Laughter at the Funeral Home

A cackle of laughter drifted down the hall as Mr. Armitage approached his office. Unaccustomed to the sound of laughter occurring anywhere on his premises it was after all the town funeral home. He slowly entered the room, a look of worry deeply burrowed into his brow. As the inside of the room came into view he was met with an extraordinary sight.

They sat in a row facing him. Six of them. For a brief moment he felt a wave of relief as he noticed several of them dabbing tissues to teary eyes, until he realized none of them were actually crying! They had simply laughed themselves to tears! As he let his gaze travel from one end of the row to the other he felt just the slightest constriction in his throat. There were tall ones and short ones, thin ones and rounder ones, yet in some eerie way they all looked the same. And as he straightened his jacket in an attempt to regain his composure, all six pairs of eyes looked his way.

Yes, well, shall we proceed? He asked, nervously, as he slipped into the chair behind his desk, suddenly glad of its support. He straightened a pad of paper on his desk, retrieved his pen from his lapel pocket, clicked it once, then looked up across his desk with his best professional smile. Yes, they were still there, and yes, though they were doing their best, most of them were still squirming and giggling behind their attempts a straight faces. He cleared his throat and tried to regain control of the situation. You are here about your sister, is that correct?

"Yes." From the center of the row one of them straightened and leaned very slightly forward, obviously becoming spokesperson for the group. "My sisters and I are here to make the arrangements for our sister Donna's funeral."

Silently the mortician let his gaze travel over the line of women. Sisters. three of them. He suddenly felt a little overwhelmed. Trained to handle grief; outbreaks of tears at the loss of loved ones was something he could handle, easily anticipating reactions and directing the flow of emotions. But laughter? He was beginning to feel just a little out of control.

Quickly he drew his eyes away and flipped open his ledger. "We have Wednesday afternoon open," he said thoughtfully.

"I have to golf that day." Stacy interrupted.

Armitage's eyes flew up. Five other pairs of eyes joined his, focused on one of the sisters near the middle of the row.

"Well I suppose we could just have the funeral without you, Stacy," quipped Maureen, the sister to her right, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Laura could bring her camera and take pictures of the best parts and that way you wouldn't miss a thing."

"You would do that for me?" Stacy said sweetly.

"Well ...you know" Laura, to her right shrugged and left any further comment unspoken.

Armitage held back a gasp. This was it! The beginning of an all out feud. He was all too familiar with family feuds. Many of them actually started at the funeral home during preparations. He was certain these women would leave his premises not speaking to each other and felt a little hot under the collar for the morbid sense of relief he felt at finally having something familiar to deal with.

However, Stacy was not daunted. In fact, Armitage was sure he heard her giggle under her breath as she half looked in her sister's direction and winked? "Don't be silly. I'll call Tina and tell her I can't make it. I'm pretty sure she will understand." No one yelled at anyone, no one pointed fingers, no one cried. In fact, they all just sat there and smiled.

"Sorry, Wednesday won't work. I have a meeting that day anyway," Maureen spoke up, and all eyes were now diverted in her direction. Then after a slight pause, the sisters turned toward him in unison.

"Another day then," they said, almost as a single voice. "Christ she picked a fine time to kick the bucket or the safe,didn't she?? They were all laughing now. They all stared into each others face and laughed real hard.

Armitage cleared his throat, loosened his tie, and looked back at his ledger.
"Thursday?" he asked, tentatively.

"Stacy?" one of the sisters asked. Stacy shifted and straightened in her chair.

"I'll call my friend and cancel."

"Maureen?" another of the sisters spoke, and Maureen nodded.

"I can manage Thursday," Maureen nodded, and Armitage let out his breath.

An hour later he stood in the lobby of the funeral home shaking hands and bidding them farewell. The experience had been like nothing he had ever imagined! To his surprise, preparations had gone quite smoothly. The women had known exactly what they wanted in most cases and had successfully brainstormed the rest, rarely disagreeing with each other. And they had done it all amongst a flurry of jokes and laughter. More surprisingly, as he watched the door close behind the last one, Armitage realized he was smiling too!

"I don't think he knew what to make of us," Laura guffawed, leaning in close to Maureen's shoulder as the group climbed into Stacy's van.

"Can you blame him?" Stacy chuckled, and from somewhere in the back of the van a series of shrill squeaks were heard as Chris, tissue pressed to his eyes, attempted to speak through a fit of breath-stealing laughter.

"Christ, who's going to write the obituary?" He querried. "Remember when
she used to write those obituaries as a joke?? Maybe we can find one that
will fit the situation. Although how do you write an obituary over a tight wad
kicking their safe because they don't remember the combination, and then she died of blood poisoning?" A new round of hysterical laughter. "She was your perverbial 'happy meal', small cheap and greasy."

"Yea she squeezed the nickel so hard, the buffalo shit." Laura remarked. "when
she finally took a dollar out of her wallet, Washington was wearing sun glasses."

"I can't wait for the Funeral, it's gonna be a blast." laughed David.

The little red pill

A thin shard of sunlight burnt through the clouded plastic windowpane making it's mark on the long narrow table as Beth Ann concentrated on lifting a spoonful of split pea soup to her slight parched lips. Funny, she thought, today’'s lunch matches the color of the walls in the community room. That sickening olive green color. The color of puke or snot. She laughed to herself. If she chose not to eat today’s selection, she could slam the bowl against the wall and it would blend right in. No one would even notice.

Surely none of the other patients would even hear the metal bowl crash or see it careen through the air like a flying saucer. Some of them did not even know they were eating pea soup. Most of them did not even know their names. Maria rarely ate her lunch but she beamed when they served her purple Jell-O with whipped cream. She would dump the bowl over and swirl the Jell-O with her fingers on the table smiling as she created her unique masterpieces. She bragged to anyone who would listen that she was Van Gogh's granddaughter. But no one ever believed her. No one much liked her Jell-O creations anyway. George, on the other hand, never took a seat at the table. He'’d walk past the others begging for quarters. He was going to Horn and Hard-art in NYC to buy a baloney and cheese sandwich from the glass cases that spun around in circles. No one would tell George that they were out of business for thirty years. Even if they remembered they couldn't’t have told him.
Of the hundred or so patients at Sullivan House, no one could remember much of anything. But Beth Ann had her wits about her today. Her name was Beth Ann Shelly. She was 53. And she was pretty sure Sullivan house was her home since 1987. But some things were puzzling. She wasn’'t sure when or how Daddy had died. Was he sick? Was there an accident? She couldn’'t recall. At times, like a movie rewinding, Beth Ann would see a small piece of a day from her past; her washing dishes at the kitchen sink watching a cardinal feed, or planting string beans in the small patch of land to the left of the house, or reading a story to Danny after his bath. But then pieces moved and nothing made sense. Her life remained jumbled, scattered. She may as well have been in space flying along with comets. Weightless. Unencumbered. Non-existent. But some things were concrete. She remembered she had a husband once. His name was David, although cancer had robbed his soul from her a long time ago. She was certain she had two children, twins in fact. Jessie and Danny. She tried hard not to forget that. Sometimes they came to visit, but not nearly enough. Their photo was always tucked in the pocket of her gown so she could look at it whenever she wished. The nurses didn’'t care but once it slipped onto the floor and Leonard tried to snatch it, sneaky like a cat burglar on TV, thought Beth Ann but she spied him out of the corner of her eye as she ate her grilled cheese sandwich and grabbed it back. She used to like George. Sometimes he was amusing. He’'d make funny faces and pretend to be Red Skeleton granting interviews to Sadie, Ester and Frank, but after that little trick of his, Ruth Ann was not about to dish out any quarters to George or anyone else for that matter.

Beth Ann twisted her hair with her fingers. It was long enough that she could pull a big bunch of it and tie it in a knot with one hand and then let it fall away, like magic. The others all thought this was pretty amazing but Beth Ann figured she had always had this gift. It was really no big deal to her. Apart from the agonizing absence of her children; Beth Ann did not really want or need for anything, except maybe a mirror. She hunted for resolution in her own eyes to witness what lie within them. There must be something hidden deep behind the sockets, she thought, something that would show her the way out. If she could stare long enough they would surely reveal why she was here. Why Daddy was gone. Why each day was just like the one before.

But, of course, mirrors were never allowed. Especially since the time she stole one from Mr. Ballentine's cleaning bucket. And then there was all that blood that ran like a river from her wrist onto her new pink nightgown and into her fuzzy K-Mart slippers. Nurse Gladys almost had a heart attack. She screamed for help and sopped up the blood with paper towels from the dinner table. Beth Ann never figured it was her fault though.

She was sure Daddy had been there that night and instructed her to steal the mirror. She was just enjoying her slice of pumpkin bread and drinking her hot tea with lemon when he’'d whispered in her ear that she would look lovely in red.
Beth Ann shifted in the metal chair and automatically straightened her back smoothing her wrinkled flowered gown carefully past her knees. After all these years she never forgot what Daddy had said at the dinner table every night. He’'d walk past her brothers until he reached the back of her chair.

“Shoulders back young lady”, he’'d bark the order with a wide grin, “or I won’'t finish your peas when your mother isn’'t looking.” Beth Ann laughed but obeyed and the corners of her lips turned high as the heavens. She adored Daddy. She’'d jump into his arms as he came through the door after his long day at the refinery. “Hey Buddy Pal, how’'s my girl” he’'d holler, presenting her mother and her with huge bunches of yellow daffodils. And he looked like Clark Gable. At least Beth Ann thought so. They’had always been best buddies. At backyard picnics h'e’d rock slowly in the Adirondack chair under the cluster of shaded sycamore trees with Beth Ann settled in his lap. She'’d watch in amazement as his mouth formed a perfect circle and with a trick of his tongue and cheek, rings of smoke would float like magic through the thick summer air.

“"How did you do that Daddy? Can I try please, oh please Daddy?"
”
He’'d never let her, of course. Pipe smoking was not a common practice among five-year-old girls. But sometimes after Daddy had a few glasses of Shafer beer, or if he was in an unusually good mood he’'d allow Beth Ann a few sips from the heavy glass pitcher. She’'d made a face, but always remembered the sour taste.

“"Okay now Beth Ann, stop your daydreaming. I’'ll take that bowl if you’re done with that fine pea soup. It looks like you liked it well enough. Hardly a drop left. Good girl, now here”, Nurse Gladys instructed, as she put the cup of water to Beth Ann’'s lips “its time for your little red pill.” Beth Ann glanced up at Nurse Gladys and made a sad face as a child would after a scolding.

“"C’'mon now Missy, you know it always makes you feel better. Makes the bad things go away remember? And you have a surprise today. A visitor coming to see you, if you behave that is."”

Beth Ann took her pill and handed the cup back to Nurse Gladys, her lips curled downward as she continued to twirl the lengthy gray hair through her colorless gaunt fingers.

“"Who would be coming to visit me? I don’t believe you. I ain’'t got no visitors Nurse Gladys, you’re lying again.”" Beth Ann surmised.

“"No, I’m not. Your niece Rose is coming. Comes the first Tuesday of every month. You know that Missy."
“"Wait, oh yes, I do remember her. I remember Rose! She’s the one who smells like lilacs and peaches and I stitched her that beautiful red wool coat with the plaid flannel lining the winter we lived on Berkley Street. Oh I was good then Nurse Gladys. I could whip up anything from a fine piece of cloth. That was in my sewing days. That was when I had fabrics all the colors of the rainbow stacked on dozens of high shelves in my sewing room.”"

Nurse Gladys smiled as she put her hand to Beth Ann’s forehead gently pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ears. She wiped the pea soup from the corners of her mouth and silently prayed for Beth Ann.

Soon after Mr. Gallant cleaned the lunch tables with his large yellow sponge, he'’d wheel in his metal bucket and mop the remains of pea soup and Jell-O from the floor. The aluminum tables were moved to the back of the room and stacked near the chairs. The room appeared sanitary for visitors but no amount of room fresheners or pine soil could mask the stench of decay and forthcoming demise that reeked from Sullivan house.

The overhead fluouresant lights cast an unhealthy lime green shadow upon Rose as she entered the day room. Beth Ann sat near the back of the room, rocking unhurriedly in her beloved chair, her eyes fixated on the posters of happy families upon the wall.

“"Hello Aunt Betsy, it'’s me Rose”. She bent down to kiss her aunt's cheek, “look I'’ve brought you some lovely yellow daffodils, you’re favorite.”" Beth Ann picked one from the bunch.

“"I have a terrible headache today Rose and you know red roses are my favorite. I don’t know why you wouldn'’t remember that dear. But they do smell nice and they match your hair. My hair was that color once too wasn’'t it Rose?” And where are the children? Why didn’'t they come with you? I want to see Danny and Jessie. Oh, never mind, I’ve forgotten, they are in school today aren’'t they? I know that teacher of theirs Miss Jenkins gives them so much homework too. Oh Lord, I hope they can make it through the fifth grade this year."
”
“"Dan and Jessie are fine Aunt Beth, but they are all grown up remember? They live out in California now, but they’'ll be coming for a visit soon, I promise." Said Rose.
”
Beth Ann studied the delicate flower in her lap, like a student examining an insect under a microscope. She was back in that other universe again, frozen in time, where sounds were magnified, all kinds of insidious people talked at once, and pictures were Technicolor, so bright in fact, that the unrelenting headaches were now more common than not. Without a mirror, she had to seek other means to unearth the truth that lie doormat, jammed like a gearshift unable to thrust forward. She'’d vaguely heard Rose speaking of her new-found job at the university, the volume of poems she’'d just published and the stack of photographs she’'d brought for her to look at.

But instead, Beth Ann was in the brand new Cadillac that Daddy just bought at the Ray’s car lot in the city. They were driving into town to pick up some baking supplies for Mommy at the A&P. Daddy always insisted the Beth Ann go along for the ride.

“"It’'s good for the child to get some fresh air Barbara”," he’'d tell her mother, even though her mother would have preferred she stay home with her to help out around the house. But Daddy always got his way. Probably cause he looked like Clark Gable, thought Beth Ann. Anyway, she certainly had no say in the matter. She was only nine. She wished and prayed for Daddy to be happy in his brand new Cadillac. He told Beth Ann to sit next to him on the front seat. If she behaved, he would let her steer the car when they got to the dirt road near Amsterdam place.
Beth Ann moved her small body closer. She did as she was told; knowing full well that if she did not, the Daddy that was fun and kind would disappear like the cards in magic tricks he’'d perform for her. She did not have to study Her father's face to find signs of his changing ways. By now she could anticipate his needs, see the sadness in his hazel eyes or hear the desperation in the words he spoke to her.

“"So what do you say Beth Ann, pretty jazzy wheels huh?"” Daddy would shout as he took a swig from the whiskey bottle hidden under the seat. Beth Ann knew Mommy would not like that, but it was one of the secrets Daddy made her promise not to tell. At times, Beth Ann's stomach would tie in knots. How could she make sense of the last four years of secrets with Daddy? How could the man who loved her, told the funniest jokes in all of Arkansas and made her feel like the most extraordinary person on earth – how could he ask her to keep these secrets and how could she betray him and tell?

“Turn up the volume on that sharp new radio, sweetheart. Come here”, he’'d say as he patted the car seat next to him “and give your Daddy a big kiss.”

Even with the windows rolled all the way down, Beth Ann drew in the plastic smell of the new vinyl burgundy bench seats. She hoped that maybe a new car would make Daddy happy again. She didn’'t like it when he came home late at night and he and Mommy had those awful arguments about Ellen, the lady next door. Sometimes Daddy would sleep on the couch in the den and then everyone was in a bad mood.

He pressed his foot to the floor of the new Fleetwood never caring that the speedometer had passed eighty-five. He was busy belting out '“Strangers in the Night'” at the top of his lungs, peering at Beth Ann as he did. Ruth Ann smiled when Daddy was in a good mood but it also made her nervous. She didn’'t like speeding, nor feeling out of control.

“"Daddy stop, you’re going to fast, please slow down. I’m getting scared."”

“"Oh Ruth Ann don’t be such a baby. Come here now and lay your head down on my lap so you don’t have to watch the road. And don’t give me any trouble, you want to steer the car soon don’t you?”"

“"I'’ll be good Daddy, I promise, I'’m not really scared."”

“"Lie down,” I said. “We are almost at Amsterdam Place”."

“"I changed my mind Daddy; I don’t want to go there again. Maybe we should just go to the market and get Mommy her flour and sugar. She’'ll be upset if we are late."”

“"We will soon pal, Daddy is getting tired and I may need to stop and take a little nap and rest.”"
The thick August air brought hardly a breeze through the windows of the new Fleetwood Cadillac. Flushed, Beth Ann held her hand to her throat hoping to force the rising sour liquid back to the contents of her gut. She would not dare ruin the seat of the new car. But she knew what would happen next unless she did something. Daddy was very persistent but she didn’'t want to do this anymore. It had always been hard to tell him no. She loved him. And sometimes he was so sad. He told her to never tell anyone when he lay down and pulled her hand onto his lap. He told Beth Ann that she made him feel better.
“Other people won’t understand Ruth Ann. They aren’t as lucky as us. They will be jealous that we have so much fun together singing our songs and playing games.” But Ruth Ann didn’t want to play games anymore.

As her father's head began to nod backwards, Ruth Ann reached over her father’s body and grabbed the steering wheel of the shiny new Cadillac. She may be headed for hell, if there was such a place, she thought, but she could not bear another moment in her father’'s presence. Watching the highway curve ahead, she purposely pulled the wheel in a complete circle, passing the dirt road. The Cadillac spun out of control, around and around and around. Her distorted body was inside out, twisted as an wrung out old dishrag. I will sleep now until a sweet dream comes along. To sleep is to die a little, she thought. It will be over soon. The tires screeched, as the smell of burnt rubber seeped through the car windows. The Cadillac abruptly stopped and the world as Beth Ann knew it turned black.

The scent of pine sol and body odor brought Beth Ann back to Sullivan house and to a reality that now felt eerily unfamiliar. For the first time she was able to feel and witness her once invisible past come into focus. The images did not come in waves as Dr. Hanbury predicted they may, but instead they rushed with steady force into every empty, numb cell of her being.

In vibrant color, Beth Ann's childhood unfolded in waves of repulsive visions. She was six; she was seven, then nine in a lemon yellow pinafore dress. She was a child in a car on a dirt road pleasing her father. The images carried undeserved shame, yet at the same time brought closure to a foreign world, a world lived by someone other than herself. It had been the buried fear, the absence of thought that had crazed her. Forced the urgent need for the little red pills, allowing her no reason to feel.

Her glance dropped to her lap. With great care she lifted a single yellow daffodil to her nose, inhaled deeply, closed her eyes a moment and turned her gaze to Rose. “"It was my fault, Rose. The day in the new car with Daddy when everything went black.”"

Rose pulled her chair closer to her aunt, took her hand and studied her porcelain face. Her expression never changed but discomfort seemed to roll just beneath the surface of her pale skin. "“No Aunt Ruth, I’ve explained before. It was an accident, remember?" Charles lost control of the car. He was drinking and hit the tree on the corner of West and Amsterdam. You were only nine. It wasn’'t your fault."
”
“"There are things you don’'t know Rose. Things no one knows. It had to end. I couldn'’t keep those dirty secrets any longer, but I couldn’'t let Daddy know that. How could I? It just had to be over."
”
The community room darkened casting shadows onto the pale green walls. Nurse Gladys flicked the switch a few times to remind the guests that visiting hours were over. Beth Ann, released from her own hell of darkness, squeezed Rose’'s hand not from fear but as a link to the world, a sign of connection once again. A slight but guarded smile formed on the corner of her lips. Tomorrow would not be like the day before, she thought. She would not force down her little red pill. Beth Ann had her wits about her today. This time she was sure.

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Premeditated Leadurgy

It was just a little piece of lead, not really much at all by itself, and might just as easily have wound up serving as a much needed sinker on some kid's fishing pole, or maybe as part of a paperweight. It had no special properties, except of course for the normal properties of lead, and like most earthly elements was given to employing the silent virtues of lasting endurance over the typically transient worth of verbal communication. Just exactly how it came to be at this particular place in time had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the usual strategies of self-motivation, and almost everything to do with that truly mystical nature of fate's own random choosing; though in all honesty its future destination would be strictly adherent to a great deal of personal commitment and lengthy deliberation.

Etching all those tiny letters on the little piece of lead took up a considerable amount time and commitment as well--mainly because they were indeed tiny letters, and the hands that carved them were old and past their prime. Four hours it took, four hours of squinting and doing and squinting and redoing until at last they were perfect, or as perfect as one might expect. And even though the little piece of lead was actually just one of eight, made especially for the occasion, the fact that it had been singled out as the only one to be so painstakingly engraved would prove reason enough for it to also be singled out as the first, thus leaving its care to be more or less watched over by proud and admiring eyes, also past their prime but still functional, a hint of glaucoma persisting at the periphery of vision.

Of course the little piece of lead was now no longer simply just a faceless part of that equally faceless ingot it had once been. In fact, those many long hours spent succumbing to the hand-crafted metamorphoses of metallurgy had ultimately succeeded in shaping not only its all important outward appearance (from which the requirements of social acceptance are known to take root) but an equally definable inner purpose as well--a genuine 'calling' for lack of a better word--to fulfill the conscripts of a well worn social destiny, an all too familiar mandate with which man strives to retain his undeterred mastery over all he sees as subject to the notions of his will. And so its head, if one could say that it had a head, was now round and smooth and hollowed out down the middle, not that this impaired its mental processes in any way for, in all honesty, lead has no mental processes. And its butt, if one could say that it had a butt, was now seated ever-so-tightly into the open end of an accordingly calibrated brass canister which, among other things, made the possibility of self-imposed movement for the little piece of lead nothing short of impossible, although the possibility of self-imposed movement for a little piece of lead is nothing short of impossible to begin with. And so it was that the little piece of lead no other viable alternative than to simply remain where it was, content to be the first of eight, made especially for the occasion.

Now perhaps it might also be worth mentioning here that lead, in and of itself, is a mature element. True, alchemists once believed that lead was really just a teenage element and that with a little well placed guidance and sulfur, or mercury, it would eventually grow up to be gold; but this, as we know now, is plainly not the case. For lead is lead and gold is gold and, poetically speaking, never the twain shall meet, let alone consent to the prospect of actually becoming one and the same. In addition, lead is also a rather easy going element. It obviously doesn't ask for much, and it appears to the average onlooker as if it doesn't really expect to receive all that much in return either. It seems to realize that its monetary value will never rise to the level of its true worth, and this is probably the reason for its outwardly complacent attitude (almost apathetic actually) about being cast into a multitude of simplistic shapes and sizes considered beneath the dignity, and cost feasibility, of most other metals.

Yet if the truth be known it is just this docile temperament to which we are all indebted. For together we have succeeded in forging out a combined legacy of mind and matter whose ongoing influence stretches from the very dawning of our own recorded history all the way to the present age; a genuine tribute to both the unyielding determination of man, as well as the pleasingly pliable personality of an element whose inherent talents seem continually well suited to that ever changing script of human endeavor known as progress. It is not given to rust, or any other natural form of swift molecular decay, and thus has permitted us to develop a great many useful alloys and electrical storage devices upon which we so trustingly rely, not to mention an easily affordable degree of backbreaking density whose molecular makeup has allowed us to effectively curb the seepage of nuclear radiation. And least we not forget, lead is also still the only known substance here on earth that Superman cannot see through. So, all in all, we might say that lead has continued to remain an active member of our society despite its advancing years, thus offering up another weighty (if not altogether shinning) testimonial to the truly productive nature of the elderly.

The day was hot, August in the afternoon, and the interior of the suit coat pocket was dark and worn with age. The little piece of lead was now totally isolated from the other five, though to tell the truth they were all equally just as isolated from one another in their respective chambers. Still they were all facing in the same direction, a condition whose validity presupposed the knowledge that they had already received the rudimentary elements of a definable face to face with, and came into being only after they had each been gently slipped down into one of those six hollow chambers--bored neatly in a circle through that nickel plated cylinder--which maintained the collective compliance of all six little lackluster faces by virtue of a well machined tolerance for the diameter, and extruded rear lip, of their aforementioned brass encasements.

The question of purpose, of meaning, did not present itself, but then lead never has earned a reputation for being the quizzical sort. In fact one might even venture to say that this malleable metal retains an altogether fatalistic outlook on life, accepting the reality of its situation with all the blissful tranquillity of a true believer. After all, change will come when it comes, and those who are controlled have no control, so why pretend.

But surely if the little piece of lead had been given ears to go along with its face it could not have helped but wonder as to the ever-growing melody of up-beat music, spontaneous cheers and engaging laughter--those joyous sounds of human exuberance so common to just this sort of festive human gathering. If there had been a nose on its face it would also have smelled the sweat and cologne and tobacco and food, all of which figure quite prominently into the overall mood of such a congested outdoor atmosphere. And a mouth, well, a mouth might even have induced the little piece of lead to speak its mind (for even those who have no mind are often prone to speak) and thereby make its presence known to all. "Look here," it might have said, "It is I, encased in Copper, made especially for the occasion." But this, of course, was not to be.

Now most of us would concede that lead does not feel. And while this may, in all philosophical honesty, be little more than just a blatantly self-serving assumption on our part, it is, nevertheless, a belief given to widespread acceptance throughout the scientific community and so offered here as contemporary fact. In contrast however, we humans have evolved to the point of being literally overwhelmed by the sheer volume of such mind-boggling sensations, and must therefore continually struggle to unravel a microcosm of nerve endings and mental contemplation from which even death itself cannot be counted on to provide a safe sanctuary.

To further complicate such matters (if such matters can truly be complicated any more than they already are) is our apparently irrevocable decision to equate the word 'feelings' to both the physical and emotional spectrum of our existence, thereby shackling the very essence of our intangible ideals to the considerably less illusionary whipping post of this materialistic world around us. Anger for example is defined as being hot, although the true climate of a long suffering hatred has been known to freeze even the warmest of hearts into nothing less than a solid block of emotional ice. Love is blind, and yet has very little trouble leading us headlong into the waiting arms of a truly eye-opening broken heart. We itch for a fight, rise to the occasion, then typically fall from grace onto the jagged rocks of public condemnation. Life is just a road we travel, anguish a cross we bear, and the self-perceived righteous of our own beliefs a tool we use to subjectively plug double barrel shot guns of unwavering truth from the shifting sands of an all too abstract imagination.

Lead however feels none of this, and so is free to remain forever impervious to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and failure. In point of fact it neither laughs nor cries nor loves nor hates, and so it simply sets and waits, for it's only man who contemplates the nature of its use. And yet if the little piece of lead could have felt at all it surly would have felt quite anxious. For it was now being lifted up, made ready for the presentation--the first of eight, exhibited in full metal jacket regalia.

It had no eyes, it could not see the tunnel now before it, and so was unaware of the bright sunshine that quickly filled this guiding pipe of precisely finished steel. Of course the cries of those who stood in close proximity to the little piece of lead had no choice but to fall on deaf ears (for it goes without saying that no ears are indeed deaf ears) and so even the loud blast--the one that sent it rocketing down this tunnel and out into the world which lay beyond--did not turn the head of the little piece of lead but merely faded off into the background as it raced along its airborne route . . . an incoming projectile for someone special; someone whose name was engraved on the little piece of lead. They would be receiving this small piece of lead, or should we say "Biting the Bullet."

It was just a little piece of lead, the first of eight, it's jacket a smooth copper made especially for the occasion. It had no mind. It had no voice. It had no will. It had no choice. It couldn't see, and couldn't know, the reason or the way to go. So don't condemn this piece of lead, accuse the will of man instead. For peace to come we must agree . . . the problem lies with you and me.

Maiden Voyage hits the rocks:

There he is, the tall, skinny black kid, still a virgin, the one running down the center of the street, panic in his eyes, confusion in his stride, blood still oozing from that freshly sliced six-inch-long valley across his forehead. Okay, so maybe you're right, maybe it's just his clothing that has you somewhat confused--white chiffon blouse, with ruffled sleeves,  matching leather skirt, nylons and black high heels--but the heels are gone now, left somewhere back there near that go- go bar, and so is that long blond wig he was sporting only a short while ago when he mistakenly tiptoed  into the wrong bar, filled with the wrong crowd--just one more unsuspecting refugee turned victim on the incoming tide.

That's right, he's a drag queen,and this is the first time he 'dressed' up, which is not the same thing as a transsexual but then I guess such topics don't come up much around the average American dinner table. So please allow me to enlighten you a little. He doesn't live as a woman, or at least not twenty-four hours a day anyway, which means that his feminine alter ego is still somewhat agreeable to the notion of sharing his body without the requirement of radical surgery or feature softening hormones. In fact, if the truth be known, he enjoys his masculinity about as much as the next guy, secure in the belief that he has somehow managed to master the nature of his own borderline schizophrenia in much the same way that a tight rope walker masters the high wire, a tight rope walker working without the benefit of a net.

His past is a blur of childhood dreams and broken promises, not all that much different from your own actually, and his future is every bit as certain as the will of God; because of course we're all going to die. His days, typically enough, are spent working feverishly in pursuit of a few Benjamins, --someplace, somewhere, it really doesn't matter--and his dreams, predictably enough, revolve around that equally all too familiar hope that one day things will undoubtedly change for the better; but we all fall for the carrot on the stick routine.

And so, like the nocturnal predator, the female in him only comes out at night, the darker the better, strolling through the uncertainty of the moment with a lustful eye toward sucking the unproductive seed of life from those who are still able to give it, and still willing to give it to him, or her, as the moment dictates. But not tonight. Tonight he's just running, running for cover, fleeing headlong out across this concrete jungle of neon and taxicabs, sirens and midnight air, civilized decadence and the purely curious reaction of  a few autamatons, merely dying, or already dead.

No, he's not a bad man. He doesn't murder the innocent or rape little children. He doesn't misuse the public trust. He's just struggling with what he perceives to be life, desire and his own unique roll in it all. I'm not saying that I agree with him, and I'm not saying that I don't. But then just who the hell am I to say who gets  to cast the first stone. . . and who the hell are you to pick it up?




Ho-stroll:


She walks the street, that black sequenced skirt hugging her ass like cellophane and hanging down a mere two inches below the crack of it. Her panty-hose are crotchless, which only makes business that much more brisk since most of it is conducted in the alley anyway. She's a slut, a hooker, a tramp, white trash--the choice is yours. Her smile is just a genuine as drugs will allow, and her attitude lives somewhere in between a woverine at feeding time and Sister Mary Margaret. She's fifteen, rather young don't you think, and yet she's been
doing this now for going on two years. She's pretty good at it too, but it really isn't what she'd planned on doing with her life.

She got her first broken nose when she was eleven, something about sticking it where it didn't belong. Actually the blow wasn't even meant for her, it was just one more sadomasochistic love tap aimed at her mother by a man who wasn't even legally related, and yet had become way too fond of the girl to be considered legally innocent either.

Two years and two broken noses later she was gone, leaving her lower middle-class neighborhood for an even lower lower-class life on the streets. She thought she was finally free, but then such are the minds of the young. And she thought that the man who took her in really cared, but then such are the hearts of the young. She desperately needed to be loved, and the new stipulations of that love really didn't seem all that much different from those she had already faced at home. So she gave up thinking about high school or even going back home,and switched her priorities to disease control and controlling her disease, which was now skag, smack, horse, heroin--whatever she could do to lessen the pain.

Sure, it was her fault, just like when your dog runs out in the street and winds up getting flattened by a speeding car.


Spectral Light:

His name is Stephen. He's an Iraqi War veteran, and he's got a steel plate in his head to prove it. He's a pretty nice guy, but he's really not all there. He's just here, on the street, lost somewhere between 1991 and infinity.

He lives in a trash dumpster that sits in an alley out back of a restaurant four blocks away, a fairly nice arrangement actually since, as he puts it, he gets his food delivered to his door so to speak. He looks like shit, and he smells worse, but what the hell does he care; he's convinced that the world is just about over with anyway.

You can find him on this same busy street corner every night between the hours of nine and midnight, the "sinning hours" he calls them, preaching Armageddon, hands moving in rapid succession on the bongo drums, to the multitudes who pass him by with amused disapproval. But still he remains undaunted, convinced beyond all reasonable doubt that he is nothing short of a contemporary Elijah, and he knows it, feels it, trusts it, offering up salvation and collecting whatever donations God sees fit to be dropped into that tin can at his feet. Tonight was a fairly good night--thirty dollars and change.

He's free now, though he used to be in a VA mental hospital. Then one day the powers that be decided that he, and thousands like him, would be better off at home. So they sent him home, which only made getting his disability check that much more difficult since he didn't have a home, although he did finally talk one of the local bar owners into providing him with a legitimate address.

His family has long since given up. In fact he can't even remember if he actually has a family, though he considers all mankind to be his brothers and sisters and is quick to help them in any way he can, which is significantly more than can be said for most of those who pass him by.

But don't worry. His just reward is coming. His paradise is in sight. For despite the overwhelming nature of his obvious shortcomings he has, from the sheer standpoint of suffering for the righteousness of one's own convictions alone, successfully managed to nail himself body and soul to the twenty-first century cross of deserving martyrdom, and now awaits only the calling of his lord. He smiles, secure in the knowledge that he will soon be dying for our sins. . . which, when you think about it, is the gospel truth.


Dark Alley apparitions:

He calls himself  Daemon the Dagger, a bad dude, or so he says, but that straight razor in his back pocket hasn't tasted dying blood yet, although there's a damn good possibility that it will in the very near future. Yes, he's black, but since poverty and desperation never have been known to show favoritism, many of his compatriots are either white, brown, yellow, red or else somewhere in between, and tonight, as usual, they are all once again busy seeking out victims of opportunity among the patrons of the midnight hour.

He's is a mugger, a rapist, a drug pusher--all this and more. At sixteen he's already been judged to be a youthful offender of the repetitive degree, and he sees no reason to change careers now.

He had a conscience once but it ran screaming from the scene of his last major crime, and why not, since even he agrees that it would undoubtedly have been the next victim on his list.

His idea of 'good will' centers around his own selfish desires, and his idea of 'ill will' centers around face slashing revenge.

His mother loves him, but she doesn't understand. His father loves him too, and used to beat the crap out of him with a metal studded strap just to prove it, or at least until that morning when the cops showed up and hauled the ol' man off to jail for loving his little six year old brother, Jamal, just a little bit too much; manslaughter they called it. Who knows, maybe he's saving the lethal virginity of that straight razor as a welcome home present for dear ol' dad, and who could blame him.

He has nothing, and so has nothing to lose by taking from those who have something. He has no hope, and so is jealous of those who do. He has no future, and so is driven to destroy the futures of others. He is a truly dangerous individual, an untrained attack dog beaten into madness by a cruel and callous master, a justifiably outraged being out to seek his own particular brand of  blind justice, an imprisoned spirit looking for a way out of hell, or else a well deserved promotion to a the job of vengeance in it. Stay away from him, and those like him, for he hates all that you stand for and now has little hope of ever being housebroken to that reigned bit of social conformity around which you live.

True, the predators of this world are no less victims of opportunity themselves, suffering beneath the weight of a far too long standing social indifference to their self-perpetuating plight. But in all honesty there is not much that can be done to reverse such pathologically antisocial behavior once it has thoroughly invaded its host, just like there is not much that can be done for a rabid racoon. And so, sadly enough, you must simply avoid it, or eliminate it, before it bites you or someone around you, and pray to God that one day we find it within our collective hearts and minds to actively seek out and administer an effective social vaccine to protect the vulnerable, thereby freeing up humanity from the obvious dangers of such a highly contagious disease. . . and rightly so, especially since more and more of those well fed rodents in your own neighborhood seem to be catching it as well.




Alley Cat strut:


It is now a little after 3am, and she's limping slightly, but that's only because her feet hurt from walking the pavement for the last six hours in heels. Yes, it's been a pretty busy night, and she looks it, sort of like an ice cream cone that was carelessly left too long in the sun. But there is no sun, only the sweltering tension of yet another evening's work. And while it is true that she has just turned twenty-three, at times like this she feels closer to fifty.

Once again she hears that familiar sound of a slow moving car behind her, keeping pace with each and every step she takes, watching her from the rear, watching as her long legs move beneath sheer nylon and short skirt cotton. Abruptly she stops, turns and smiles, waving him toward the curb with a confident expression of well worn experience.
"Well hello there handsome. And just what can I do for you tonight?" As usual she never says a thing about money. She leaves all that up to him.
"I got a spare twenty."
"For what?" she asks.
"Well, how 'bout a little lip action here in the front seat while we drive around?"
"Now let me get this straight," she questions back, "are you offering me a lousy twenty dollars in exchange for giving you a blow job in the front seat of your car?"
"Yeah," he replies, sporting the customary grin. "So how 'bout it?"
In a blur of screeching tires and strong arms the man is quickly dragged from his car and forced to lie face down across the hood of it. He is handcuffed, his pockets are searched, and they're still reading him his legal rights as the unmarked police car pulls away, taking the newly arrested criminal off to face judgment for his crime against society. At the same time another vice officer approaches the woman as well, but you will notice that no arrest is being made. This is because she too is an officer of the law, part of a team whose
directive is to make the customers of prostitutes every bit as susceptible to arrest as the prostitutes themselves. And so she is wearing a court authorized 'wire', a hidden microphone and transmitter designed to send incriminating conversations to a monitored tape recorder, like the one located in that unmarked police car that just drove off. The man might have been a doctor, or a teacher, or perhaps even a priest. Maybe he was starving for companionship every bit as much as he was starving for his own sexual release; and then again maybe not. Yet, in point of fact, the scores of pimps who perpetuate the ongoing suffering of the young women trapped in such servitude are seldom targeted. And since mandatory psychological evaluation and treatment are virtually never requirements placed on either the convicted prostitute or her customers, there is really little chance that anyone's needs will ever truly be served by such an ongoing commitment to the legal conscripts that pervade this sort of enforced social morality.

Still, it is kind of a shame that the arresting officers were too busy patting themselves on the back for entrapping the poor 'john'  to notice that an  elderly couple, by the name of Lipshitz, were being brutally mugged by the 'dagger'  and his gang just around the corner. But then there's only so much that the police can do. . . only so many places they can be. . . only so many types of crime that they can concentrate on.


Curtain Call:

The night is growing older, lingering on the landscape like a begrudgingly discarded can of stale beer, it's once stout constitution slowly dwindling away, the bubbles slowly bursting, in much the same manner as those transient hordes of homeward bound individuals who dwindle with it. Alas, the darkness will be setting soon, plunging the city back into the stark reality of daylight. Still, it's been a pretty good night as nights go, and the twenty-four hour restaurants are already beginning to fill up with their usual array of hungry local  folk whose midnight efforts have made such places affordable for the moment. They're a friendly crowd, laughing and talking like the true yuppies that they portray. Yet in a couple of hours they too will disappear, crawling back into the anonymous safety of their contemporary suburban  bedroom coffins for still another day of blissful dreams and hellish nightmares.

We do hope that you've enjoyed your little visit here with us this evening. You might want to remember that these tours are offered each and every night starting just after the dawning of the dark. Reservations are never required, since we're always willing to make room for one more, and our staff is forever coming up with new and innovative ideas designed to make your stay with us an event you will not soon forget. Oh, and speaking of memorabilia, if you'll just open your camera phones for a brief moment you will notice the old man in layers of weather-beaten clothes lying face down on the sidewalk in a pungent pool of his own vomit. Please feel free to take his picture with you, a memento of the city that never sleeps, a conversation piece for your coffee table.

Once again, this concludes our presentation. But you might want to watch your step as you walk away. I mean, well, let's face it, it is still dark outside and the alleyways cast long shadows of what might be lurking just over you left shoulder. We wouldn't want you bumping into something unexpected on your way home. So nighty night, watch your step, . . . Whisper ever so silently, "I see a safe journey, I see a safe return..."

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