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      An electronic literary magazine striving for the very best in
             contemporary fiction, poetry, and essays.

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              Editor: Sung J. Woo (WHIRLEDS@delphi.com)
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VOLUME I     NUMBER 3                                         NOVEMBER 1994
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                             Table of Contents

Changes.................................................................xx

_Fiction_

"Cigars" by Keith Dawson................................................xx
"Travel in Search" by Michael Gibbons...................................xx
"Oranges" by Jonathan T. Drout..........................................xx

_Poetry_

"ER" by Thomas Bell.....................................................xx
"Picking Lobsters in the Corner Mart" by Bill Dubie.....................xx
"The Lord" by Mark Thomas...............................................xx

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Whirlwind cannot continue without submissions from established and amateur
writers on the net. If you or anyone you know is looking to publish
contemporary fiction, poetry, or essays, please don't hesistate to get a
copy of the work to us.  Mail submissions to: WHIRLEDS@delphi.com.
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Whirlwind Vol. 1, No. 3.  Whirlwind is published electronically on a
bi-monthly basis.  Reproduction of this magazine is permitted as long as
the magazine is not sold and the entire text of the issue remains intact. 
Copyright (C) 1994, authors.  All further rights to stories belong to the
authors.  Whirlwind is produced using Aldus PageMaker 5.0, and WordPerfect
5.1 on an IBM-compatible computer and is converted into PostScript format
for distribution.  PostScript is a registered trademark of Adobe Systems,
Inc.  For back issue and other info, see our back page.  Send questions to:
WHIRLEDS@delphi.com.
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                                  CHANGES

     Hello, and welcome back.  In my last welcome page (May 1994), I
promised two things: to be in South Korea for the coming academic year and
to take my summer off from Whirlwind.  Come September, I was supposed to be
an ocean away, but for various personal reasons, it did not happen.

     Something else that didn't happen was the September issue of
Whirlwind.  Because of the uncertain state of my life, I wasn't sure if I
could continue with Whirlwind at all.  In fact, sometime in August, I
posted that Whirlwind was going to take an extended leave, probably for a
year.

     But it is back.  Skipping July and September, I greet you with the
third issue of Whirlwind.  It is still the magazine that strives for the
very best comtemporary fiction, poetry, and essays from the net world. 
Enjoy.

                                                            Sung J. Woo
                                                            Editor
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CIGARS

by Keith Dawson


I was sitting in my room on a Thursday night in April, my freshman year at
Amherst. I was watching Letterman on my roommate's black and white, Dave
was wearing a velcro suit and jumping on a trampoline. Ted, my roommate,
was in search of women, gone to Smith College for the night. 
     I had the window open to catch some of the cool spring air. It had
rained that night, the ground was wet and the fresh wind off the mountains
smelled like nature. My fourth floor window faced the back of campus,
toward the unused railroad tracks and the hills of Pelham. I could hear
scattered noise from a party in B-dorm, but it was indistinct and far away.

     The room had two desks, two desk chairs, and a futon couch Ted's
father brought him. Each of us had a book shelf with the semester's
coursework stacked in rows. In one corner was my stereo, on the turntable
were Ted's Grateful Dead albums, three of them. A doorway led to the
bedroom where we both had beds and bureaus. The front door was closed. Dave
leaped from the trampoline onto a velcro-covered wall. He stuck.
     I heard yelling coming up the stairs and down the hallway. Moments
later, there was a solid pounding on my door. 
     "Red the Ted, open up," said a voice. "We know you're in there Ted."
It was rough around the edges. Old Milwaukee rough.  

     "Where is that fucking Ted?" said another voice. "Is he hiding?" This
second voice had a more clipped midwestern tone. It was a little higher in
pitch. 
     I opened the door.  Two tall upperclassmen in black shirts stood
leaning against the frame. The frame held. The shirts were emblazoned with
three Greek letters: delta, kappa and epsilon.
     "Ted's not here," I said. 
     They pushed past me into my room.
     "Come on out and take your punishment, Ted," said the thinner guy. He
was over six feet (they both were) and shaped like an inverted triangle.
The muscles in his neck and forearms were well-defined. The shirt, a large,
was skin-tight. Clean shaven up to his non-existent sideburns, with dark
hair and wire-rim glasses, he looked like Clark Kent. But George Reeves,
not Christopher. He went into the bedroom and started poking through Ted's
stuff.
     The other, hairier, fell back into my chair with a thick thud. He was
built more solidly than his friend. I got the feeling that while Clark was
a lifter, this guy was a natural heavyweight. He had dark hair too, but it
was stringier. He wore a beat up wool baseball cap. 
     "Oh no," he said. "Oh no oh no oh no." It sounded like a mantra. "We
need Red the Ted. What did you do with him?" His eyes had a glazed-over
cast I'd only seen looking up at me from the deck of a fishing boat. Over
his head was a poster of the St. Pauli Girl. You never forget your first
girl, said the poster. The girl was leaning over, offering a beer. 
     "He's not back yet," I said. "I'll tell him you all stopped by." I was
hoping they would go away. 
     I knew them both, but only by sight. I'd seen them, together with
other Dekes in the dining hall and on the Quad. I'd even been up to their
house a few times, for open taps. Once I went with Ted. They poured him
shots of vodka and made fun of his very red hair. 
     Clark Kent stopped rifling through Ted's drawers and looked at me
through the doorway. He stepped over a bag of laundry coming back into the
front room. "We'll leave him a note," he said. "Paper?"
     I got him a piece of typing paper and a magic marker. He sat own at
Ted's desk, dwarfing the little chair. "What should I say?" he asked the
heavy one. The answer came in the form of a long belch.
     "Well spoken," said Clark Kent. He scrawled something on the paper. I
looked over his shoulder, it said "Red the Ted -- rhymes with DEAD." He
speared the note with Ted's scissors into the wooden desk top. 
     "Come on Jeff, let's go with the one we got," he said.
     "Can't pledge hike with only one pledge. Breaks the rules." Jeff drew
half a cigar out of the inside pocket of his denim jacket and put it in his
mouth without lighting it. He leaned back in the chair until it was
balanced on the rear legs, then plopped his size thirteen boots on my desk.
Arms behind his head and cap pulled down over his eyes, I was afraid he was
going tocome crashing to the floor.
     "Ted's not here, Jeff. We gotta go before the one in the car runs off.
C'mon."
     "No. Need one more." He started to get up and pitched himself forward
to roll off the chair. Just as it seemed he and the chair would lose their
equilibrium, it skittered backwards across the wooden floor. He emerged
standing in the center of the room, straightening his cap.
     "Well done," I said. 
     "Thanks."
     "Who are we gonna get, then?" asked Clark Kent. 
     "Try Skunkhead," said Jeff. Skunkhead was a guy in my class with a
streak of white running through his hair. 
     "He's gone too," said Mike. I saw him get on a bus to Boston this
afternoon." He looked at me, glaring. "Someone tipped off all our pledges,"
he said to me. 
     "Gee, that's a shame."
     Jeff perked up. "I know what to do," he said. He pointed a hairy
finger at me. 
     "He's not even a pledge." I resented them talking about me as if I
wasn't there. It was my room. 
     "Let's take him anyway. He's been to the house, drunk our beer. I've
seen him. " He stumbled over and put his arm around my shoulder.
     "What's your name?" he asked me.
     "Jim," I said.
     "Jim. You wanna rush Deke?"
     "I don't know. Does it cost money?"
     "Um, it might cost you some. How much you got?"
     "Not a lot," I said.
     "We'll worry about that later," said Mike. "My friend here is offering
to pledge you into our house. You can say no, but you don't want to hurt
his feelings that way." 
     I looked at Jeff. He was smiling around his cigar. It could have been
a cruel smile, I didn't know, but I didn't want to find out. "I'm not sure
about that either," I said.
     "Here's how it is. You gotta let us pledge hike you," he said.
     I'd heard about pledge hikes. Ted had told me stories he'd heard from
sophomores about how upperclassmen came for you in the night and drove you
off. Then they left you to get back on your own. There were stories about
pledges walking for days, trying to thumb a ride. Not many people will stop
for a hitchhiker on a back country road in the hours before dawn. And not
too many people appreciate college kids ringing their bell in the middle of
the night, asking to use the phone. There were also stories about farmers
with shotguns. Ted told me about one year they hiked two freshman to
Bowdoin College in Maine. Three hundred miles away. That's why Ted wasn't
around. Ted was hiding.
     "Forget it," I said.
     "Don't be such a pussy," Jeff said. "It's not so bad. We won't leave
you alone. You'll be with the other pledge we got down in the car."
     Maybe it was the casual way they offered to pledge me that caught me
off guard. Or maybe it was the thought that if Ted could go through this,
it couldn't be so terrible. Maybe I was genuinely curious about what they
were like, and what was going to happen. I don't know what made me say yes.
     Jeff took his cap off and put it on my head. It was a Mets cap.
"Congratulations," he said, "You're officially a Deke pledge." Clark Kent
reached out to shake my hand and introduced himself as Mike. 
     "Got any money for beers?" he said.

They led me to a tiny beige Subaru parked outside. Another freshman sat in
the backseat. He was wearing a pair of red and blue 3-D glasses. I slid in
next to him. 
     "Hey, I know you," he said. I said hello back. His name was Bob and he
lived on another floor in my dorm. He had a soft round face and a fluffy
beard. 
     Mike got in on the driver's side. Jeff took another pair of glasses
from the glove compartment and made me put them on. They were cut from a
cardboard cereal box. 
     Mike drove out of campus on Route 9 toward Pelham, the undeveloped
area. I didn't know the roads and towns out that way. The mall, stores and
other colleges were in the opposite direction. I tried to keep up with the
view, but Mike kept changing directions. Every time I looked out the window
Jeff asked me a question or said something to distract me. Soon I gave up
trying to get a fix. 
     There were no other cars on the road, and very few lights. We passed
farms. Sometimes I could see lights from the farmhouses through the trees.
Other times we'd pass fields and I could make out the dark silhouette of
silos or barns. Once, a car was parked by the shoulder. Jeff said it was
someone out to tip cows.
     For an hour we drove around. Mike and Jeff spent most of the time
telling us stories about the fraternity, then quizzing us on what we'd just
heard. They'd yell at us for getting details wrong. Sometimes they'd yell
at us when we got things right.
     They talked about how bad initiation was going to be for us if we
didn't learn what they wanted us to learn. Ted lived in fear of initiation.
He spent hours at a time studying his notes: upperclassmen's birthdays and
home zip codes; the officers of the chapter, present and former; the cost
of all the fixtures in the house and their dates of purchase; famous Deke
alumni, and their years of graduation. That just scratched the surface. I
knew a lot of it already, from quizzing Ted. Mike drank through a six pack.
He threw every empty over his shoulder into the back seat. Once he hit Bob
on the cheek. We were up to our ankles in empties. Jeff kept chewing on his
cigar stub. Twice he lit it, but both times it went out. 
     "This is good enough. I gotta take a leak," Mike said. Jeff nodded.
Mike pulled over by the side of the road. There was no moon. The car's
lights were the only thing cutting a night as dark as the bottom of a well.

     "This is where you guys get off," Jeff said. 
     "Where are we this time?" Bob asked. 
     "About 20 miles into Vermont," said Jeff. Mike unzipped his fly and
sent a long, arcing leak into the bushes. Jeff put his arms around our
shoulders and led us away from the car. I could hear Mike laughing.
     When we were about 25 yards down the blacktop, Jeff stopped.
"Gentlemen," he said, "just follow that road." He looked at his watch. "You
should be back at Amherst sometime around lunch tomorrow." We took off our
glasses and gave them back to Jeff. He winked at Bob, put a pair on
himself, then walked back to the Subaru. Both doors slammed and the car
drove away. Soon the red taillights were out of sight and we were left
alone in the dark. 

"Are they just going to just leave us here?" I asked Bob.
     "That's the general idea," he said. "Come on. We don't get anywhere
standing around." He started walking down the road. I kept close rather
than lose him in the darkness. 
     "This is what I get for letting people into my room late at night." I
said. "I'm gonna kill Ted." I was really furious. Ted should have been
here, not me. I thought of him -- warm and cozy, bedded down with a Smithie
-- and got very, very angry. 
     My footsteps echoed on the asphalt. I realized sadly that my
docksiders were not up to a night-long hike. At least I wore wool socks, I
thought. My eyes had adjusted to the dark enough to see Bob clearly. He had
a long, hunched-over stride. His corduroys made a swish-swish sound as they
rubbed against each other with each step, and he walked with his hands in
his pockets. 
     "You don't understand what's going on, do you?" he said.
     "I'm walking down a dark road in the middle of the night." I shivered.
"It's getting colder by the minute. Considering two hours ago I was sitting
quietly in my room minding my own business," I told him, "I'd say things
are pretty fucked up."
     "Yes, I'd have to agree with you." For the first time I noticed a
touch of an accent in his voice was smooth and syrupy. Later I learned he
was Canadian.
     "This is one of the things they like to do."
     "'This' meaning taking whatever random freshman comes their way if
they can't find who they're looking for?"
     "Exactly."
     "We'll see about that." We walked on in silence for a few minutes,
following the center line. It was painted with little reflective chips. I
heard crickets -- and other things I couldn't identify -- all around us. 
     "This is my third week of pledging, and my fourth pledge hike." He
stopped to zip his jacket. I looked at him aghast.
     "You're kidding. You've done this four times? Jesus."
     "It's not as bad as it seems. Two weeks ago they left me at the
Hampshire Mall. It was still open, so I bought this jacket." That was a
good idea, I thought. We went on, picking up the pace.      The road was
getting a slight grade to it, and I could see a steep hill coming up on us
around the next curve. It looked like it went on for quite a while. It also
looked like the sky was lighter in that direction, like there might be a
town out that way. 
     The hill was steeper than it looked. I stopped to massage my legs and
turned around behind to see how far we had come. Bob stopped too. I scanned
the horizon for lights that might be from an oncoming car, but there was
nothing but stars. We started up again. 
     It took about ten more minutes. Just as I thought my legs would turn
to jelly we crested the hill.  
     The Subaru was parked at the side of the road. Mike and Jeff were
sitting on top of the car drinking beers. A half-mile beyond them was a
highway junction, the little road we were on turned into 116. I saw the
tall UMass library, still lit at this hour, and not far away the
illuminated clock tower of Amherst College.
     "You took longer with that hill than the last bunch," Mike said as we
came up. "You'll have to improve."
     Jeff drew two fresh cigars from inside his jacket. He gave us each
one, and lit them. 
     "Come on up to the house," Mike said. "There's a fresh keg tonight,"
Mike said. It seemed like a reasonable offer. He seemed like a reasonable
person, and I was relieved. Bob and I both said yes. Jeff clipped the end
off my cigar with his pocket knife. It was my first cigar. We smoked them
on the short ride to Deke.
     "I can't believe I let myself get suckered," I said.
     "Don't worry about it," said Jeff. "Everyone gets suckered. That's
part of the fun. We got suckered. Trust me, you'll enjoy it a lot more next
year when you're on the suckering end."

________________________________________

Keith Dawson's (kdawson@panix.com) story "Barking Dogs and Flying Saucers"
was published in the May issue of Whirlwind (Vol. 1, No. 1). 

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TRAVEL IN SEARCH
by Michael Gibbons


     Goodbye to California.  Time to travel in search once again for the
Real Meaning of Life.  Jack and Emily's long-faced goodbyes had no trouble
matching the cold foggy gray gloom of a Berkeley summer morning.  One last
breakfast at the Med.  One last jay with Jack and Emily.  Jack Kearny might
have been crazy but so was I and he'll forever be my friend for introducing
me to the ideas of George Gurdjieff.  When I dropped them off on Rose
Street, Emily gave me a kiss and a plastic baggie filled with rolled
joints.  We all had tears in our eyes.  One life ending; another beginning. 
Such is the way with traveling people.
     I drove up and over the stony Sierra Nevada, which still had patches
of snow at the tippy tops even though it was August, and across Nevada and
the salt desert to Salt Lake City, stopping only for food and an occasional
nap at roadside rest stops.  I had decided to look up a Peace Corps friend,
Ken Montgomery, who lived near the University of Utah, before setting out
across the great plains.  Ken was shocked to see me thinking that I would
never have wandered into Mormon country in a million years.  He was almost
right.
     "You must be lost," he said, greeting me laconically.
     "I think I am," I said.  "At least I thought I was two days ago before
I left Berkeley. I'm on my way home to rest my mind."
     "What happened?"
     "My mind o-deed."
     "Drugs?"
     "Ideas."
     "Ever the mystic."
     "My grandmother once told me, after I returned from Africa, that you
can send a jackass around the world for any reason and he'll still be a
jackass when he returns."
     "Smart granny."
     I was pleasantly surprised by the beauty of Salt Lake and it's setting
at the foot of the Wasatch Mountains. Salt Lake City has to be the cleanest
city in America.  All the non-white citizens and all the bars were neatly
confined to a two or three-block area near some railroad yard.  The bad
part of town is what Ken said the rest of the noble citizenry called it.  I
lounged in a very comfortable couch in Ken's living room for the next
twenty-four hours, alternating between sleep and reading my bible, In
Search Of The Miraculous.  Ken would bop in and out from time to time to
see how I was doing.  I told him about what I was reading and his only
reaction was to look at me sideways and out of the corners of his eyes,
without comment.  But then Ken had only one expression and that was a dull,
relaxed, stoic look of how much longer do I have to put up with this shit. 
Not just me, mind you, but all the events of a pretty boring life as a
teacher and graduate student at the U. of Utah.  Salt Lake City did not
challenge one's intellect.  I already missed funky Berkeley and its zestful
zaniness.
     What was strange about visiting with Ken was that we didn't know each
other that well.  We were teachers in different parts of Sierra Leone and
had talked only a couple of times at the yearly teacher's conference in
Freetown.  One night a group of us were partying at the Tropicana Club,
which was the only place in Sierra Leone where we could go that had
imported beef, and a disco.  We were all eating steaks and french fries and
drinking Bud and talking about our first-year experiences as teachers. 
Most were still trying to feign the idealism and enthusiasm that we brought
with us.  But after a year of African realism had settled in, Ken and I
were the only ones who admitted that we were going to go with the flow in
our second year and not worry about much of anything with the single
exception of getting drafted into the Army when we were finished.  We were
in the Peace Corps so that we didn't have to get shot at in Vietnam and we
weren't afraid to say it.  Many of our friends were there for the same
reason but didn't like to talk about it.  Many of them insisted on
inflicting their American culture and values on the Sierra Leonians.  While
all the Sierra Leonians wanted was a way out of poverty and a boost to help
them enter the 20th century, idealism aside.  That was fine with Ken and
me.  Our colleagues were not impressed with our views of the African real
world.
     The next morning we went to the Hotel Utah for a farewell breakfast
and he seemed sad that my unexpected visit was over before it had begun. 
It was hard to renew old acquaintances and then just up and leave when we
could have talked about so many things for days.  Life is funny that way
and I'll never forget that last moment with Ken.
     Eye-Eighty and 2376 miles lay between me and Boston.  As my VW Beetle
climbed over the Wasatch Mountains on the way to Wyoming, I thought that
four days at six hundred miles a day would do it.  If I wanted to drive
more than ten hours each day maybe I could make it in three.  During a pit
stop in Rock Springs, Wyoming, I met a college student who was hitchhiking. 
We were sitting next to each other at a truck stop coffee shop and after
noticing his backpack laying on the floor next to him, I asked him where he
was going.
     "Back to college," he said. "University of Chicago."
     "I'll give you a ride," I said, glad at the thought of having a
companion.  "I'm headed for Boston."
     "That'd be great," he said.  "I've had a tough time hitching since I
got to Wyoming.  I had to stay here last night.  By the way, the name is
Barry Langton."
     "I just left Berkeley day before yesterday," I said, as we shook
hands.
     "I wish I knew that. I started out from San Francisco three days ago. 
It's been tough getting long rides."
     "Well, you got one now."
     We piled Langton's pack on top of my gear in the back seat and headed
off toward the Rocky Mountains and the breadbasket plains and farmlands of
Nebraska, Jack Kearny's Iowa, and Illinois beyond.  We were quietly
reserved for about an hour as I rolled the Bug along at 65 mph.  Then we
both started to talk atthe same time and by the time we entered Nebraska,
three hours later, we had both told our life's story.
     Barry Langton was a third-generation San Franciscan, whose
great-grandfather had sailed around the horn from New York in 1882, amassed
a huge fortune in stocks and securities and then  invested it in all the
land and real estate he could get his hands on.  His grandfather and father
successively inherited the Langton fortune.
     "I'll inherit ten million dollars on my twenty-first birthday,"
Langton said.  "Ten months, exactly, from today. I'll be a rich son of a
bitch and then I'll be on my own.  My father's bullshit at me because I'm
not the least bit interested in the family business.  He's pissed off
because he can't do anything about my trust fund since it's under the
control of my grandmother."
     "What's the first thing you're gonna do when you inherit the money?" I
asked.
     "I'm going to hire a shrink and talk about my problems," he said,
proudly grinning, and looking out at the Nebraska grasslands, turning rosy
pink in the evening light.
     "I figured you'd say you were gonna travel around the world."
     "I will, but first I've got to talk to a shrink about my crazy fucking
family," he said.  "Then I'll get my degree and then I'll see the world."
     "What do you study?"
     "Physics," he said.  "I want to eventually go to graduate school and
get into nuclear physics."
     He paused and ran his left hand through his sandy-brown, wavy hair. 
His right hand tapped a rhythm on the dash to an old Jefferson Airplane
song on the radio.  His head bobbed slightly to the music.  A huge grin
broke out over his long, angular, waspy face.
     "I just love the Airplane," he said, turning the radio up.  "And the
Dead.  And Quicksilver.  Country Joe.  Jimi Hendrix.  Santana.  Janis
Joplin.  Creedance Clearwater.  All the old groups from the 'Frisco scene. 
Wow.  They're all so great.  Sorry I missed it, but had to wait for father
to figure out where to put it.  You know, my father won't let me play rock
when I'm staying at home.  What a stiff he is.  It's classical music or
nothing with him.  That's why I'm going back to school early.  I couldn't
stand it at home.  My father and me arguing all the time and my mother
crying.  It was too much to take anymore."
     I pulled out the baggie of joints and fired one up.  We smoked in
silence as we drove along the South Platte River.  The fast-fading twilight
cast a nebulous shadow across the prairie.  Black river running silently. 
Early stars twinkled faintly. Signposts and roadside trees looking like
lifeless soldiers lining our route.  Tired and famished after a long and
hot day, the twilight of my mind hallucinated movement everywhere.  Father
tree and mother shrub drinking from the river.  Shadows swimming and
swirling and swaying.  Purple dreamscape of nothing but my mind's
projections.  Time to stop and eat and rest.
     The lights of Ogallala ahead, like a spaceship moving through the dark
universe.  Drawn to them like moths.  My mind being pulled along by the
magnetic light.
     Langton and I ate heartily at a great truck stop restaurant and then
camped out at a nearby campground.  Falling asleep only after roasting
marshmallows, smoking a few joints, and talking long into a night that was
slowly and silently transformed from pitched blackness into a ghost-like,
pale hue by the rising moon.  I remarked how much I was enjoying this
moment on the wide-open prairie and that I felt as much at home here as the
Cheyenne had for numerous centuries before me.  A roof of stars and moon
and life's good light shining through the sky's tiny apertures, revealing
an immense and ancient universe.  A bed of matted grass was surprisingly
comfortable.  I no longer seemed like a traveler going from Berkeley to
Cambridge, leaving one place for the anticipation of arriving in another. 
I was here now.  There was nothing but this moment.  And then the next
moment.  And the next.  I could see my life simply as a succession of these
moments.
     "That book you're reading, In Search Of The Miraculous, is one great
book," Langton said, as he bent down to throw another log on the dancing
fire.  The strange, dark shadow cast on his long face made him look much
older than his twenty years.  "I read it this summer."
     "That it is," I said.  "A friend of mine in Berkeley thought I'd like
it because I'm a chemist.  With all the numbers and charts in it.  He was
so wrong, yet so right."
     "I thought it was mystical physics," he said, laughing quietly.
     "Mystical chemistry," I said.  "Mystical physics. Mystical life. 
Life.  You can see it has nothing to do with...I just figured it out today,
driving along, the wind through the open  window, the radio playing music,
that it's about a wild and weird way to live that lasts a lot longer than
an acid high, or low.  Where you are free and don't have to take shit from
anyone."
     "I enjoyed it as much because it drove my father nuts when he saw me
reading it," Langton gleamed, "as for any other reason until I really got
into it.  Then it just grew on me and it read me more than I read it."
     "I know what you mean," I said.  "You can taste what it means but you
don't quite understand it.  You're all around it, it's all around you, but
where is it?"
     "My father always wanted to know why I didn't want to read the Wall
Street Journal and all those business rags.  Why I wanted to listen to
rock.  Why this and why that.  I thought the kid was suppose to ask his
father all the questions.  He's got it all ass backwards."
     "It's kind of like thinking about some Indian camp here a hundred
years ago and you wonder what it was like to live here then and be a
warrior standing sentry in the quiet and reflective peacefulness of night a
few hours before the enemy attacks at dawn."
     "My father is so full of shit, it's pathetic," Langton said. "He
thinks I'm weird because I love physics.  He says, you'll be rich and have
everything you'll ever need.  Why do you want to fool around with physics? 
And I say, dad, I love physics and I'm not interested in your business.  He
says I just want the money.  And I say yes.  Then I can build my own lab
and get back to the beginning of time.  Figure out what happened when time
began."
     "I wonder what it would be like to live a life of being awake and
waking up.  What do you think he means when Gurdjieff says, `You have to
wake up'?"
     "Yes, back to the beginning of time and the formation of the universe. 
The universe waking up."
     "If we have to wake up to something, then we must be asleep," I said. 
"Are we only dreaming that we're alive?"
     "Everything is locked up in tiny, subatomic particles," he said. 
"We'll have to blow them up and see what's inside.  The mind blown wide
open."
     "Being fully conscious.  To understand yourself.  What does it mean?"
     "I love to piss off my father," he said angrily.
     "Is that what you think it is?"
     "What?"
     "I don't know," I said.  "What do you think they mean by
self-remembering?"
     "They're simple terms and phrases," he said.  "But like particle
physics, you might have to work a lifetime to find the answers."
     "Life itself," I said.  "I think the only time I really saw myself was
on acid, a real bummer, and it scared the shit out of me.  I don't think I
liked what I saw.  You know how in the book Gurdjieff talked about
narcotics giving you a glimpse of what can  possibly be attained.  But you
can't attain anything with drugs.  You have to go through some kind of
intense effort.  What kind of effort, though?  That's what I don't
understand."
     "To get back to the beginning of time.  Can you imagine that?  It's
the dream of every nuclear physicist.  What would it be like without time? 
Jesus, I get goose bumps just thinking about it.  A moment suspended
between time and space."
     "I used to say to my friend in Berkeley, Jack, that I was looking for
the meaning of life.  Yesterday, I asked myself if life has any meaning.  I
mean, is life suppose to have a meaning and a purpose?"
     "My father is such a fuckin' asshole it makes me sick," Langton said
angrily.
     "Someday, I hope we can see into the future and see ourselves there."
     "Our future is in the past," he said, tossing another log on the fire. 
"When my asshole father knocked up my mother.  That's when all my problems
began.  That's why I've got to talk to a shrink."
     "You are not alone on that score."
     "We go back to get ahead."
     "Or we go ahead to get back," I smiled a weary smile.
     "Yes, it's a great book," he yawned.  "Like no other." And he lay down
and fell fast asleep.
     The moon reflected a string of light on the South Platte River.  I
chuckled softly.  Smoked another joint.  The chemist and the physicist
alone on the vast Midwestern expanse of nothing.
     The weight of the world drawing down sleep to dream of vast expanses
of timelessness.
     I awoke to a beautiful, cool dawn of absolute quiet.  A new group of
stars were playing in the sky.  The moon now gone and the peachy Eastern
horizon glowing warmer.  Langton stirred and rolled over in his sleeping
bag to the first birdsong.
     Back to the truck stop for breakfast and the beginning of another long
and hot humid day on the road.  The South Platte and the North Platte
rivers merged in North Platte, Nebraska to become the Platte River, which
adjoined I-80 for the next one hundred and thirty-eight miles.  The river
rolled eastward with us as we headed toward Iowa.  I tried to remember the
name of Jack Kearny's hometown with no luck.
     Roll along through the prairie.  Roll along to home.  The dusty
tailwind blew us up to 75 mph and the Bug gasped for breath.  Get along old
gal.  Rolling hills of Iowa cornfields and hogs in every farmyard.  Bacon
with my breakfast.  BLT's for lunch.  Salty ham for supper and a brew to
quench my thirst.  Just after we entered Iowa, we found ourselves
surrounded by a group of four tractor trailers barreling down at 70 mph.  I
felt like a sapling among redwoods as we were tossed about by the wind
currents and drafts as the big rigs rolled by us.
     Langton said, "I was hitching back to San Francisco last year on this
highway and a guy in a VW Bug, like yours, picked me up.  You know what he
was into?  He'd get so pissed off when the big rigs pushed him around,
intimidated him, that he'd sneak in behind one and draft along behind with
the engine off and save gas.  Seventy, seventy-five miles per.  That guy
was crazy, but it was exciting.  Told me it was greatest mystical
experience he'd ever had."
     "What did you do," I asked.
     "Nearly shit my pants.  But after a while I got used to it.  It was
kind of neat, in a weird way."
     "On the suicidal side, don't you think?"
     "Just think, if we die, what have we got to lose?  You don't have to
remember where your home is.  I don't have to talk to my father again.  We
don't have to search for the truth of life anymore."  Langton smiled. "You
want to try?"
     "No."
     "You sure?"
     "Yes, well, maybe . . ."
     "C'mon. It's boring out here.  All we've done is talk."
     "But I like talking.  I want to live to talk a lot more."
     "I'll give you ten thousand dollars when I get my inheritance."
     "I'll try anything once," I said.  "Wasn't it Rousseau who said that
when his students were shocked to see him coming out of a whorehouse.  Once
a philosopher, twice a pervert."
     "Ha, ha, pretty funny," Langton said.  "I like that.  Once a
philosopher, twice a pervert.  What a great line."
     "Ya, I like it too."
     "See that rig coming up behind us," Langton said, after turning his
head around.  "Well wait 'till he passes and pulls into the right lane. 
Then we sneak up right behind him.  You can feel it when your in the slot. 
You won't feel any air resistance."
     "How close do we have to be?" I asked, glancing at the truck in the
side mirror.
     "Twenty, thirty feet.  Maybe a little closer.  You can feel the
vacuum.  It's a physical law."
     "Jesus, that's pretty close."
     "We'll be all right except if the trucker decides to stop," he said. 
"What he could do, what one trucker did when I was riding with that guy I
was telling you about, was to pull out into the next lane if he sees you
ducking in behind him.  But that's all right. We'll just slow down.  Don't
turn the engine off until we've gone a few miles.  By then he probably
doesn't know we're behind him, or doesn't care if we are."
     A tandem-trailer rumbled by, shaking the road and causing us to drift
to the right.  He had barely gotten past when he ducked sharply in front of
us and without doing anything we were being sucked along in his draft.
     "We're in the slot!" Langton exclaimed. "He put us there himself. 
Amazing.  I've never seen that.  Now hold her steady. Can you feel the
vacuum?"
     "Yes," I replied.  "Jesus, it's scary.  I can read the small
registration numbers next to the license plate."
     "He must know we're behind him," Langton mused, rubbing his youthful
chin stubble.  "He ducked in so quickly and he hasn't seen us.  Maybe he'll
forget us after ten miles or so."
     "Ya, but the other truckers can signal to him and let him know that
we're trailing him."
     "We're dead if he stops suddenly," Langton said. "Otherwise it's no
sweat.  This is great though, don't you think?  It's like everything worth
getting in life, you get by living on the edge.  You take risks for gain."
     "But what do we gain, or learn, by following the screwball in front of
us?" I asked, with increasing fear.
     "For one thing you're going to get ten grand.  And don't think I was
bullshitting you.  When I make a promise, I keep it."
     "What if we die?  Who gets your money then?"
     "My sister.  She's O.K. She'll spend it wisely."
     We were keeping a steady distance of about twenty feet.  I could feel
the tension in my hands as I had a death grip on the wheel.  I glanced
briefly at my white knuckles.
     "Look at your perception," Langton said.  "Do you notice that all of
you is right there.  On the line so to speak."
     Langton was right.  I was all right there.  Attention very sharp. 
Perception clear.  Colors bright.  Kind of like a sober acid high and all
the while we were being sucked along by the  bouncing big rig at over 70
mph.  I should have felt scared but I didn't.  Why?  Was I so crazy that I
had to fill my life with death-defying stunts to get to the edge, so to
speak, to feel alive?  How did Langton know about what I was perceiving?
     "How did you know?" I asked.
     "Cut the engine," he said.  "We shouldn't lose any power."  I did and
we didn't.  All there was was the big motherfucking truck rambling and we
in the Bug being sucked along in the slipstream, gliding over the rolling
Iowa highway.  Two very crazy kids headed for...who knows what and where?
     "But how did you know?" I repeated.
     "It's what's in that book you're reading, isn't it?" he said.  "Using
extreme conditions to test one's perception.  Pushing yourself to the edge
to realize that you are alive.  This is it.  Mystical thrill-seeking.  If
you can do this, you can do anything."
     "But what about your father?"
     "It's not the same..." Langton's voice trailed off.
     "What isn't?"
     "Never mind.  I don't want to talk right now."
     The truck continued to rumble along as we passed mile after mile of
endless cornfields in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun.  Riding
comfortably in silence.  My eyes glued to the license plate less than
twenty feet in front of us: MINN TRK A34507.  So what if I die, I thought. 
What difference does it make?  Alive or dead, what am I? Who am I?
     "It's better than drugs because it's real," Langton said, finally
breaking the silence.
     "I feel hungry," I said, my fear suddenly returning.
     "Hungry for what?" he asked.  "If we hang on he'll take us to the
world's greatest truck stop just outside Des Moines."
     We did and he did.  Long truck shadows and the psychedelic lines of
flickering shadows of the corn.  Not afraid to die, or wanting to die? 
Which was it?  Is it?  After another ten miles, the truck slowed, flashing
right directional and we were out of the vacuum.  He turned quickly off the
road and into the truck stop parking lot.  At the same time, I had the
sight of another big rig in the rearview, barreling down on us as we slowed
and breezed by the entrance to the parking lot that our leader had taken.
     "Start the engine!" Langton screamed.
     I had forgotten it was off.  I swerved to avoid the truck on our rear
end.  When I hit the dirt and pebble shoulder it was like ice.  In slow
motion we slid down a grassy embankment.
     "Christ, that was close," I exhaled after not breathing for what
seemed like several minutes.  "I guess it's not just what's in front of you
that you have to worry about."
     "But you were right there," Langton said.  "Right on the beam.  You
knew exactly what you had to do.  You didn't hesitate. Great driving that
was."
     I shrugged and exhaled. "Yah."
     It wasn't as bad as it seemed.  We had been lucky.  There was no
damage to the Bug.  I managed to drive back up the embankment and on to the
shoulder with Langton pushing and laughing.  I took the next exit ramp and
turned back toward the truck stop.
     "That's enough of that shit for me," I said, as we ate.
     "No point in over doing it," Langton said.  "We have to savor the
moment. Digest the experience of what's happened."
      "Only after digesting this hot turkey sandwich," I said, gobbling the
food.
     "How much farther do you want to go?" Langton asked, looking out at
the parking lot full of big rigs with their powerful engines idling.  The
truck stop's neon sign ("Open 24 Hours Everyday Of The Year") flashed more
brilliantly in the dark gray dusk.
     "Let's drive until we can't drive any more," I said. "Until we're so
tired we only have enough energy to pull over to the side of the road, get
out the sleeping bags and fall asleep.
     Langton took the wheel.  He wasn't a very good driver.  Said he found
it boring.  But who couldn't drive on a super interstate.  We bought a
thermos and filled it with coffee.
     Langton had some bennies to wash down ith the coffee.  I smoked a
joint.  Langton pulled cautiously out of the lot and entered the flow of
traffic.
     "I could never see you following the draft of a big rig," I said.
     "Neither could I," he said.  "Too chicken," he added with a laugh.
     "Then what was all that business about being in the slot?  About being
right there?  On the beam?"
     "I don't know," he said. "I like it better when you're driving. 
You're one of the best drivers I've ever ridden with."
     "Well, you'll just have to stay away from the trucks until I get some
rest.  Then I'll take over."
     I dozed off only to be awakened by Langton pushing my arm.  He'd
already had enough of driving and since I was still too tired to drive we
stopped at a campground for the night.  No fire.  No reflective chat.  No
meaning of life rap.  Bone tired to sleep.  Four days on the road and
anxious to be home.
     One life ending, another beginning.

________________________________________

By Michael Gibbons <mgibbo@netcom.com>.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

ORANGES

by Jonathan T. Drout


I am lying on my bed tossing an orange over me.  I throw it upwards and it
rises toward the white ceiling.
     My roommate has left the dorm for the evening.
     The orange hangs for a split second, completely motionless.
     The mattress of my uncomfortable bed hurts my back.  I want to roll
over, but I still have to catch the orange.
     It starts on its way down.
     The overhead light has burnt out, leaving the room darker than I'd
like.  I bought the last bulb.  Stuart will have to buy this one.  We have
split all the expenses that way.  It eased the cost of living.
     About halfway down now, the orange spins lazily as it falls.
     Today marks the quarter point of the semester.  We are halfway to
spring break.  Most of the students have left for the weekend.
     Three quarters now, and I want to get up, but I have to catch the
orange.
     With little to do, I have scrounged together my remaining friends and
we are going to hang at the radio station and spin some platters.  There
probably won't be many people listening.  Less than a third of the parking
lot was full at dinner time, and kids were still packing to go.
     I open my hand, the orange almost in my grasp.  
     This semester life has been boring.  I have completely lost interest
in working.  My focus has shifted from academics.  I have been perpetually
tired.  No matter how many hours I sleep at night, I still nap during the
day and doze through class.
     I can see the reflected light from the orange changing my hand's
colour.  The orange still won't finish its fall.
     Today I dozed during physics.  Somewhere after quarks.  Whatever a
quark is, however, I did learn that it comes in a group of colours that
aren't actually colour.
     I could reach up and grab the orange, it's so close.
     The clock reads seven forty-five.  Its old second hand barely ticks
around these days.  Lately everything moves slowly for me.  I feel like I'm
perpetually on speed, except that I can't stay awake.  Constant
hyperactivity coupled with almost uncontrollable sleep urges.  I thought I
was a bipolar manic depressive for a few days.  Then I became thirsty.
     I catch the orange, its bumpy skin finally coming to rest on my open
palm.  I can't wait to eat it tonight.  
     I get off of the bed and it groans goodbye.  The wind keeps yelling to
me through the cracks in my window.  They moan their warnings of cold and
snow.  I grab my parka and my bag and head out the door.  No sense locking
it.  There's no one around.
     
The radio station is across campus from Darlington Hall.  Most of the
school buildings can be reached through a group of steam tunnels.  The
tunnels house the steam pipes that bring heat to the aging dorms.  In the
late seventies, after student petition, the tunnels were opened to people
who wanted to avoid walking in the cold.  With security prowling the halls,
there have been no murders, rapes, or any other problems in thirty-five
years.
     The cellar of Darlington has a large grey doorway in one wall.  At one
time the door was sealed, but now only empty screw holes in the frame
betray the existence of the once locked doors.  In the tunnel, new
fluorescent lights fit snugly into the medically white drop-ceiling.  The
entire hall glows with the eerie colour of artificial lighting.  The stairs
down to the tunnel are painted a cheery yellow.  They dare me to rush, to
fall onto their cement teeth and be ground up.  I smile back at it and go
by.  Gaily coloured leaflets are taped to the walls, advertising all the
events that no one will attend this weekend.

     Party at the !Grind! - $5 cover charge
     Film - Jaws   Gerard Auditorium, 9 PM
     Skis For Sale !! Call 6558
     I need a ride to Maine.  HELP!
     Two for one deal at CMJ's this Friday!

     A lot of exclamation points waving to no one's eyes.  The posters are
fluttering in the warm breeze of the heating system.  I feel nervous, and
maybe it's the warm breeze playing around my ankles.  I pick up my slow
pace.
     My backpack jounces with each step.  A faint jingling comes from
inside as the crystal bounces up and down.  I have to walk carefully so
that nothing cracks.  With a little concentration my footsteps ease.  I can
control my body when I concentrate.  Bring about fluidity.
     The walk to the radio station seems to take forever. My mind is more
hyper than it has ever been.  Everything is drawn out, every detail etched
into my awareness.  I can't stop noticing the scrapes on the walls and the
dust motes drifting about the lights.  The corridor stretches for under a
hundred yards, but I feel trapped.   I can't do anything at a speed fast
enough to keep pace with my thinking.
     To get to the radio station you must pass underneath it and come up in
Mary Donlon Dormitory.  The station was built five years ago, and wasn't
connected to the tunnels.  Before that we broadcast from the student union
and barely had enough room for our equipment, let alone our library.  
     I walk outside into the blustering wind.  The snow assaults my face
and builds up on my blue pullover.  The walk is only forty feet to the
station door, but I am already shivering.  I begin to look like some
grotesquely smeared American flag, my blue pullover the field and the dots
of snow some foreign constellations.  I bend into the breeze, tipping my
face to avoid the tearing wind.  Suddenly Gregg throws open the station
door.
     "Come on Scott, move your ass!  My blood's going solid in this
weather." 
     I move quicker now, and am inside the door within seconds.  Gregg
pulls the door closed behind me and he wind howl ceases.  The smell of the
station comforts me; old vinyl records in musty jackets have a way of
caressing me, of soothing me.
     I can't help smiling at seeing him.  I've been looking forward to this
evening for so long.  "Hi Gregg, sorry I'm late," I mutter, "delicious
weather."
     "It's all right, I've only played two songs.  Great weather
predictions.  Damn weatherman told me it was going to rain.  And speaking
of delicious, Heather's coming."
     I put on a surprised look, as if I didn't know this.
     "The snow kept her from leaving for the weekend," he continues.  "Her
little sports car can't handle it.  Anyway, she'll try and get over to do
the show with us."  
     "Cool.  I'm just gonna go into the library and pull some music.  I'll
be right back."
     The station library is an L-shaped room.  Records fill the wall
shelving from floor to ceiling.  The room is poorly lit with once bright
overhead lighting.  Most of it no longer glows, and what does casts a dank
light over the place.  Humidity has wreaked havoc among the thin album
covers.  Many are tatter, barely recognizable without the small stickers
adhered to each that identify group and album names.  In the sleeve of each
record is a piece of white lined paper with the song list hand written. 
Keeping a written list of everything was my idea when I joined the station. 
I didn't want to see anything lost.  Vinyl without a title will never get
played, and the music will disappear into nowhere.
     I sit down on the floor to browse through the C section.  I pull out
some Curve, an old nineties pop band, and something by The Church. 
Suddenly I can't stay awake.  It feels like I'm floating on the floor.  The
same feeling as when an elevator first starts to move and the bottom drops
from beneath you.  I can't focus, can't read the songlist from the Church
album.  The gray carpet extends itself across the room, blanketing my
vision until I fall asleep.
                                  *  *  *
Cradled in the light doze of my nap, I remember when this all started.  I
was nineteen years old and my parents were going on vacation.  It was the
beginning of the summer, a week after summer break started, and my Dad
asked me to come into the house to talk to him and Mom.  I had been seeing
a lot of my then-girlfriend Colleen back at that time, and things had
seemed pretty serious.  We spent most of our days together, laying out at
the beach and going on field trips to the Cape May Point nature reserve. 
Sometimes my parents complained that I shouldn't be so attached to her this
early in life.  I would always just nod and shrug, thinking how soft her
touch felt and how soothing her laugh was.  When Dad called me inside I
figured that I was going to get 'talked to' about seeing Colleen while they
were away.  My parents were always very secretive about their house and
didn't like me to have guests that they didn't know were coming. 
     The air was warm, even out of the sunlight.  We had all the windows in
the sitting room open and a box fan blowing air out the propped front door. 
Mom and Dad were seated on the couches when I came in from the yard.  Mom
was wearing her especially morbid summer outfit that day, a dark blue dress
that clung to her shoulders and hid every pretty part of her.  Dad looked
more relaxed than her, but still awfully tense for a little conversation
about my girlfriend.  
     "Scott, your mother and I have held off talking to you about this.  We
felt that it should wait until..."
     "Until you were old enough, " my mother continued, "to understand what
we were going to say."  They looked at each other, Dad nodded, and mom
continued.  "Your father and I are going away tomorrow.  For quite awhile. 
We've never left you for this long before.  And with you being older now,
well..." she trailed off.
     "Mom, I can take care of myself with Colleen.  We know what we're
doing, we're not going to get in any."  I stopped, because Mom was laughing
at me.  Not a laud laugh but a petit one, as if she knew things that I
never could.
     "Honey, it's not that at all.  Your Dad and I trust Colleen very much. 
We find her -- realistic.  Not like a couple of those plastic girls you've
dated with the blank eyes and that stupid grin all the time."
     "We have no doubt in your handling yourself appropriately, Scott," Dad
finished off.  "We just want to prepare you.  We want you to know how we
care.  To know that we have thought of you, and we think this is the best
way to handle this."
     "Handle what, Dad?"  I was beginning to think that my father was
babbling.  What were they talking about?
     "It's all in this," he said, gesturing to mom.  She had lifted a
leather bound book from next to the couch.  
     "A book?  You guys are this serious about a book?  Dad, I got a 3.8
last semester at school.  And you two think I need to be sat down to be
told to read a book?"  I couldn't believe they thought I was that
irresponsible!  After all the years of excelling at school.
     "We just want you to read this," Mom said.  Her smile had broadened. 
She was trying to comfort me, to assure me they were serious.  "And to know
that we are totally serious, and that we feel this is the best way to tell
you."
     "Tell me what?  Wouldn't it be easier to just tell me?"  
     "No," they chorused.  "Just read this after we go."
     "OK," I said.  I stood back up, thinking this was all absurd for a
book.  "I'm gonna go down the beach now, so can I start reading today if
its so special?" 
     My parents denied my request, telling me that I could read it after
they left for the West Coast tomorrow.
     A couple days later I started the book.  The pages were old and dry. 
I didn't want to take it outside after I opened it.  The dryness threatened
to change the book to dust if the sun exposed it.  The cover was supple
leather, kept well-oiled by all the people who had owned the book.  The
opening inscriptions were faded beyond recognition.  
     I couldn't read anything until about the thirtieth page.  Then the
writing became dark enough that I could figure some of it out.  It was
scrawled penmanship.
     "Fleeing the town," one of them read, "for the peoples here have
turned against our healings and helps.  They see not where we gaineth
the..."  The rest of the page was blanked.
     I spent the next two weeks reading the book, while my parents
travelled out west.  I never received word from them, but in my family 'no
news was good' when vacations were concerned.  Each night I would put away
some pages, reading under my desklamp until I couldn't focus.  After a day
or two I became enthralled with the work.  It appeared to be a collection
of diaries that some ancient family had written.  Some entries were simple,
dated journals of daily life.  Crop timings, municipal actions, and family
recipes took up pages of the volume.  Here and there dates were
indecipherable, as was much of the test.  I learned that on May 3, 1534 a
young woman named Martha had given birth to a young boy.
     It wasn't until the sections penned during the mid 1700s that I
started noticing something odd.  Each entry was still in the same hand. 
Elias, the main writer for this part, had evidently lived a long life,
though it seemed impossible that the same man had been around for so much
time.
     One evening I came across a page titled "A letter to my son."  At the
time of reading it I did not know this would be the last entry by Elias.

Dearest Philip,
     I do not know if what your mother and I told you will be taken
seriously, so I have left this letter for you.  I know you thought us
crazy, but you will seen what appeared to be the ramblings of your aged
parents was indeed the truth.  You mother and I will have left you by the
time you read this.  We regret that we could not part happier, but we feel
that when you know the truth you will again love us for what we are and
what you are.  We are not normal.  Normal people do not know their death
date.  They do not know that they will live for over two hundred years. 
They do not know that they will never see more than twenty years of their
child's life.  Your mother and I have grown up knowing this since our
youth.  We have taken part in ceremonies most people are horrified by.  We
have known what you would become, just as we have known what must come of
us.  
     The most important thing is that you realize you are not like those
around you.  No one will understand your existence.  They did not in
ancient Scotland and they will not even here in America.  The other thing
you must take seriously is the ceremonies spelled out throughout this book. 
Within one year of today, your birthday, you must perform them and then
hide yourself.  School yourself with this book, for it explains who we are. 
Nothing like your family history can prepare you for your future.  The
ceremonies you will read of in the next few passages are tested and
necessary.  
     As you feel the changes within you -- the tiredness, the quickening,
the thirst, the loneliness -- you will accept what this tells you.  You
will see that we acted as we did because we felt you would understand more
if you found out when you were older.    
     Live on, and continue the family with honor.

     Here the letter ended.  The next page was dated several years later. 
The writers name was Tom.  At first I thought it interesting that this
person shared my father's name.  It took many pages of reading and
exploring his character before I realized that it was my father.  When my
parents died on their trip, I began to assign credence to the book.  When I
started to change, I believed.
                                  *  *  *
"Hey Scott, you okay?"  Gregg asks from above my.  I open my eyes and find
him looking down on me.  He's wearing a puzzled face not betrayed in his
voice.
     "Yeah, sorry.  Bad week, exams and such.  Guess I just needed a
catnap."
     "Great," he says, shaking his head and rolling his eyes
melodramatically.  "Think you want to wake up before the show ends? 
Heather just got here and I could use some music."
     Still a bit confused from my nap, I yawn and get up.  I grab the
records I had, pull a couple more, and go to the on air studio.

There are fifteen minutes left on the radio show.  The next DJ called to
say he wasn't coming.  No one felt like staying on the air for an extra
four hours.  Gregg is in the office photocopying the song lyrics to some
old music.  
     I fold my hand around the orange again, feeling its bumpy skin under
my nails.  I toss it into the air.
     Halfway up.
     I can't wait for the taste of the orange to fill my mouth.
     Three quarters, its shadow expanding as it reaches for the track
lighting above.
     Afterwards, I need the orange to get out the other taste.
     Heather has her orange with her.
     I don't know why only oranges work.  Some things in the book are never
explained.  But over and over, my family has used them to purge the taste. 
     It crests near the ceiling.  A dot way above my head, the orange sits
perfectly still on a column of air.
     My heart beats.
     The first squirt of juice, flowing into my mouth, cleansing it.  
     My heart beats.
     The orange falls.
     I can't wait.
     Halfway down now, bee lining for my hand.    
     Tonight.  Soon.
     I catch it.
     Heather laughs, knowing what I am thinking.  
     "Tonight, as we planned, darling?" 
     "Of course, Scott.  Everything set up perfectly?"  I nod.  "Did you
bring the crystal?"
     "Yes, its all packed in my bag.  I just hope the decanter didn't
shatter or anything.  After hundreds of years, I'd hate to be the one to
destroy any of this stuff."
     "I'll be in the library," she says as she leaves the room.
     "Well, its time to close down the 'Slide Show' for this week.  If
anyone out there is still up, we'd like to thank you for tuning in to 104.5
WXXS, your listening choice for all the right tunes.  I'd like to say
goodnight to everyone out there.  I'm gonna sleep a lot tonight.  Gregg?" I
ask, for he had come back into the room while I was talking into the mic.
     "Alright.  Well, this is Gregg and Scott, and we now turn you over to
dead air, because the next radio show never showed up this evening. 
Night."
     Gregg slips the microphone off and shuts down the broadcasting board. 
Anyone turning to 104.5 on the FM dial would hear only a fine lulling
static.  "Nice show, Scott.  Except for playing that new release by James
Skies on the wrong speed we lived through another Friday."
     "Yeah, I thought we were pretty good, to be a bit cocky."  
     "Hey, Heather," Gregg calls out, "did you put that New Order album
back?  I don't see it out here."
     "Yes, I put it with the rest of their stuff.  Did you want it left
out?"
     "No, I just couldn't find it and worried a tad.  Thanks."
     In the backroom, Heather finished returning albums several minutes
ago.  She now had a crystal knife in her hands.  She wipes the blade clean
with a tack cloth, bringing it to a gleam.  Though basically ornamental and
unable to have a sharp edge, the knife held a fine point. 
     "Ready to go, darling," I call to Heather, as if it were a question. 
My body is keyed up beyond anything I've experienced.  Everything I touch
feels hot and sharp.  My nerves are raw, as if my hands have been thrust
into ice.
     "Sure, let's do it."
     I pull my gloves on and look to Gregg, who is rearranging the desk and
cleaning up his personal CD collection.  "About ready to lock this place
up?"
     "Yeah, I just need to grab by jacket from the library."  Gregg rises,
turns his back me, and walks toward the library.  As he comes to the door,
I reach into my pocket and grab what looks like a tarnished piece of guitar
string.  Sliding up behind Gregg, I loop the garat around his neck.
     Gregg stands perfectly still, unsure of what exactly is going on.
     "One," Heather whispers from in front of him.
     Gregg tries to turn, but I press him face first against the wall. 
"Two."
     Heather smiles at me, happy but jealous that I'm getting to do this.
     "Three."
     Gregg thrusts his fingers toward the garat, probably hoping to pry
open an airway.  I pull him away from the wall and knock him back into it.
     "Four."
     Gregg is slowing now, so I press my knee into his back to keep him
pinned.
     "Five."
     Gregg's scrabbling hands catch my belt in an attempt to pull me away. 
I wish I could see his face now.
     "Six."
     His grip falters as he became dizzy.
     "Seven."
     Gregg drops limp, unconscious.
     "Seven seconds without blood to the brain and the human body passes
out."  Heather rises and walks over to where I lowered Gregg to the floor. 
"You may have been a great DJ, but I never quite could get along with you
after you tried to rape me."  She bends down, grabs Gregg's head, and snaps
his neck in a quick hundred-eighty-degree turn.  I smile at her.  The
thirst makes the murder seem inconsequential.  All I can think of is
finishing this, of the taste, of the acidic juice washing my throat.   Of
Heather taking part in this, of her sharing what I understand and love.  I
still amazed that she decided to take part in this, to believe me.  No
matter how much the past assured me of this, I was still doubtful.

She and I were spending Thanksgiving break together the day she decided to
do it.  She didn't actually say so that day, but looking back I think it
was when she realized it was what she wanted.
     "Scott?"  
     "Yeah, Heather?" I called out from the kitchenette of my apartment.
     "If all this stuff is true, this book I've been reading, doesn't that
make your family a bunch of murderers?"
     "You can look at it that way.  But think about it as survival.  Its a
tad animalistic, but it comes down to us or them.  Either I kill or I die. 
When it's your own life that's at stake, things tend to seem clearer. 
Also, once the desire sets in, there's really little choice."
     "Hmm?"
     "It was like, the ultimate lust.  I had to do it, to satisfy myself. 
I knew I was doing it to survive, but there was a sick pleasure in it. 
Sort of the perfect combination of pleasure and pain.  It hurt so much,
that easing the pain was perfect."
     Heather sat across from me.  I couldn't help but stare at her for a
few moments.  She is tall, a slim and pretty five foot ten.  Even sitting
down her long legs show her height.  She's not the type of girl that has
looks to make others jealous.  Her strawberry blond hair merely falls about
her shoulders, nothing outlandish or against the fashion of the time, and
her green eyes aren't of the glowing radiance associated with beauty
queens.  Instead, she's like a watercolour of someone beautiful.  Odd at 
first glance, washed out looking.  But when you see past the blurs of your
vision there's a lot more there.
     "I don't understand why all this affected me.  How did I get these
urges too?  Why do I read this and feel that it would be a total thrill?"  
     "It doesn't seem anyone's figured this out.  It has to be combined
with sex.  All the writers hinted at that.  But there's something else,
something inexplicable that draws the person in.  And only a certain
person.  The first girl I slept with didn't feel it.  Neither did Jannel,
the girl you stole me from."  I smiled, because one of her favourite
stories was about meeting me skiing and deciding that the girl I was with
wasn't good enough.  Heather is very aggressive.
     "So there's no reason why, it just happens?"
     "I don't really know.  I can only guess from what we've read.  You
should have more of an understanding, because you're the one who has found
the start of the thirst.  You're the one who accepts what anyone else would
call fiction."
     She didn't answer me, just got up and ran herself a glass of water
from the tap.

I sit in the middle of the floor, the now dead body of Gregg sprawled
between us.  She opens the Kenya bag and empties the contents onto the
floor.  A crystal decanter, a roll of silk tape, several lengths of
surgical tubing, and a small fishtank pump. 
     Heather plugs the little air pump into a socket near the floor.  It
hums and vibrates quietly, a slow stream of air hissing from a side mounted
nozzle.  She hooks one length of the tubing onto the nozzle, and hands the
end to me.  I place it next to the body.  I then slide the other length of
tubing into the stoppered top of the decanter.  "Ready, Heather?"
     "Come on, its just like cutting bunnies or frogs, for all this bastard
was worth."  She grins over him, a jack-o-lantern smile telling just how
much fun this is to her.  Like myself, she enjoys every sensation, every
taste and smell and touch.  
     With a careful slip of the wrist, Heather repeats the cuts that I had
once made twenty years ago when I first did this.  I reach across with the
tubing and slide it into the carotid on the left of Gregg's neck.  The
other piece of tubing I slide into the other cut, thus creating a means for
filling the body as the blood drains.  The little pump strains and begins
to fill the decanter with blood. 
     The blood has taken on that deep brilliance that only oxygenation can
give it.  Darker than any red wine,  it swirls sluggishly in the decanter. 
The faceted sides reflect my face back to me.  Twisted from both the glass
and the please I am feeling, my features have look horrifyingly ecstatic. 
Heather and I pass the jug back and forth, a draught at a time.   The
rightness has filled me.  I know that what we have done will continue my
family, my people.  I love Heather for this, and for joining me.  I can not
even speak for I am so happy.  Instead I just keep swallowing.  Heather is
as greedy as I, her eyes focussed on me and the decanter every second that
I hold it aloft and drink.
     Heather and I finish the ceremony and leave Gregg lying in the middle
of the radio station floor.  No other shows are scheduled until early
Monday morning, and by then she and I will be well hidden.  Joking as we
walk back through the tunnels, I notice that the overhead lights are much
warmer than they had been.  Twelve inches of snow has fallen over the
course of the evening.  A light and powdery snow, it covers everything,
giving the land around the college a rebirth in virgin white.
     After drinking the blood I feel high and carefree.  We walk along and
laugh.  Everything seems funny to Heather, and I can not help but laugh and
revel in her.  Never before have I felt so secure and loved.  Heather makes
joking airs of smacking me, but it turns into an embrace.
     "Come on, we only have a few hours to finish the ritual of our
marriage."
     "Yeah, and how do I know that part's necessary?"
     A smile.  "You'll just have to trust me."
     "Even if it's not, come on."
     She grabs my hand and we walk off through the now happily lit tunnels.
     "As soon as we get up tomorrow morning we have to head out.  Just in
case someone finds Gregg.  We'll go where I hid last time.  It was
comfortable, and perfectly safe."  I laugh, and kiss Heather again as we
hurry to my room.
     "Yeah, we just have to make sure to ditch my Alfa in the lake.  I hope
it falls through the ice.  You did measure it, didn't you?"
     "Yeah.  Those two days last week that were above 40 were enough to
thin it out.  At the edge its only an inch or two."
     "One last question.  What is this orange you had me bring for?  You
never did let me in on that."
     "In about two hours you are going to get the world's worst taste in
your mouth from the blood.  I tried toothpaste, mouthwash, water, and soda
last time.  The book said use oranges, but I figured modern times had come
up with something better.  The only thing that cleaned the taste out of my
mouth was an orange."

The next evening the gate is unlocked as usual, and we simply push it open
on its black iron hinges.  Not squeal emits, proof of the fastidiousness of
the maintenance crew.  I inhale the deep-night air.  We are tired, more so
than we had ever been.  Now, however, we could truly rest.  The fifteen
year nap after the marriage ceremony needs security.  
     Two years ago I had made most of the necessary arrangements.  Only the
securing of finances had to be taken care of, and that I handled the week
before.  The worn path beneath my feet leads through the dark copse of
trees, winding and curving enough so that we can see only a few feet. 
     We silently walk through the still falling snow.   Our footsteps have
already started filling.  A few minutes of walking brings us to a small
bower.  The door is set into the hill and inscribed with some plain
carvings.  I unlock it and Heather pushes it open.  We step inside and lean
our weight against the cold iron of the door.  The door moves, and thunks
shut.  I lock it from the inside and drop a bar across it.  Extra security
wouldn't hurt.  I need sleep.
     My vision is grey, as if I were lost in the snow outside.  Heather and
I lie down to sleep, the walls of my family's crypt protecting us.  Where
else to hide after a murder than with the dead?

________________________________________

Jonathan T. Drout <JDROUT@delphi.com> lives in Virginia.

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ER

by Thomas Bell


3 a.m., went after his brother with a knife.
15, thin, black, "Don't need no help."
Lives in guns, drugs, mother has two or three men over every night.
"Gonna kill myself - can't help my mother." An hour ago when they picked
     him up.
Hasn't slept safe for months.  Could go off any minute here.
Smiles, jokes. 
"Just said it.  Don't need no help.  Can't make me. I aint crazy."
What's his name: Conduct disorder, undersocialized?  Depressed?
Who owns him:  State Department of Human Services.
Who'll take him: Unit's full.  Vanderbilt's full.
UMC doesn't like his insurance -- none.  The Pavillion can't
Take adolescents.  They're all very nice.  The police are sympathetic.   
Doctors and nurses want to help but don't know how either.  The Institute
     has 

To take him.  They've been full for days.  
We can't find the right language tonight.
But night noises never cease.

________________________________________

Thomas Bell <tbjn@well.sf.ca.us> is currently a clinical psychologist in
private practice.  In former lives he was a librarian and an editor.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

PICKING LOBSTERS IN THE CORNER MART

by Bill Dubie


Those plump commas of claws
can lean and wave at us
their eyestalks blind
to the unchanged water

They scuttle
robotic in the fusia
oxygen bubbles are
degree symbols superscripting
their worth

when we barter and choose
among the corn chips
and frozen food
I open my billfold
and taste the salt in my blood

_______________________________________

Bill Dubie's <dubie@tnpubs.enet.dec.com> recent publications include poems
in CORE, The Northern New England Review, and The Fever Dream.  His
collections include Closing the Moviehouse (Wings Press, 1981) and The
Birdhouse Cathedral (Connected Editions, 1991).

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THE LORD

by Mark Thomas


I have been looking for The Lord.


You see, it goes like this:

This morning I woke up and opened the blinds 
Hoping to find The Lord out there,
Grinning, glowing, whatever.
But no, there was no Lord.

At work, sometimes I go into other people's offices
And I ask them, I ask
"Would you like to come with me 
To the church across the street, 
So that we can find The Lord?"
They have all said no.
They have all shaken their heads.

And later I am walking, I am walking and walking and walking,
And along my way I pull at people's coats and ask
"Are you The Lord?"
They all say no.  They walk away.

And once I saw a friend from college, I met her on the street.
We hugged and chummed and promised things, and I said
"Do you know how I could go about finding Jesus?"  
She said "Jesus?"
There was a long, long, long silence 
In which was sparked a rotten chain between us both.
The winds on 2nd Avenue tossed 
Soily questions at her face and mine.  
What wrong had I said?
I turned and left that silence there, 
And I remember now that quiet in her eyes.

There have been other things, as well.
I thought I heard The Lord announce the news last month on 1010 WINS radio.
I thought I felt The Lord tickling my stomach once when I drove 112 miles
     per hour.
I think I saw The Lord sitting and grinning on an awning at West 98th
     Street.
I think I felt The Lord in my breath and in my eyes once when I got into a
     cab.
And once on York Avenue I thought I saw The Lord standing at the bottom of
     a big hole.

When I drive past a church I ask the person I am with, I ask
"You wanna run in there and see if you can find The Lord real quick?"
They always refuse.  They always shake their head.
And so I have parked the car, left the engine running,
And dashed into these churches to see if The Lord was there.
But The Lord was never in any church in any city at any time,
And I have seen a thousand churches, hundreds of cities, across all times.

Sometimes I am jerked awake at night, and I think 
"Was it The Lord that woke me?"
And other times I can not sleep, and so I think 
"It must be The Lord keeping me up."

I walked into a library once and I thought out loud 
"It feels just like The Lord is here."
But no, The Lord was not in that library 
Reading magazines or killing time.
I do not know where The Lord was that day, 
But certainly not with me.

And once on the bus I swear The Lord walked in.
I stood up and looked around.
"Is it you?  Are you The Lord?" I asked a man.
"Are you The Lord?" I asked a little girl.  
"You?  Are you The Lord?" I asked a blind old lady.
"No," they all replied.  "I am not The Lord."  
And they were not The Lord.

I do not think I know The Lord.  
I don't know where It is, or where It lives.
It is not in the phone book, 
It is not in the kitchen, It is not in the rug.
If you also are looking for The Lord, 
Do not look in the Empire State Building, 
Because the Lord is not there.
Do not listen to the radio, 
Because I did that, and found no Lord.
No need to check Tiffany's or Coney Island,
Don't bother Trump, and forget about this poem _

I have looked in all these places, and did not find The Lord.

But every day the same thing occurs:  
I am with someone, or by myself, and a funky itching whips me.
I look into my mailbox and think I see The Lord.  
I tap someone on the shoulder and ask "Are you The Lord?  
Do you know where I could find The Lord?  Have you found The Lord?"
Every day, I tell you, the same things occur and occur.  
So do not mind me if I ask you for The Lord.
If you have not found It, simply say so, and I will walk along.

I long to say "Hey look!  That's It!  The Lord!" 
And leap in exaltation, shouting in accord.

Maybe today I'll turn on a light, and there will be The Lord _ 
Shining, bright, whatever.
Maybe tonight I'll sit by the river and 
The Lord will come and talk with me.

Or maybe tonight some beasts from Mars will glory me away in a flying
     machine,
Or maybe St. Peter in his craft will pluck me from this earth and fill me
     with Heaven.
Then I will know The Lord has seen me all along, and sees me wandering now,
Numb and gaping, body stopped and stranded, desperately looking to the
     skies.

________________________________________

Mark Thomas <sorabji@panix.com> lives in New York City.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
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