker. He won’t leave me but tells me with every single action to leave him. Gives up. Pushing me away when I want to help him. Help us. Not fight in front of the dog because his ears go down and he thinks he’s done something wrong just because he exists. Like a child. I’m the Respondent. He’s not the Respondent.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Life’s not fair, sweetie.

ME: I bet you don’t call your associate, miss less-billable hours, sweetie. Just your female clients.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: You’re right. It’s a technique.

ME: You’re kidding.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: None of my techniques work on you.

ME: The Kleenex routine?

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Usually works.

ME: Sorry. Look. I can’t afford this. I’ll do it.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: Good girl. I pick up the pad and pen and write the letter quickly. No cross-outs. I show it to him. He reads it, then looks up at me.

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: You can’t say this.

ME: Why? What?

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: The bit at the end.

ME: Which bit?

MY DIVORCE ATTORNEY: You can’t say I love you.

PSYCH by Bob Brader

When I walked into the psychiatrist office I was surprised at how small it was. This is a Fifth Avenue psychiatrist office? They look bigger in the movies. I was sitting in the small waiting room looking down the hall to my right and I noticed the five doors; two on the left, two on the right and one in the middle at the end of the hall. I immediately thought that if she comes out of door number one or two on the right side that it was bad luck and I would leave at once, if she came out of the middle door I would only stay for this session and never come back, but if she came out of door four or five on the left side then she just may be able to help me with my depression. I started mumbling to myself, “Come on door number four or five, four or five it the winner. Hey Monty Hall, I’ll take door number four or five please.”

A People magazine setting on the tiny coffee table caught my eye and I started thumbing through it thinking about the only other psychiatrist I ever saw, or was she a psychologist? Maybe she wasn’t either, but she was as close as I was going to get in the fifth grade. Mrs. Ressacar my fifth grade Guidance Counselor. Now, she had an office, it was huge, and so was Mrs. Ressacar. Everything about her was large--her glasses, her permed hair, her desk--everything seemed larger than normal. The office was long and multicolored. It felt safe, even though she was large; she had a way of making you feel secure.

I went in to talk with her about my father. I told her only a few small things: the backhand I got when we were in a store and he didn’t like the way I asked for something and the way he thought I should stop performing because it embarrassed him because I was not really good enough. She asked a lot of questions and I answered. It felt good just to talk about these things and she made me feel like I could tell her anything and it would be okay.

When I got home from school that day, my mom was already home. “What are you doing telling people what goes on in this house? Don’t you realize that they could take you away from me for this stuff?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I had to have a long talk on the phone with your Guidance Counselor. Bobby, this is very bad.” When my father came home, my mom told him what happened.

“Tomorrow you go in there and you tell her it was all a lie, that you made up the whole thing just to get attention. If I find out that you didn’t do this, I’m going to knock your fucking teeth down your throat. Then you will have something to cry to other people about, do you understand me?”

The next day I walked into her office and it felt cold. It was not warm or inviting anymore. “Thank you for calling my family, that was very nice of you.”

“I have to check into these things,” she said, putting those huge glasses back on her face. “Well, I lied, and that is all I have to say.”

She tried to get me to talk with her a few more times, and she asked a lot more questions, but I never spoke to her again.

The only other time we spoke is when we had to take these tests in the eighth grade. They were supposed to tell you what career you would be best suited for. When we talked she told me that I might want to consider enlisting in the Marine Corp after graduation. Needless to say, I never wanted to see another psychiatrist after that.

But here I am. At precisely one o’clock door number four opens; it is a little old lady with white hair, a tight leather mini skirt, and a black blouse. It’s my doctor. I walk into the tiny room that only has two chairs and a desk. This lady looks like I can tell her anything and she won’t be fazed at all. I started talking about my depression and then about my last relationship and then about my father.

Towards the end of the session she said, “Wow, I feel like your father was a sociopath.” “What?” I said. How dare she say that about my father? Only I can say that about my father. And as soon as I had that reaction, my next thought was maybe this lady could really help me.

THROUGH THE WINDOWS OF A PONTIAC ~ Things Were Different Then by Sarvananda Bluestone

The old Pontiac got us around all over, Ma and me. It was Bessie, a third member of the family when Ma and I were on the road. Bessie had a ribbed metal stripe down her hood that ended with a small silver bust of Chief Pontiac. He protected us, too. We were on the road a lot during the War. Ma’s right arm was my safety belt and I never had to worry when she was driving. Never.

Seemed like there were no men around then. Daddy and Ma’s brother Siddy were all off to fight the War. But that doctor who set my broken ankle when I ran into the curb—he was still around. I tried to talk to him while it was hurting so. He was busy talking to the pretty nurse. Ma really lit into him and told him that Daddy was a doctor fighting a war and that he could at least pay attention to a hurting little boy. I felt much better then even with a broken ankle.

Was it only four years? It seemed like forever. I was two when Daddy went away. I was six when he came back.

Bessie had a broken horn. Every time she would go over a bump she would beep. Ma had taken a course on fixing cars. She knew everything about cars. But she couldn’t get a part to fix Bessie’s horn since it was the War. So Ma tried to keep away from bumps and would smile her “I’m sorry” smile at the angry faced men who turned around in their seats when we did go over a bump. When they saw Ma they didn’t look angry any more. People said she was very pretty like a movie star. But she was my mom.

When the war stopped everybody was beeping their horns. We didn’t have to worry about bumps any more.

We traveled all over before Daddy came home. We traveled to Mary Land to visit a friend of Ma, named Jamie, who worked for a super court judge named Stone. I liked that since my name was a stone, too.

Ma called Mary Land the “South”. She told me that while were there in “The South” I couldn’t sing “John Brown’s Body.” She was real serious about that. “John Brown’s Body” was my favorite song then. I didn’t understand. Why couldn’t I sing a song.

Maybe you weren’t supposed to sing around court things. Maybe it was like that time when Ma had to pay for a ticket in a traffic court. There were millions of people there. Then a man came out and everybody stood up. So I started to sing the “Star Spangled Banner.” Wasn’t that what you were supposed to do when everybody stood up?

Everybody started laughing. All the people started laughing. Even Ma. But the man who had made everybody stand up got real angry and red in the face and started yelling at people. And everybody got quiet. I don’t know why they were laughing or why he got mad. I was singing and people were laughing. Why did he get mad? I thought he was mad at me and Ma put her arm around me. Nobody else was mad at me. I guess you weren’t supposed to sing or laugh in court things.

Ma didn’t sing much in the car. We talked a lot. About everything. I think that during the War I saw the side of Ma’s face more than I saw the front of it. Seems like that.

It all changed when Daddy came back. He did most of the driving. And when it was just me and him we would sing a lot. I loved singing with Daddy. “I’ve Got Sixpence.” “Someone’s in the Kitchen With Dinah.” Fee Fie fiddly oh it was so much fun. I didn’t have to think of what to say. We just sang. It was harder to talk to Daddy than to sing with him. When we talked I worried that I would say the wrong thing. I never worried about that with Ma.

The cars changed. Ma got a beat up old Ford and Daddy got a brand new green Desoto with hydromatic drive. It really looked fancy but in winter it would get stuck at the bottom of our hill and Ma would have to go down with her old Ford and push Daddy’s car up.

Wherever we drove—Ma and I or Daddy and I or Ma and Daddy. and I—it would take forever. When we went from Yorktown Heights to Grandma and Grandpa in the Bronx it took forever. And then we were there. When we drove from Yorktown to Brewster to visit Daddy’s best friend, Bob Elliot and his family, it took forever. And then we were there. And Daddy would talk doctor talk with Bob and I would play with Janie and Jonny Elliot..

The roads seemed longer then and the endless trips seemed to go both slow and fast. In all those years the whole world seemed to go racing in front of me as it zipped past the windows of our cars.

I WANT TO STAY: I WANT TO GO by F. Marcya Edison

I want to stay….I feel sexy (my daddy liked sexy)….

We merge, we melt, we fuse, we sex…. not inhibited by familiarity, not complicated or diffused by a knowing of personalities…I love when you talk dirty…you take me higher….we role play, we have fairy tale sex, not roommate sex, as Bill and I would have all those years later…

I want to stay… you’re so beautiful to look at, with your thick Scottish brows and dark wavy hair that caresses the strong musculature at the nape of your neck...
I get lost in your voice – the deep timbre, the North England accent and cadence… I never liked my name, except when you say it….those few times that you say it…

I want to stay…for the excitement, the charge, the anticipation, the eerie psychic bonding, the ecstatic realization—sometimes after many months-- of my obsessive longings…

I want to stay….to wade in the bitter-sweet aching hunger for something I can never truly have or really know. You are a spiritual exercise for me…..


I want to go…from the masochism, the emotional sadism, the chronic yearning, the degradation, the piercing sadness, the ultimate loneliness in the prolonged down time/dead time without you…the emptiness of nothing in the absence of something.

I want to go…from the pain, the ache in the heart, the suffering, the sly elusiveness, the arguably cruel manipulation ….the promise of so much and the delivery of so little.

I want to go….from the consuming frustration…and then… again…
a crumb, tossed by you – I gorge on it for a fleeting eternity…..And, so, the cycle repeats…(I am unable to move on; to seek love , affection, nurture, to be cared for…to feel normal.)

I want to go…let me go, let me loose, unclutch me – no, Don’t, I want to stay – it’s enough – no, it’s not, it’s not enough – I want more – I deserve more - I want to go; I want to stay…

THE RIDGES by Billy Herman

Ridges stand above the highway on either side heading down to the lake basin, and for the first time ever I take them in stride. They don’t dwarf me. That’s not what I am – a humorous little dwarf. I am bright. As bright as her at least.

The people who live in the houses up in the ridges don’t lead lives any more mystical than mine. And for the first time I realize they don’t.

Alyssa has her arm wrapped around my waist and I am showing her a children’s book I wrote just for her. But as much as she is getting it, she’s still not getting it. And how long does it take to see that love is one thing and sex is another? And you can’t have one without the other. And the ridges high as they are, and come on they’re not the Rockies where I’ve been, nor the Himalayas. They’re not the fucking Himalayas. Justified rage. The story is about you and me but you’ll never get it. I can’t admit I’ll never get to the Himalayas, or Uganda where she told me she took rolls and rolls of photographs. The story is about you and me. I simply love you like the donut loves the blueberry.

I stop the car on the right side of the white line and ceremoniously eat a blueberry donut and wash it down with a cup of coffee, and declare victory over the ridges. You’re not that high that I couldn’t just walk up there in a short time. And the people who live in the special houses – most of them are pretty boring because most people are pretty boring no matter where they dwell. But I always found you to be very exciting, even as you tell me I am some kind of humorous dwarf.

I’m destroying a house on the ridge. I am smashing it up like a vandal. I am so angry that you don’t love me and you never will.

Here we are where you came from. Mystic Connecticut with its wealth and ocean breezes. I’m in a manicured bookstore, and am thrilled at the new paperback editions of the James Bond series by Ian Fleming. The covers are fantastic with a beautiful sexy half clad woman on each one. A dozen or so fairy tales he wrote while he was drunk to impress who? There’s a lot of money being thrown around. I just gave up that lifestyle of getting a little drunk and flirting with the cover girl. All kinds of adventures. The pristine blue tide. The heights.

Your arm is not around my waist anymore. I am a man alone on the side of the highway. I wish I didn’t care where you were but I do.

The great adviser has said that there is no you and me. Is it past the time in history where a slightly stoned man can write a few solid fairy tales and get on the map?

After the ridges comes the descent into the lake basin. Where the hell are you inside? The old super-successful martini guzzler got all that fame and success and then he just died.

Alyssa came out of the pristine blue waves and ocean breezes. The cruelest and meanest person I will ever meet. I’ve taken a shower and put on my best clothes. I have decided to do something else with my life that’s not controlled by terror.