Breakdown Canceled

Melissa Etheridge wailed an appropriate sentiment through the car speakers as Rachel backed out the drive and proceeded to the corner.

I cannot run,
I cannot hide,
it came with me,
locked inside,
the bough will break,
the cradle will fall,
it only takes one call.

Rachel lowered the windows, inviting the nippy autumn air inside, and stopped at the corner to look at the contents of the large envelope again. Her hands shook in a state of combined fear and anger that edged so close to loss of control that it frightened her. She sorted through the baggies that had come stuffed in the envelope: several small bags containing long, single auburn hairs, and a bigger one full of trimmings, obviously collected from a salon floor. What kind of lunatic had followed her around collecting hair, and then mailed it to her?

A sociopathic lunatic according to the police; yet, they still refused to arrest him. Since she had survived his first attack with no permanent (physical) damage, and neither collecting nor mailing hair violated his probation, some legal brainiac decided she would have to deal with it, or hope he did something worse.

Neither seemed fair.

She watched for a safe opening and made the turn, squealing the tires when she floored the gas pedal and dared anyone to get in her way or try to stop her. To hell with the speed limit. If laws didn't apply to sociopaths, their victims should also be exempt. She turned the volume up and shrieked the chorus with Melissa. The ends of her hair escaped through the window, floated on the wind, and tugged at the roots still connected to her head, challenging the rest of her to want the same freedom.

So you're having a breakdown,
so you're losing a fight,
so you're having a breakdown
I'm driving and crying,
unraveled, I'm flying,
I'm coming to your breakdown tonight.

What started as a mad drive suddenly developed purpose when she remembered a walk-ins welcome sign on a shop she had passed in the mall. She drove up the interstate ramp and activated cruise control, since tears and the irrational decisions proved that self-control had abandoned her.

She rushed through the mall, hoping this was the correct mall, and she wasn't too late. Luck was with her. Not only was the shop there, between the pet and toy stores where she clearly remembered it now, the receptionist escorted her immediately to a station and promised someone would be right with her.

"Beautiful hair," an over-zealous stylist repeated several times as he circled the chair, fluffing Rachel's hair around her face. "We need to take a few inches off, and put some layers around your face."

"Cut it all off," Rachel said. "Short. I want something sassy and sporty."

The stylist folded his arms and stepped back to examine her. "As sweet as that might look on you, it's too drastic. And I would hate to cut off this gorgeous hair." He ran his fingers through her hair, from scalp to hips.

"Can I donate it to cancer patients or something?" she asked. "I have to do this tonight, before I lose my nerve."

He bobbed his head several times with his brows drawn together. "So this is an impulsive decision?"

"Not entirely," she said. Strangely, he seemed more upset over the situation than she felt. "I've thought about it for years, but let a man stand in the way of my decision. I'm ready to let go, of both of them. The hair and the man."

Rick, whose name she saw on the stack of business cards sitting on the vanity, let out a hoot and clapped his hands. "So this is a revenge cut. Honey, I'd never stand in the way of vengeance. As long as you're positive you want to do this."

"Positive," she said, feeling the first twinge of doubt.

Rick wrapped a cape around her shoulders and led her to the sink. "It'll be so much easier to care for, and you'll save a small fortune in shampoo," he said as he wet her hair with the sprayer. He lathered, reached for the shampoo bottle a second time, and whistled. "Girl, you've got more hair than I've ever seen on one person. I wish I had cut about a foot of it off before I brought you back here."

"Can I donate it?" she asked. "I'll feel better if I don't just leave it on your floor."

He wrapped her hair in a towel and guided her back to the seat. "We aren't set up for that. But you can take it home with you and check it out later."

After he had combed her hair and tied several ribbons around it, Rick cut off a two-foot ponytail and handed it to her. She stared at the hair in her hands, afraid to look up, even though her back was to the mirror. "I expected to feel immediate regret." The words gave her the courage to meet his eyes. "I don't know how to describe what I feel." She shook her head. "I feel free. Yes. I don't think this is a negative feeling."

The hostess brought a binder to Rachel. "Thought you might need these. Pictures of different styles."

"No." Rick said. "I know exactly what I want to do with her."

Rachel shrugged and returned the book to the hostess. "I'll trust him."

"Low maintenance, air dry, no products," Rick said. "That's you, right?"

She nodded. "You got it. But, I'll probably need make-up if you give me a little boy cut."

He clucked his tongue. "I won't let you down. I'm going for a soft, tousled look that I promise will not make anyone mistake you for a little boy."

Rachel threw her hands up. "Okay. Do it."

He snipped and chatted, keeping the chair turned so she couldn't see anything until he had finished and spun her around to face the mirror. By then, she was the only customer left in the shop. The hostess and two remaining stylists had come to watch her reaction.

A nervous giggle escaped before she spoke. "I love it!" She ran her fingers through the fringe around her face and watched it fall back into place, giggling again. "I look ten years younger."

"And still like a girl," Rick said.

Her audience offered compliments; both to her, for making the decision, and to Rick, for creating the perfect look for her. She continued to play with her hair and smile. "I don't know how to thank you."

"Pay me so I can go home," he said. "We're holding up mall security."

She jumped up, embarrassed, and pulled a credit card from her pocket. "I'm sorry I kept you late," she said, handing the card over and picking up her ponytail from the vanity. She thought about telling him this was the most fun she had had in months, but realized that made her sound like a total loser, unless she explained that she had been holed up, hiding from her stalker, in which case he might still think she was a total loser.

The other employees left. Rachel followed Rick to the desk, eying herself in another mirror while he processed the card. "Thanks again," she said. "I can't tell you how pleased I am with the cut."

"I am too," he said. "Now, I hope this will open new doors, and you'll stay away from whoever's mistreating you. No one deserves to be punched around like that."

Rachel looked in the mirror again, this time seeing everything. "Want to hear something funny?" she asked.

"Sure." He came around the counter and walked her out.

"I forgot all about my face while I was here. Until you brought it up."

"Sorry."

"No. It's nothing to be sorry about," she said. "You gave me an hour of safe, stress-free fun. I can't tell you what that means. Know why?"

"Nope," he said, waving at the security guard as they passed him and stepped off the curb into the parking lot.

"You looked at me like a real person. No sympathy, no disgust, no judgment. You aren't a cop or a co-worker. Or a parent. Because you didn't react, I forgot for a little while. Thank you."

"The black eye doesn't keep you from being a real person," he said. "You'll need a trim in about a month. I'll bet your bruises are gone by then."

Rachel pressed the buttons on the remote and opened her door. "I'll hold you to that bet. See you next month," she said before getting in the car.

She put her ponytail in the glove compartment and ejected the CD before leaving the parking lot. At the first red light, she tossed the envelope of baggies out the window and pulled the visor down for another look at her new self.

Sociopath beware; the breakdown is over.

(Song lyrics from Breakdown written and performed by Melissa Etheridge.)

Chest Pain

Recognizing urgency in the knock, Paul forfeited his Nyquil induced reprieve. "Coming," he called, donning a sheet as he stumbled to the door.

Lila greeted him with a puff of smoke, a sneer, and her telephone. "You look like hell. It's your mother."

He listened to his mother and ignored Lila's rolling eyes. "Call the doctor. I'm on the way."

Lila ditched her cigarette in a glass of water on the varnished stump Paul used as a coffee table and took back her phone. "Drop me at the mall on your way?"

He nodded, flinched, clutched his jaw as pain exploded from his neck to his brain.

"Tooth still hurt?" Lila asked. "When you gonna get that fixed?"

"Soon." He returned to the bedroom, traded the sheet for a pair of jeans, stepped into shoes while he grabbed his keys, and headed out the door.

Lila followed with a scowl. "You ain't gonna brush your teeth or hair?"

"Her chest hurts." He started the engine. "Don't have time."

Lila crawled in and slammed the passenger door. "You stink." She lit another cigarette.

Paul stopped the engine, jumped out, ran a gas can and lawn-trimmer from the trunk to the porch, and returned, pain nearly blinding him now. "Got an extra smoke?" he asked, wiping his hands on his pants.

"Thought you quit." She handed him her cigarette and lit another.

"Need something to take the edge off this pain." He sucked relief into his lungs. "Had an appointment with the dental clinic this morning. Took six weeks to get in."

He pulled into the mall lot. She slid out. "Hope you finish with your mom in time for the dentist."

While waiting in line to exit the lot, his mother's voice rolled in. What you lack in brains, make up in kindness. You'll be fine. He shifted the car into park, grabbed a bag from the back seat, and jumped out to collect litter from the side of the road. Horns sounded but he ran a few feet farther to get a whiskey bottle and soda can, waving an apology as he returned to his car and sped off.

Chest pain. He shouldn't have wasted time.

He turned the corner, slid into the last car in a gridlock. Jaw throbbing, he jumped out to check on the passengers in the other car and slid, landing on the ground beside his front tire.

"Stay away," the other driver yelled.

He's drunk," the driver accused when the police arrived. "Came around the corner like a maniac, slammed into me, then staggered out and fell down."

Paul watched the officer and the woman walk to his car and look inside. "That your bottle?" The officer asked.

"Looks like a pig sty," the woman said. "He's filthy. Look at his hair."

"Sir, would you please stand?"

Paul struggled to his feet. The woman fanned her face. "Smells like an ashtray.

Chest pain. What you lack in brains, make up in kindness. Without a fight, he held his hands out to be cuffed.

Room 224

Alan stepped in front of the safety bar to hold the elevator door open after I exited. While I rocked my weight from one aching foot to the other, he carried on a one-sided dialogue as though he didn't notice my flamingo impersonation, or the door bucking his back.

"I think we should skip the first session tomorrow. Sleep in, or pack so we'll be ready for check-out. The agenda looks boring." I nodded; admiring his ability to ignore conditions that I suspected must be as painful for him as they were for me. When a buzzing alarm finally called him back inside the car, he waved and left me with a final comment. "Remember, I'm right above you if you need anything."

No doubt, Alan wanted his statement to reassure, but the reminder that I was alone and might need something accomplished the opposite. Thanks to his suggestion that something could go wrong, I strained muscles in my neck and eyes, trying simultaneously to watch my back and the doors on both sides of the long hall that led to my room. Apprehension crescendoed when it took three tries to make the key work in my door, and dissolved into freedom once I was inside, the second lock clinked a declaration of safety and privacy, and I remembered that Room 224 belonged to me for the night - only to me, to enjoy as I pleased. By default of death and gender (my intended roommate's grandmother died and the company sent Alan in her place), this room hosted a number of firsts for me: my first business trip, my first night away from my husband and son, and my first time having a bed (actually, two identical beds) to myself. I refuse to count the hospital bed when Jason was born since I had a roommate and nurses traipsing in and out all night. Lights, temperature, alarm clock, and television programs awaited my sole preferences. Fear would not ruin this for me.

I started by kicking off the shoes that had tortured me for the last fourteen hours, and then stripped my way across the room, shedding clothes and inhibitions without the slightest nag of guilt for leaving them where they landed. A naked rebel emerged, examined the bland, mauve-and-gray surroundings, and decided she would enjoy trashing the faux-pristine room. I had seen the truth on a news program; the matching bedspreads and lampshades covered traces of sperm and germs.

With no concern for nudity or utility costs, I turned the temperature knob on the heat/air unit to the coldest setting, pushed the highest fan button, and danced across my clothes, turning on every electrical device in the room. With equal (and familiar) disregard for my obvious pleasure, Ron's voice invaded my thoughts. How could anyone need six lights in one hotel room?

Why does anyone think a criticism doesn't annoy if it comes in the form of a question? As usual, I swallowed those words, but I did answer my husband's question. "Sometimes, it's okay to forget need and just give in to feeling pampered."

The response--even after feeling stupid for speaking aloud to someone who was not in the same state--made me drunk with freedom. I bounced from one bed to the other, scrolling channels with the remote. Cable offered more choices than I could deal with so I passed on television, settled on music, and thumbed through the books on the nightstand. Room service tempted, especially the drinks on the back. Goose bumps and the urge to crawl under the sperm-hiding blankets won that battle and stayed the regret of finally getting privacy after I had quit drinking.

Propped like a princess on four pillows, I clapped my hands on the odd chance that this fairytale evening might produce a servant with a drink. A knock on the door echoed the clap, almost making me believe I might actually have a fairy godmother, until I heard Alan's voice.

"You still up in there?"

"Kinda." I wrapped myself in the bedspread and mentally tracked the robe in my overnight bag, which, for reasons I could not recall, I had left under the bathroom sink.

"Come to the door. I have something for you."

Shrinking deeper into the spread, I pulled it off the mattress and wore it to the door, where the clink of the lock worked in reverse. Apprehension crept back in with the locks and hit full force when I opened the door. Jeans, a tee shirt, and bare feet removed ten years and most of the stuffiness of his suited appearance, making me wonder how many other attractive men I might have missed at work. He raised both hands, a bottle of wine in one and two glasses in the other.
Close the door and go to bed. No question mark. My voice.

"Want to come in?" The words that slipped out.

I shifted the bedspread to poke out an arm and accept the bottle he handed over as he walked past me. "Looks like you undressed in a hurry," he said, leaning over to pick up my jacket.

"Drop it. I'm being defiant."

He threw his head back and laughed, revealing another new secret: his hair actually moves.

"This room will be a total mess before I leave. In a little while, I am going to leave toothpaste in the skink. I might pee and forget to flush."

"Maybe you didn't need that bottle." He let the jacket fall back to the floor. "I can live without the toilet, but wouldn't mind witnessing the toothpaste blob. This is going to excite you?"

What was I thinking? I had to face this man at work. "Forgive me. I needed silliness to unwind after the conference. Was this the most boring day in your life, too?"

"Right up there with the worst of them. That's why I thought you might like a drink." He raised the glasses.

"I appreciate the offer but I don't drink." There, hard part said.

He put the glasses on the dresser and reached for the bottle. "You don't normally throw your clothes on the floor, either. You're being defiant."

"True." I handed my reservations over with the bottle.

He filled both glasses and we sat on the beds to drink, he on the still-made one, and I on the one whose spread I still wore. Halfway through the first glass, I stopped wondering why I hadn't gone to the bathroom and changed into my pajamas and robe. After the second, I fell back on the bed and complained that wine must be stronger than it had been when I drank every night.

"Could be," he said. I giggled because his voice tickled my ear. "You've lost your cover, my dear." His voice was in my ear this time, escorting me into that wonderful realm of inner heat shared with contradictory goose bumps and taut nipples. "Let me help."

Eyelids too heavy to lift, and not trusting what might come out if I tried to speak, I lay still and nodded. I needed help. He took my glass and placed it on the nightstand. I convinced myself that excitement and irregular breathing were causing the room to spin; keen senses proved I couldn't be drunk. I sensed his movements, heard the glass hit the wood, smelled the fabric softener in his shirt, and imagined the taste of his tongue in my mouth.

Still in a denied-drunk state of confidence, I knew he stood between the beds, staring at me. I sensed he would speak before he did.

"Will it upset your defiance if I turn off a few of these lights before I leave?" He sighed. "I'll get out of here and let you sleep."

My response surprised me more than his words had. "No."

"No, you don't want the lights off?"

"No, to both. I think." I slurred because my throat was dry, cursed myself for setting the fan on high. "My defiance will not suffer if you turn off the lights. And no, I don't want you to leave."

"Then, you'll have to put something on."

Thank God, he planned to turn off the lights. Otherwise, I would be too embarrassed to ever open my eyes again. My first chance to experience what I had seen in movies, read in books, and listened to on Mondays in the office - my first potential one-nighter tells me to put my clothes on? I could think of nothing more humiliating, at least not until the tears rolled down the sides of my face and plunked on the sheet like bowling balls on plywood. Maybe two glasses of wine was enough to do it these days. I hoped I was lucky enough to pass out soon.

He sighed again, this time maybe loud enough for people in surrounding rooms to hear. "Are you okay?"

"Drunk, naked in front of a co-worker, freezing, and too damned humiliated to move. Does that sound okay to you?"

"Let me get tissues," he offered.

I pulled the bedspread around my apparently repulsive body while he was gone. Maybe it wasn't me. He might not like women. Oh God, it might be even more humiliating to have missed something that important. When he returned with a handful of tissues and handed me one, I thanked him and blew my nose. What could it hurt? A honk would not make this night any worse.

"Do it," he said.

"What?"

"Toss the used tissue on the floor." I laughed, dropped the tissue, and reached for another. He fed me the stack he had in his hand and then went back for more, purposely dropping a couple before he got to me. We laughed until the tissues ran out.

The spinning settled while I learned to live with humiliation. He deserved a reprieve now that I knew I would survive. "Thanks for the wine and tissues."

"My pleasure." He ran a hand across the bed he had wrinkled and stopped mid-sweep. "What am I thinking?" He yanked the spread off the bed and dropped it on the floor. When I laughed, he went back for the blanket and top sheet. "This is actually quite fun," he said, watching the sheet parachute over the television. After it settled, he turned to face me. "Do I still get to watch you leave the toothpaste blob before I leave?"

"Maybe later." I adjusted my cover and held it closed with both hands. "I just thought of a great act of defiance." I stepped up on the bed and jumped; he did the same on the other bed.

"We're both crazy," he said.

I kicked my legs out and landed on my ass. "If you tell anybody at work about this, I'll have to kill you."

He smacked the ceiling with his palms. "Likewise."

After leaving toothpaste and shampoo blobs in the sink and on the counter, I walked him to the door. My "thank you" felt inadequate.

"For helping you destroy your room? I enjoyed it."

"For making the room the only thing I destroyed."

Everything Familiar

An eerie absence of everything familiar troubled Poncho, yet he hesitated to move since the bed felt more comfortable than it had in years. He compromised; didn't move a muscle other than to strain an ear and listen for sounds he normally tried to shut out - squawking birds, slamming doors, fights at the school bus stop, and Felix's damned muffler. Nothing. Surely, this lack of pain and annoyance could only mean one thing: he had died in his sleep. What a disappointing state of neither-good-nor-bad death turned out to be.

He opened an eye, found the midmorning sun peeking under the curtain instead of halos or pitchforks, and abandoned the original premise. The early morning sounds were missing because he had slept past them. He wiggled his toes, lifted an arm and leg, and then repeated the routine several times. Considering he had nothing to account for this mysterious relief, he especially appreciated the sensation of movement without pain.

Refusing to question or tempt this gift of luck, he eased from the bed and weighed options. He could use the extra energy to vacuum, or scrub the shower tiles he had neglected for so long. Or, he could capitalize on the emotional lift of having been through death and rebirth, and work on Amy's birthday poem. While making the bed, he decided the carpet and shower tiles could wait for another good day. Thirteenth birthdays only happened once, and didn't wait for anything.

This was a big year for birthdays in the Tranton family. Their baby would hit the teens,
Leonard--always Poncho's baby--would turn forty in April, with his wife following the next month. If all went according to schedule, Poncho would turn seventy before the year ended.

Walking taller than he had in months, Poncho padded to the kitchen and opened the pantry door. He bypassed the frosted mini wheats he would normally have pulled off the bottom shelf and reached up-still pain free-for the tin box on the top shelf, appreciating the heart swell that always accompanied contact with the tin.

He left the blinds closed, the lights off, the television and radio that he normally turned on for company silent, and carried the box to the table. Shielded from intrusion or distraction, he ran a hand over the faded Pansy lid. The picture on the tin was probably out-dated, which meant the matching stationary inside would be as well. That didn't matter; after writing twenty-seven birthday poems on Pansies, he would not break tradition for the sake of style.

The lid popped off easily now. With it came the memories. The week before Leonard was born, Mary had come in from her baby shower with an assortment of bottles, embroidered bibs, diapers, knitted booties and blankets - and one odd tin of Pansy stationary from her Auntie Edna. Incensed when Poncho laughed and suggested that Auntie Edna had finally lost her last marble, Mary informed him that she would write her thank you notes on that paper, making it a most appropriate gift.

Trouble started when Mary adopted a smug attitude and prissed her Pansy tin over to the Formica table she could barely fit her pregnant belly under. She mistook Poncho's smile as more ribbing, when in fact, the only thought in his head was that he had never seen her look more beautiful. Love was also responsible for the bigger smile that had encouraged her to toss the dishtowel at him.

Fixed on her goal, Mary ignored him and returned to her tin. She pulled up one corner of the lid, and another secured itself more tightly on the opposite corner. She rotated corners, turned the tin in every position on the table, held it between her knees and pried the lid with both hands, hit it with her fists, employed the assistance of the bottle opener and pliers. He had reached for the tin, offered to help, several times, but she ignored him.

Poncho held the lid to his chest now and re-ran every expression on her face that night, the emotions he had felt while watching her struggle with that tin, and all the love he had carried for her since.

Mary never got the lid off the tin, nor did Poncho open it to write her thank you notes after she died. He hadn't opened it until years later, when their first granddaughter was born, and he used the first sheet to thank his daughter-in-law for that gift.

He fanned the few remaining sheets. There were enough to cover the birthdays he had left, as long as he didn't get too wordy or mess up. Soon, boyfriends would supply whispers of love to his granddaughters. They would only look to him for wisdom. That wouldn't take much space.
Amy's thirteenth poem came easily, two drafts on the back of a dry-cleaning ad, and one perfect version copied onto Pansy-bordered stationary. While he had the paper out, he wrote a thank you note to Mary for understanding why he had never acknowledged his grief on the anniversary of her death. It was important that Leonard celebrate that date as the day of his birth without being reminded that his life had taken hers.

Poncho placed Mary's note in the bottom of the tin, wiped his eyes with a napkin, and returned the Pansies to the pantry until September, when Priscilla would turn sixteen. He took a deep breath, opened the blinds, and filled the coffeemaker with water, ready to restart his day - filled with everything familiar.

(excerpt from the novel Unlucky Horseshoe, to be published soon)

Marcelle Dreams

Swiping a forearm across her sweaty brow, Marcelle exhaled and whipped up an imaginary friend to help kick her fatigue in the ass. Michael Landon won the honor this time. (Sandy is generous)

Starting out with a dead man seemed fitting, seeing how somebody croaked in her last two fantasies. Her breasts smothered puny little Truman in one; she keeled over from boredom when she let Felix take a go in the other. She swore off friends after that, but might reconsider once a few of them had more experience. For now, Michael was perfect - too damned sexy to bore her, and already dead, so she didn't have to worry about wearing him out or losing him between the bazooms, as Truman had called them.

She wound the top of her trash bag into a knot (wishing she were twisting her fingers through Michael's curls instead) and hefted the sack of dead leaves over her shoulder. She would ride Michael to the dumpster and cool off before she returned to clearing the courtyard alone, since nobody else cared how sorry the complex looked. If she was lucky, the sun would die and Michael would return to life somewhere along the way. If she was lucky, which she wasn't.

Out of habit, she blew a kiss at Juanito's window before noticing he hadn't even opened the blinds. Michael's grin took care of that disappointment but she forgot both dark-haired knockouts when she spotted a sling chair in the dumpster. Maybe her luck was changing; she had made several decent finds lately. And, despite her complaints, most of the time she honestly felt as happy as she acted. Some people questioned her for laughing while she griped; others just said they couldn't imagine how she could even be happy. Years of practice, that's how, and a few bits of good luck now and again.

Like this - she either had a new chair, or at the very least a shot at trying on the latest fad in lawn furniture, without an audience. Several times, she had pulled a sling chair off the shelf in the drug store but chickened out before she sat on it. If she tried and didn't fit, or got stuck and couldn't get out, other customers would laugh. That might legitimately piss her off for the rest of an otherwise decent day.

She traded her bag of leaves for the trashed chair and carried it behind the dumpster to open it. The fabric and legs were intact. Not bad. But that didn't mean it was as new as it looked. It could be like the white jeans. They didn't have a stain on them but were so dry-rotted the seat completely blew out when she leaned over the meat counter at Kroger.

She played it safe; tested the seat of the chair with her foot, gradually adding more pressure until she was afraid she'd lose her balance. It felt sturdy. While working up the nerve to give it her full weight, a sniff from the other side of the dumpster distracted her.

Marcelle folded the chair and looked out. Bill's skinny girlfriend walked toward the dumpster, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. Marcelle ducked back. Maybe the girl had physical ailments that caused her disgusting habits, sour attitude, and nauseating body weight. It didn't matter; the thought of making nice to the dimwit made Marcelle's skin crawl.

The dumpster lid opened and closed. Marcelle waited a few seconds, opened up the chair again, and peeked around the side to check sourpuss' location. Roughly two hundred fifty pounds of tattooed flab, chrome jewelry, and vinyl clothes barreled across the parking lot and cornered the anorexic sourpuss less than a yard from the dumpster. Marcelle's head throbbed as she closed the chair again and tried to flatten herself against the hot metal, noticing the stench for the first time.

"Your man say anything about finding money in the parking lot?" The male voice asked.
Sourpuss sniffed. "Who are you?"

"Nick. I'm with Wendy. Number ten." Marcelle slid down when the dumpster lid opened and stayed in position until it had closed again and Mr. Flab continued with his investigation. "You're in thirteen, ain't you?"

The female voice sounded father away. "Not your business."

"Ha! Guess he didn't tell you nothing." Big Guy cleared his throat and spit. "Cut your skinny ass right out of his windfall, I see."

Their voices came together then, close enough that Marcelle feared they might join her behind the dumpster soon. "What are you talking about?" Sourpuss asked. "Am I missing something?"

"My girl went out last night. Dropped two, hundred-dollar bills somewhere between the car and the apartment," he said. Sourpuss responded with a go ahead grunt. "She come back in yapping about seeing your guy eyeing her from the breezeway. Weird shit, and I was fucked up so I only half listened." He spit again. "Says she don't remember it this morning but I think she's trying to protect him now. Screw that."

"What's any of that got to do with me? You think Bill has something going on with your girl?"
Marcelle bit her tongue to keep from telling them this had even less to do with her and Michael, so they should stick to talk about the lost money or move the hell on.

"Nah, Wendy ain't interested in him. Just thought I'd see if you know anything about the money."

"You really think he has it?" Sourpuss sniffed a couple more times. "Interesting."

"If he found it and didn't tell you, he's a real prick." The big guy lowered his voice. "You could get high on two hundred bucks. Know what I mean?"

"I'll check it out. Nick? What number are you in?"

"Ten. Between the wailing birds and the Mexican Fucking Riverdancer."

Relieved that they walked away before she passed out, Marcelle stepped away from the dumpster. Mexican Fucking River Dancer? Ami wasn't going to like it when she found out that's what he thought of her Argentine Tango.

Marcelle sucked in a few clean breaths and returned her attention to the chair. It would be low for the card table, but a fourth seat was a fourth seat and she could use it in the courtyard. With a little maneuvering, she fit between the arms but was still afraid to put her weight on a discarded chair. When she had extra money, say something she found in the parking lot one day, she'd buy a new chair and try it out in the privacy of her own apartment. She tossed the chair back in the dumpster and returned to the courtyard.

Before she worked up a second sweat, Loretta stepped out her door in the gray cotton jumper that had become her uniform but nobody had the nerve to ask why. Marcelle waved. "Did you come out to help?"

"Maybe after my workout." Loretta walked toward Ami's door. "Why don't you join us?"
Marcelle's idea of exercise usually involved the likes of Michael Landon, but she followed Loretta. Anything to get help with the cleanup.

"I'm in the studio," Ami called out when Loretta opened the door. "Come on back."

Loretta followed Arabic music down the hall to the master bedroom that Ami had turned into a dance studio. Marcelle stayed close behind, finding what she thought was a beat in the unusual melody and wondering if that was what the tattoo guy had mistaken for Riverdance music.
Without stopping her routine, Ami met Loretta's eyes in the mirror. "Just warming up. Glad you're going to join us, Marcelle."

Loretta kicked her sandals to the corner and slid across the laminate floor on her socks. She landed in position next to Loretta and rolled her shoulders to the music.

Marcelle left her shoes with Loretta's, and waddled into place behind the younger girls. No sooner than her shoulders found their groove, Ami bent over and grabbed an ankle.

"Wendy has a hot head over at her place," Marcelle said, forcing her face in the direction of her thigh. "Thinks you're Mexican."

Ami touched her nose to her knee and held it there. Marcelle's stomach turned just thinking of the pain. "Mexican? Must be the wrestler-looking guy."

"That's him," Marcelle wheezed.

Ami sat on the floor, arms in the air, and twisted her torso from side to side. Loretta and Marcelle joined her. "Marcelle needs help in the courtyard," Loretta said to Ami's back. I get nervous when she works so hard in this heat."

"Don't take this wrong," Ami said. "I think it's nice you want to keep things neat. I just don't understand why." She scooted down, stretched her arms out to the sides, and twisted some more.

Marcelle did her best to follow Ami's graceful lead. She didn't have the breath to continue the conversation. After stretching and straining every muscle in her body, and just when she thought she might die, Ami got up and shut off the music.

"That's enough for today if you want us to help you in the yard."

Marcelle climbed to her feet, too exhausted even to think about Michael Landon, much less the remaining leaves. "Maybe we can finish tomorrow," she said, stepping into her shoes.

"That's what you told us yesterday," Loretta said.

"And the day before," Ami reminded her.

Marcelle walked toward the door. "If I didn't know better, I might think you girls distract me on purpose."

Before entering her apartment, Marcelle caught a second wind. It probably wouldn't hurt to search the parking lot for that missing money. Dean Martin seemed like the perfect companion for this trip.

You Will Have A Concrete Garage

“Call the fire department!” Ira shouted for his wife as he unlocked the back door to run out to his burning garage. Flames rolled out the side windows and crackling wood discouraged him from going any close than the picnic table midway between the house and garage.

His wife and father-in-law joined him, leaving the mother-in-law watching through the window with the children. They waited, in shock and awe, as the sirens approached. “How could this have happened?” the father-in-law wondered aloud.

As the fire engine turned into the alley, Mr. Ame from two doors down backed his SUV out of his garage and blocked the passage, ignoring the engine’s horn and orders to move from the firemen on board. “Go away,” Mr. Ame shouted. “This isn’t your business.”

Too angry to think about the danger, Ira ran past the flaming remains of his property, through the back gate, and confronted Mr. Ame. “Move your truck. My garage is burning.”

“Don’t fight me,” Mr. Ame warned. “It’s for your own good. I want you to have a concrete block garage.”

The firefighters jumped off the truck. One tried to wrestle the SUV key from Mr. Ame but was stopped by an army of police officers who had been waiting inside Mr. Ame’s garage.

“Stay back or we’ll have to arrest you for insurgence,” the leader of the pack warned.

“Are you crazy?” the driver of the fire engine asked. “This is our domain. There’s a fire up the block, and it is in our district. Move the SUV.”

“Mr. Ames is the wealthiest, strongest man on this bock,” the cop explained. “If he wants Ira to have a concrete block garage, then that’s what Ira will have. Butt out.”

“But I don’t want a concrete garage,” Ira argued. “I’m happy with wood.” He looked back at the flaming mess and shook his head. “I have pigeons in there. My Hyundai. Things I care about are being destroyed.”

“You ungrateful son-of-a-bitch,” Mr. Ame shouted. “I sacrificed an hour of sleep to get out her early enough to minimize the risk to your family and the neighbors. My family is forfeiting a European vacation to build your concrete block garage and this is the thanks we get?”

“Bull,” Ira countered. “Your brother builds concrete garages. Don’t tell me you are sacrificing anything. I’m losing my property. I built that garage myself.”

Mr. Ame’s family rallied around him, “My husband is a good man,” his wife spat. “How dare you look a gift horse in the mouth?”

“I don’t want your gift,” Ira said. “I want my garage just the way it was.”

Frank Herman bound through the gate across the way. “This argument is ridiculous. A brick garage is what he needs.”

Mr. Ame backhanded Frank. “You’ll rue the day you contradicted my will,” he frothed. “This is between me and Ira.”

“How?” Ira asked. “I didn’t welcome your input. I didn’t ask your advice and I don’t want your concrete. Leave me in peace to live the way I want to live.”

“Oh, no you don’t” Ira’s father-in-law chimed in. “He’s going to repair the damage he’s caused now. He ruined your garage, he’ll fix it.”

Mrs. Ame rolled her eyes at a police officer. “As usual. The old man’s asking for charity. First they insult us, and then they want our money when times get tough. Same old story.”

“Yeah,” an Ame daughter shouted from the background. She waved her pom poms. “Push ‘em back, push ‘em back, waaay back,” she chanted.

“Let me beat up Ira Junior,” her twin brother offered. “Can I, Dad?”

Mr. Ame gave his son a thumb up. “Your loyalty warms my heart. Go get him. He asked for it.”

Uncle Charles Hates Towel-heads and Queers

There I was with fifty years of love and admiration invested when I discovered his love meant nothing at all. What do you do when that happens?

This man had shown up on every holiday, picked me up when I fell, cried when I cried, laughed when I laughed, clapped when I sang, carried my furniture up three flights of stairs, visited me in the hospital, danced with me at my wedding, and dried my tears at funerals. What did that mean if he could just as easily hate other people for no reason?

“Nuke them all,” was the first sign. I thought it was a joke (not a funny one). But he didn’t laugh. “We need to nuke that whole area off the map,” he continued.

He would get over it. He would realize how wrong he was to say that, and regret the confusion that allowed those words to slip between his lips. I had faith in him; he would never truly wish innocent people dead.

But he didn’t take it back. He never did laugh, or apologize. He didn’t catch the splinters of my heart as they scattered in unexplored directions.

Those people became towel heads. He wanted them dead. He said it often and loud.

I heard every possible rationalization for continuing my relationship with him from other family members. He’s family. He’s a good Christian man. He donates time and money to charities. He hasn’t ever done anything to you. He’s entitled to his opinion. Did they agree with him?

“We aren’t taking sides,” they said. “Don’t ask us to.” I wasn’t asking for sides, I was asking them to stand for principles. Everyone should have their own principles and standing for them isn’t taking a side. It’s being real.

As the political climate changed, so did Uncle Charles’ vocabulary. Nigger and queer joined towel head and spic. Uncle Charles hates them all and his ability to hate came as a devastating surprise. I had assumed he loved everyone the same as he loved me. Should I be grateful for the climate that made openly expressing his hatred so comfortable for him, so I’d know the truth? Or was this a case of what I didn’t know didn’t hurt me?

“If you have nothing good to say, don’t say anything,” my mother advised. “He has a right to his opinion.” He has a right to hate people he doesn’t know? I had to think about that. On the surface, it made sense but deeper, where my heart and mind dissected the situation into possibilities, probabilities, and consequences it wasn’t acceptable. Was it my business?

Education was the answer. Somewhere along the way, he had missed some important lessons in Sunday school. He hadn’t absorbed Grandma’s seldom spoken messages of love, and everyone knew he hadn’t read a book in years and watched the news only long enough to catch the sports and weather. I would help by bringing the needed information to him. He was a good man. He’d appreciate my help.

I collected articles and books, and prepared debates and composed scenarios. He didn’t appreciate my effort. He didn’t look or listen. He laughed. “You sound like a damned hippy,” he shouted. “Keep that crap to yourself. You have a heart and a brain. The heart belongs to the church and the brain will get you in trouble if you go twisting what the church teaches this way.”

“Your church doesn’t teach you to love everyone?” I asked. “Don’t they tell you it’s wrong to kill? That’s what nukes do, Uncle Charles. They kill.”

“I’m not killing anyone,” he offered as his final comment.

Uncle Charles didn’t want to talk to me any more. But his kids had plenty to say.
“You need to keep your mouth shut and get along,” one said. “You hurt his feelings,” came from another. My aunt shook her head. “You’ve divided the family with your hatred,” she accused.

My hatred? My mouth? My division? All I had done was try to talk to him about his hatred of innocent people and the death wish his mouth delivered. I was the bad guy?

Pleas came in from everywhere. “The family that prays together stays together. You have to come on Thanksgiving for the sake of the family, and don’t cause trouble,” they warned. “Don’t ruin our holiday with your negativity.”

I tried. I really did. I packed up my children and grandchildren and joined the rest of the family for a day of gratitude and kinship. Uncle Charles said grace. While he thanked God for wealth and health, flashes of starving Iraqi children with blown off limbs distracted me and ruined my appetite. I bowed my head lower, in shame for what my country was doing to other families while we gathered to express gratitude for not suffering the same fate we forced on them. Is that how God planned it? Should I participate in thanking Him for something I believed He wanted no part in?

“Dig in everyone,” brought me out of my trance. “Gramma, what’s a towel head?” delivered me from my quiet.

“It’s a very ugly name some people call others,” I whispered.

“Why?”

“Because they don’t know better,” I explained. “But you do, so don’t ever say that again.”

“Can we teach them better?”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

What Uncle Charles didn’t know might not have hurt him, but it did hurt me. When his hatred filtered through his family, and they used it to vote for an administration that would use their uneducated opinions to kill people in my name, they hurt me, they hurt my children and grandchildren, and they hurt innocent people in Iraq and Afghanistan. Do people really have a right to be this ignorant, and demand that I keep my mouth shut?

“Don’t brainwash that baby with your liberal bullshit,” the nearest cousin advised, with the amen of his hypocritical prayer still on his breath. “Towel heads are terrorists who’ll kill us if we don’t kill them first.”

My semi-brainwashed baby’s eyes stretched in fear. “Kill us?”

“Nobody is going to kill us,” I said. “Eat your turkey.”

“Are we going to kill them first?” my grandson asked.

“Do you want mashed potatoes?” I answered.

Reverend Stanton

The alcove seemed a strange location for sorting laundry, but who was I to judge this man? He wasn't blocking the entrance or hurting anything. In fact, his sweet smile was a nicer welcome than I usually received from the security guard.

"Good morning," I said as I passed him to open the door.

"That it is," he replied. "God bless you, dear."

"And you." The door closed behind me. He was out of my line of vision as I stood to wait for the elevator, but not out of my mind.

Another employee joined me before the car arrived. "Where's security? Did you see the bum outside the door?"

It was difficult to honestly answer her question. I had seen the man, but didn't want to call him a bum. "He's a pleasant man," I said.

The elevator arrived and she continued her rant as we rode up together. "I'm complaining. We don't need bums out there blocking the door and begging every time we come or go."

"He did neither when I came through," I reported. "Said good morning and blessed me. Did he ask you for money?"

"No, I didn't give him the chance."

Grateful for my third floor exit, I wished her a good day and headed for my office. When I opened the door, I found my coworkers huddled around our frantic receptionist. "I'm calling the police," she exclaimed. "He has no business out there."

"The man in the alcove?" I asked. "Did he do something wrong?"

"He's loitering," a secretary said.

"He smells bad and he's crazy," the bookkeeper added.

The receptionist picked up the phone and I went out the door and down the stairs. "Have you had breakfast yet?" I asked the man.
He continued to sort clothes into two stacks, darks on one side and light on the other. I say light because he only had one white sweatshirt to go with the three dark items.

"Not yet," he answered. "I'm planning out my day now. Gotta get the laundry done so I'll be ready when they call." He moved the darks to the right and the white to the left. "VA's making room for me to have my surgery. Gonna call when they have a bed available."

"Sir, I have a strange favor to ask. Will you go eat breakfast for me?"

"Reverend," he said proudly. "Reverend Stanton. Army chaplain."

"Reverend Stanton, Miller's cafeteria is two blocks away. I'd give anything to run over for scrambled eggs and a bagel, but I'm already running late for work. Can I talk you into going there to eat for me?" I held three dollars out to him. "Please?"

"Gave up my place last week," he said, ignoring my money and my request. "They keep you forever at the VA, you know. No sense wasting rent money while I'm in the hospital."

"Reverend, you have to move from this spot before the police come. Some employees in the building are uncomfortable with a stranger on the premises. I'm sorry."
Reverend Stanton gathered his laundry, draping one item at a time over his arm until all four were settled. He used his other hand to hold onto the wall and struggle to his feet. When he turned to face me, he looked at my money but made no attempt to take it.

"Knee replacement. Was supposed to just pray and counsel like my first tour. Only reason I re-upped for the second one was to pray with those guys who had been there too long. Ended up getting my knee blown out." He smiled through foggy eyes. "But I can't complain. God brought me home alive."

"Then take this money as a token of my appreciation for what you did for your country," I encouraged.

He patted the clothes with his right hand. "Would you mind if I used your money for
the laundry instead of breakfast? If I eat, it won't do anything for your hungry."
I opened my purse and took out another five. "Here, have breakfast and do the laundry. You can't take dirty clothes to the VA hospital."

He stuck the money in his pocket and blessed me a few more times before limping away. I watched until he crossed at the corner, hoping he'd find a friendlier alcove in which to wait for his call from the VA hospital.

Going, Going, Gone

Macy stood beside the door to blow her nose on the remnants of her tissue. There was no stopping the tears but she could at least save herself a bit of humiliation by not sniffing at her guest. The timing couldn’t be worse, so she hoped it was an understanding friend.

She wiped her eyes on the cuff of her blouse, stuck the tissue in her pocket, and opened the door to a man she had never seen before. Good. He probably had the wrong address. This would end quickly and she could return to her pity party. Sometimes crying it out was the best way to move forward. Forcing a smile, she nodded her greeting.

“Richard Zwicker,” the man announced, extending a business card between his index and middle fingers. “I want to buy your house.”

A wave of relief washed over as Macy opened the door to take the card. How close she had come to ignoring the bell and missing this opportunity. Maybe luck was on her side now.

“Who told you? I haven’t even called anyone yet,” she said, reviewing the information this man wished to share with the world. He paid cash for houses.

“Your house is scheduled for auction at the court house. Public information. I can help you keep it out of auction.”

Wrestling emotions, Macy curbed disappointment over not knowing her private life was on display at the courthouse and let a real smile emerge for this man who had come to help. “That would be nice. Do you want to see inside?”

He shook his head. “I’m prepared to make an offer. I’ll pay the taxes due and give you fifteen hundred dollars. Keep it out of auction, which you don’t want on your record, and give you some cash to relocate.”

“You must have the wrong information. The house is paid for and I only owe eight thousand in taxes and interest.”

He scanned the top paper in his stack. “I see that. I’ll pay the taxes. You’ll be relieved of that debt and can walk away free.”

“Fifteen hundred dollars? What about the other hundred thousand?” The tears returned.

“You’d get less than this in auction,” he warned. “It’s a nasty business.”

“I’ll have to think about it.” She held his card up. “I have your number.” She closed the door before he witnessed the flood.

The house needed work, but was worth at least a hundred thousand even after deducting the cost of a new roof. Richard Zwicker was a thief. She went to the bathroom to wash her face and opened the medicine cabinet to get something for the headache she felt coming on. More tears rushed forward as she moved the morphine the hospice nurse had missed when flushing what was left of George’s medications.

She tossed the morphine in the trash and pulled a bottle of generic aspirin off the shelf as the doorbell rang again. If the thief had returned, she would tell him what she thought of him this time. Wiping her nose on her cuff, she yanked the door open.

“Macy, you okay?” Olivia Franks stood on the porch with a tall blonde. “I brought Jasmine. She’s in real estate and might be able to help, or at least answer some questions.”

Macy let them in and apologized for the state she was in. “I felt bad enough before that man came and insulted me,” she explained. “I’m afraid he sent me over the edge.”

Olivia went to the kitchen to pour tea while Jasmine and Macy got acquainted. “I had to quit work and take care of George in the end. They gave me six weeks, on account of that Disability Act or something, but the company wasn’t happy about it. Harassed me constantly about needing me to come back. George hung on for two years, ate up all our savings.”

Jasmine shook her head. “That must have been very hard for you.”

“Taking care of George wasn’t so hard, it was worrying about money that made me nervous. Ever notice how one bad thing leads to another? Anything that could go wrong during that time did. They canceled my homeowners policy because I was out of work and behind on bills. Said I was high risk, even though I’d never filed a claim in twenty-two years. And then a storm whipped up and blew the neighbor’s tree on my roof and knocked the fence out. I had to fix the fence on account of George’s dog. He loved that dog and I couldn’t let him get out and get hit by a car or something with George in that shape.”

Olivia chuckled as she came back in the room. “She fussed over that dog almost as much as she did her husband, and she hated the mangy mutt before George got sick.”

“I still wasn’t fond of him, but he was George’s baby. I had to care for him, for George’s sake.” She took a sip of tea. “I’m afraid we’re wasting your time,” she said to Jasmine. “There’s not time to sell the house before the auction. We only have two weeks.”

Olivia smiled at Jasmine and nodded.

“I still might be able to help,” Jasmine said. “I have cash. If you’re willing, I can buy your house as quickly as we can schedule a closing.”

Macy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I hope you’re going to offer more than fifteen hundred.”

“Fifty thousand,” Jasmine offered. “I’ll have to pay the taxes you owe, make repairs and update before I can sell it again. And I have to make some profit for my time and investment.”

“Sounds better than the last offer,” Macy said. “I need to think about it. I can’t buy another place for fifty thousand.”

Olivia moved over to the couch and put an arm around Macy. “Honey, you’re gonna lose everything if you don’t do something quick. Fifty thousand’ll pay a lot of rent. All you need’s a small apartment now that it’s just you.”

Macy closed her eyes. She didn’t want to look at her visitors, or at the house George had worked so hard to provide for his family. Losing him had been enough. It was too soon to face another loss.

“Fifty thousand is one year’s salary. Even if I’m careful, that isn’t going to last the rest of my life,” Macy argued, more with herself than the others. “Who’s going to hire a broken, sixty-year-old woman and pay her enough to live?”

Jasmine wrote some figures on a paper and handed it and her business card to Macy. “Think about it. It’s a big decision, and one you shouldn’t make too quickly. You can call me when you’ve decided what you want to do.”

“What about a home equity loan?” Olivia asked after Macy had shown Jasmine out. “You could pay the taxes and fix the roof.”

“Tried that. I need a job and to clean up my credit first,” Macy said.

Frustrated, Olivia reached for her purse. “Why’d you let things get this far out of hand, Macy? What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I had to take care of my dying husband,” Macy said. “My mind couldn’t go beyond that.”

Olivia headed for the door and stopped to offer her final thoughts. “You don’t have much time. Better give Jasmine’s offer serious consideration."

Coddled Insanity

Renee shoved the tank tops aside and pulled a long-sleeved tee shirt from the bottom of the drawer. The out-of-season lecture never lasted as long as the where-did-I-go-wrong martyr fest, and she needed to get out fast. She slapped a band-aid over the new gash on her wrist and poked her arms through the sleeves on her way down the hall.

On guard, on cue, on Renee’s last nerve, her mother looked up from the bible in her lap and hit Renee with the usual question as soon as she entered the room. “Where you headed?”

“To meet Mark. Gotta hurry.”

“It’s ninety degrees outside. You’ll burn up in that shirt.”

“So, I’ll burn up. My choice.” Why couldn’t she have a normal mother, with a normal job, or at least a life of her own?

“People will think I never teach you anything.”

“I’ll tell them I’m adopted. I have to go.” Renee skirted through the room and out the door before the tears or preaching started, wishing she had taken a second to flash the new cut before leaving. They could both suffer.

Worried Mark would sell the Vicodin to the slut at work if she didn’t get there before he left, Renee kicked up to a trot. If he dogged her with that bitch one more time, she’d never speak to him again.

As she rounded the corner and almost ran over Mrs. Lowry, she spotted Mark farther down the block, headed for his car. “Mark, hold on.” She called out, passing Mrs. Lowry without a word. A bonus for Mom. Sympathy when the busybody called to tattle, and an opening for the ever-famous Do-Unto-Others lecture. God, she needed drugs to deal with it all.

“You ass.” Renee stopped in front of Mark and leaned over to catch her breath. “You were going to leave me.”

He opened his car door. “That any way to talk to a friend? Hurry up and get in.”

She ran to the other side. “Is running off without me how you treat a friend?” She asked and slammed her door.

“Told you I couldn’t be late. Try being on time once.”

“Screw you. You sound like my mother. Where is it?”

Mark grabbed her arm and looked at the drop of blood spreading on her cuff. “You’re twisted, Renee. You cut yourself on fuckin’ purpose and think I’m supposed to worry about getting your pain pills to you. That’s insane.”

“Look, ass. I decide when I want to feel pain and when I don’t. Not you.”

He started the car and backed out the drive. “Ever think people might treat you better if you acted like you care about yourself first?” He tossed a bottle of pills on her lap once the car was on the street. “Make 'em last. No more refills on that script.”

“Did you ever wonder what being a drug dealer says about you?” She stuck the bottle in her pocket and threw a wad of cash back at him.

He grinned. “Says I know what feels good to me and want to help my friends feel good too. You know, Love Thy Neighbor, and all that good stuff.” He pulled up in front of her house and she opened the door to get out.

“Yeah.” She giggled. “Love Thy Neighbor. Think I should go inside and bleed Mom to release her anger? Where’d that crap come from, anyway?”

“Bullshit cliches?” He shrugged. “More like coddled insanity, passed down from one crazy generation to the next, if you ask me.”

Lori

Back to the wall and eyes fixed on the door, Lori shook an oily strand of hair from her face and ignored her bladder’s scream for relief. With the bathroom at the end of the hall, she had no way out if he came in while she was back there. She sighed, curled a leg to sit on her foot, and grieved the end of the short-lived reprieve the security system had offered.

Now that the court psychologist had passed the good news on to her prosecutor - Joe is a sociopath and nothing will stop a true sociopath - she regretted the grocery and insurance money she had wasted on lock changes and a security system. It wasn’t very comforting to know the legal system couldn’t stop violent men when they labeled them and predicted their next crimes.

It’s hard to pee with a phone in one hand and the butcher knife in the other anyway. Impossible to shower with both hands full. The bladder would have to understand until she found new courage.

Three jobs. Damn him. He had caused her to lose three jobs and now she was too nutzo to concentrate, even if someone would hire her. Mr. Johnson knew how badly she needed the money. He also knew it wasn’t her fault the lunatic kept coming into the store to harass her while she worked. Much as she wanted to resent him for firing her, she couldn’t really blame Mr. Johnson. His customers shouldn’t have to dodge sociopaths when they came in to pay for gas or pick up a bag of chips.

Angela had used absences as a reason to let her go, like she wanted her to come in with black eyes and broken ribs. “It would be different if it wasn’t so soon after the week off with the bleeding ulcer,” Angela had explained. “Or if it hadn’t fallen in the same evaluation period with the dislocated shoulder.” The action was mandatory under company policy, not an option. Angela was sorry and even called a time or two to check on her after she left.

Thomas had flat out given her an ultimatum. Leave Joe or quit. He was tired of the personal phone calls. He wouldn’t listen when Lori explained she had left Joe, but that only caused him to call more often. Even when she refused to accept the calls, Thomas insisted Joe still disrupted the office and it wasn’t fair to the other employees or to the company.

Her parents wouldn’t take her back again, especially without a job. Joe wrecked their house the last time, throwing bricks through the window and driving across the lawn. He scared her younger sister and threatened her parents. Who cold blame them for not wanting a repeat performance?

God, she had to pee so bad it made her head hurt.

He should be off work now. If he stopped at the bar, she would have a one-hour window of freedom. That’s how long it usually took him to either start a fight or become so obnoxious Fred had to call him down and he’d leave the bar, sulking. He used to come home and take it out on her. The restraining order put an end to that, but they told her it was only temporary. Eventually, he’d stop caring about the order and come back anyway, madder than ever. First, he’d cut her face, and then he’d kill her. Can court psychologists really predict such things? She’d be foolish to discount it, crazy as it seemed.

Fifteen minutes, she promised her bladder. In fifteen minutes, she would call the bar and find out if he was there. If so, she’d dash to the bathroom. Later, she would worry about the house payment.

Maybe they were right; she should leave town and start over somewhere else where he couldn’t find her. It just didn’t seem fair that she should have to leave her life behind because he was a sociopath. Shouldn’t he have to leave?