Repost for Bran :).

[Chilimuffin]

As requested dear.... Weightless/Tracks or any other working title, just for you.

I'm weightless. I don't have to justify myself to you.

But I realize you are here to ask me question, to learn my secrets. Well, they're your secrets too, but you just don't know that yet. So you can ask whatever you want and I will give you the truth.

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When I was little, I thought she was an angel. Always billowing in Dad's old work shirts and breezy little girl skirts. She had strawberry-blonde hair like Dad, in a halo round her face and sunshine down her back, and these bright blue eyes that lived far away. At least, that's what I thought angels were. I have faith now, now that I'm old, and I see her mass, a lump of doubt on the earth.

I was a child in the war. Dad was off fighting in the Navy. He wrote home, but Mother never let me read them for myself. She'd just say, "You're father says he's well and hopes you're being a good girl while he's gone."

Some days I tried to so hard to be a good girl it hurt. I wanted to cross the street, to just touch the tulips that grew by the houses there. My sister, the angel, never let me. She helped me stay good for Dad. Sometimes being good was so hard I'd cry. Then she'd go running to Mother, just home from work.

"Mo-ther! Meg's crying again!"

Then Mother would kneel down next to me, smelling like department stores and nylon and cigarettes. Her voice would crack it was so heavy.

"Margaret Ann, Stop that now! What would your father say if he knew his daughter was weak and crying? He's off sacrificing everything to keep us safe, and you're blubbering like an undeserving child!"

And I'd sniff and choke it back. Tears were like swimming; as I swallowed them they stuck in my nose and burned down my throat like the ocean. I'd back up from her stone face and her bright green eyes and gulp.

"Sorry, Mother," I'd whisper, but I was so wretched I could never express it. I never managed to be a good girl. And the angel would be watching over me from behind the curls of her halo, and I'd know she was disappointed.

"That's better," Mother would reply, all business again. "Now go help your sister set the table." At the table, I was always a good girl. I could fold napkins perfectly and place the silverware just so, with the knives touching the top and bottom edges of the napkin and the fork and spoon perfectly centered between them.

"Meg, help me get the plates. They're heavy," my sister would plead, and I would always go. Angels were delicate; everyone knew that. Sometimes, when my angel was tired, she'd wheeze and cough and run hide in the closet so Mother wouldn't have to waste the time on a doctor. Dad said the Navy would always take care of us, but Mother still had to work and there was no time to be weak.

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The thing about faith is that it needs community. Doubt is heavy, and it's hard to throw aside by yourself. That's why I retired here among the faithful. Other people helping makes it easier, and in turn you help them, and give them a bit of your faith to hold onto. It's not lies; it's belief. You're uplifted once you figure it out.

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Rabbit, now he's a crazy skin. We always laugh at him, always getting himself into trouble.

One time he's lost in the center of the city, staring up at all these glass reflections of the sky. All he sees is how the clouds move from the sky to the buildings and then back into the sky again. He twitches with laughter and he sneaks up to the top of the tallest building and catches the nearest cloud with his teeth and climbs on top as it moves back into the sky. And he's watching the ground move past, and it's better than a late night peep show, but he's starting to get cold, and he wants a drink and he doesn't know where he is. The thing is, he can't get down for days, not till the cloud hits another building in a city a hundred miles away. And he finally hitchhikes back three weeks later, ears drooping, dirty and thirsty.

And we all laugh at him, crazy Rabbit, except Billy, who asks, "Why'd you ever come back down here?"

And Rabbit shrugs and just gives him that shy grin and says, "There's no whiskey in the sky." No doubt, that's one crazy skin, Rabbit.

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We used to sneak out late at night and sprawl in the graveyard drinking Mad Dog and making out and hanging out with whatever friends we could find. We'd all sit round this big candle she'd stolen from church, passing the bottle and telling ghost stories. She'd slide down behind me, her skinny legs like pale guardrails on either side of me, and slip tiny arms round my waist. I'd lean forward a little and she'd rest that beautiful dark head against my back, and it was perfect.

One night, after my old man'd gone nuts on some freaky basement moonshine and kicked me out again, I'm lying next to her on top of some dead rich guy's tabletop gravestone, half-drunk and talking in that deep way only drunk teenagers can late at night.

"I'm a corpse, Sarah" I say, taking another swig, "I'm dead an' cold and I'm fuckin' stuck here in this grave." I mean it, too, and she knows it, but she doesn't know what to say.

So she giggles and takes a swig and crawls on top of me, sitting up on my hips and looking down. She grabs the back corners of her big flowing skirt and holds them up behind her head, laughing.

"Look, I'm an angel! I've come to take you to Jesus!" And we're both laughing, and we both know I'm getting really hard looking up at that long black hair, feeling her crotch rubbing against me as she squeezes her thighs. And that's what she wants, because we're drunk and she hates talking about shit. And she lifts the front of her skirt so I can see she's not wearing any underwear, which is normal, but I still go for it.

And part of me knows that I'm lovesick and drunk, but also angry and weak all at once, so I roll her over onto the stone, yank off my jeans and whites with one hand, pushing them down to my knees. And she's laughing, wrapping her legs round me, and I know I'm supposed to stop and love her like I do, but instead I'm driving into her as deep and hard as I can. She's whimpering and moaning like she does when she likes it, but I'm pretending it hurts and I can get rid of myself into her. In that moment, the one where I lose it and come so violently I almost scream, shuddering, everything's oblivion and she's my angel, taking all my death away.

And then I remember who I am and I know what I've just done and I'm even weaker and more angry for being such an asshole, and I roll over and retch up all the Mad Dog into the memorial vase trying not to cry. And she's all worried and hovering, so I know she was faking it.

"Baby, you okay?" But I can't talk, 'cept to say, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." over and over again. And she doesn't get it, just keeps rubbing my back and half-hugging me, touching me. I'm a babbling idiot, apologizing, but I'm getting mad too cuz she just isn't listening.

"Baby, what's wrong? C'mon, baby, talk to me; it's okay," over and over again like a fucking machine until I'm angry all over, and this time it's her fault for not listening. And I shove her off, shrugging, but she keeps coming back, hovering, in my face, repeating "Baby, what's wrong? C'mon, tell me please?" And she bats her eyelashes trying to be cute, but I know she doesn't really care, she's just trying to get to me. And she keeps talking and asking until I've just got to get her to shut the fuck up so I can think. But my mouth won't work with all this anger in it, so before I notice, she's falling back, holding her cheek, crying. And I'm looking at her, wondering why she's crying. Then I see my hand, still raised, and I'm sorry, so sorry, angel, I'm sorry.

But she's gone and it's just me and half a bottle of Mad Dog in the graveyard. Before I take the next swig, and the next, I know that me and the old man have something in common now, and that I should tell him so. But half a bottle later and I know I'm a fucking god, and he's a puny bastard and I stand on the tombs screaming my mind into the night. And I've lost the angel forever, but damn if I didn't fuck her good and hard first.

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I've been a believer for almost twenty years now, since I turned sixty-one. I've discovered many of my stories, but I'm still looking for more. We all have endless pasts, and though I'll never know them all, I have to try and find them. That's the path of faith.

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When I got bored as a kid, which was all the time, and there was nothing good on TV, I'd stare out the window and watch the "skins" and the "crazies," as we called them then, begging on the street. Most people didn't pay attention to them because they were all drunks. People didn't like giving money unless it was for cute little animals or starving wide-eyed children in far off countries. People are still like that. My little brothers and I always ate well, and Dad used to put the leftovers out in lunch bags on the steps at night. Someone always took it, and we never asked who. Not that any of them could answer, anyway. Most of them could say please and thank you; the rest of the time they were either drunk or lost in their own little worlds.

One day that I skipped school, which I did any day we were supposed to do a play or an oral report in front of the class - funny in retrospect - I gave the lunch Dad packed for me to this old skin guy who drooled and sat on the corner of our street and the main road. He ate like the school's piranha ate goldfish, one second the sandwich was there, and then you'd blink and there was half a sandwich and little crumbs on his beard and he'd already swallowed, so it was like there was only half a sandwich to begin with.

I remember, I was sitting watching him to see if that one time I could catch him actually swallowing, and all these "Jesus freak crazies," as Dad called them, started singing hymns and asking for donations on the street corner. I remember Josie at school told me her older brother called them "crispy undie mental fish," and I was laughing, looking at them, so I missed the old guy swallowing. I was upset, and he grinned at me, as if he were aware enough to know I was waiting, and then looked at the remaining half of a sandwich.

I remember one of the "Jesus freak crazies".

"Hello."

"Hello."

"And hello to you, friend, as well." This was to the old man, who cackled and offered him the sandwich half. "Thank you." The crazy took a bite and handed it back to the guy solemnly, and the old guy looked delighted, with drool hanging of his beard. "So, young lady, is that your lunch?"

"Not any more. I gave it to him."

"You will receive blessings for such kindness."

"I don't believe in those."

"Oh?" I remember the false tones of amazement in his voice. "And what do you believe?"

"Blessings are a system of rewards to control the common man and beliefs are just superstitious stories told to little children to keep them in line and make them the slaves of power-hungry men."

"Really?" His tone was so pathetic I couldn't look at him. He didn't believe I knew what I was saying, but I did. "And where did you come up with such deep cynical thoughts?"

I shrugged, "It's what my dad says. What's cynical?"

It was the wrong answer, because the crazy smiled the way adults always smiled at me until I kicked them. The old skin man cooed to himself and I realized I'd missed the rest of the sandwich eating. I wished more than anything that the crazy would go away because there was still and apple and a cookie, but at the same time I really wanted to know what cynical meant.

"Cynical is looking at the world as if it was sad and rainy all the time." I hated the way he was talking to me. I was eleven, not five, and I scowled at him and turned to watch the old man again. He smiled and tried again. "What's your name?"

"Chrissy."

"Well, Chrissy, I've got to go back to my brethren, but I want you to know you don't have to believe something just because someone, even your dad, tells you. After all, the Truth is in the Bible for all who look." And he walked off, and I wanted to tell him I'd believe my dad any day over him, but he was busy singing again.

I shrugged and turned back to the old man who was staring at his cookie. For the one and only time in my whole life, I watched him take a bite, slowly, deliberately, and chew and swallow, and then give me this weird crazy grin like I'm the only one who knew he was capable of eating. Then, and I'll never forget this, he leaned forward and said the only thing I ever heard him say. He had a gruff whispery voice, like he'd been in a library all his life with people saying "shhh" all around him. He said, "That story ain't true. No story's true. There ain't no truth. All stories is real." And that was it. I sat there for a while, watching him sitting there looking all proud of himself and rocking back and forth. But nothing else happened, so I just went home before a bored cop or a truancy officer caught me.

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Crow needs shiny things. He's got cans and glass and beads and used needles, but he always wants more. He glues them to pieces of wood and plastic and sells them as art. His work was picked up by a dealer and carried in this ritzy gallery downtown last month, so he feels justified collecting, I guess. He made one of me, once, or so he said. Green sea glass from the public beaches, soda can tabs, old gift wrap, used syringes stuck in the arms like knives, and an old beer bottle shoved up the black plastic bracelet that's the cunt because he says I'm always screwing myself, and I agree. But he titled it "All My Heroes are Junkies" for the gallery after this Ellis Paul song he loves, and someone paid four hundred for it. He gave me the money from it, too, even though he knew what I'd use it for.

When I've got the shakes and no money, I follow him around and watch him collect. We don't normally talk much. He knows better than to touch me, and I know better than to help him. I suppose that makes us friends. Sometimes, if I'm pretty washed, he'll stop and give me cigarettes and tell me stories from when he was on the Rez. They're all about Coyote, the Trickster. I point out, once, that gods aren't supposed to be fuck-ups like us, and he just shrugs and says, "Your gods are far away. Mine are closer, and they make mistakes." In his stories, he sometimes adds modern bits. Coyote gets drunk, steals food from trashcans, and sleeps in the park, just like the people Crow wanders through, collecting. He says there's other Tricksters too, like Coyote, in other places. He says Rabbit's a Trickster, and Spider, Fox, and Monkey, but he only knows Coyote.

"Why don't you ever make Coyote a junkie?"

"Because I don't know that story."

"So make it up."

"Why don't you?"

I laugh. "Because then he wouldn't be Coyote. You can't have an Irish-German dropout from a middle-class family for a Coyote figure."

"Why not?"

"Because you can't. It would just be wrong."

"So why do you want one?"

Crows are smart birds, I guess that's why he got that name. That and the shiny things. I take a drag and give him a real answer, for once. "I don't know. Just to have a story maybe."

"Don't you?"

"Not a good one. Not like you."

He doesn't say anything. I know he's waiting to collect my story like a piece of glass. Instead, I stub my cigarette out and chew on the end of my braid and watch my hands shake. I need a fix, but I can last a bit longer. Not like I have the money anyways. I feel him watching me and I look up and see his eyes and I almost tell him. I'd be attracted to him if I didn't need a fix so much, and besides, I like him.

"What about you?" I hear myself asking.

He shrugs. "I have many stories."

"I know. Coyote stories, but I want to know about you."

"Which me?"

"The one I'm talking to!" This is going nowhere, so I get up to leave, only he's talking, and I'm too shaky to move, even though it's only another Coyote story.

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You can't look for them like you're looking for a lost shoe. You have to sit there and wait for one to emerge from the muddle and then catch it before it's gone. You have to take it into yourself and eat it like ancient gods ate their children. I've been doing this since I started, which by the looks of it, is before you were born, and I've seen a lot of stories. Good or bad, they're all real, and they're all mine. They're all yours too. Ours. Faith is about community, as I said before.

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I was the best girl in the world after Dad didn't come back. Mother needed me more than ever, and my angel was always sick. Mother said we had to go to school, but I started working as soon as I could, at nights and on the weekends. My sister ran the house while Mother and I were out working. I didn't have time for boys, and besides, everyone always thought I was too young for them. I looked like a little kid until I was in my late twenties. Mother never talked about Dad, and the boys in my classes were untouchable, as far as I could tell. I would walk past them in the hall with my head down, because I knew I was a good girl and not supposed to interact with them at all, and I didn't really want to anyway.

"Meg?"

"Oh, hello Stuart."

"Umm... I was... well...umm.. I mean... yeah. I just thought if you didn't have anyone to go to the prom with... I don't know if you're even thinking about it with your sister sick and all... but I thought, maybe you'd want to go with me?... not that you have to or anything, I was just asking...."

"I guess so."

"Oh.. Okay then." Relief on every feature of his face. Aside from the glasses, he was pretty cute, or so I thought. I figured one night wouldn't be so bad, and I'd work extra the next week.

"You'll have to wear one of your cousin's hand-me-downs. We don't have the time or money to get you a dress."

"I know, Mother. I borrowed one from Susan."

"Well, all right then, I guess it's only proper that a girl your age go to prom. Now, you'll have to be home by eleven, and be very polite if you meet Stuart's parents. Is he picking you up here?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, you'll have to clean the house. I don't have the time to. Angie will help you if she's feeling well enough, won't you dear?" This to my sister, who was patiently hemming the dress I was borrowing, the one my Mother'd been told about five times now.

"Of course, Mother. I'm sure I'll be well enough." My angel, and I was suddenly very aware that going to the prom was a bad idea and I was a terrible daughter for wanting to go, but it was too late now.

"And you'll stop across the street at old Mrs. Morris's house and she'll teach you how to dance and behave in a formal setting as a proper girl should."

"Yes, Mother."

"Good. You'll have to work hard, you know, otherwise they'll all know I haven't taught you very well. But there's just no time."

"I will, Mother, I promise. I won't let you down."

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(Oh, doesn't she look beautiful, Angie? It's so nice that Stuart's family could pay for this.)

"Dearest friends and family? we are gathered here on this most joyous occasion?.."

(She's wonderful, mother. I'm so glad she found someone who can make her happy.)

"Love is the greatest gift that God can bestow on two people?."

(You'll find that too, Angie, just you wait. If Margaret can find a husband, you'll find a prince.)

(I hope so?..)

"In that Holy Union, the work of life is lighter, it's trials bearable through trouble halved, it's joys increased through happiness shared?."

(Oh, I knew I should've let the seam at the hip out another inch. Look how it pinches! What Stuart's mother will think, I just don't know.)

(She looks beautiful, mother. I'm sure Stuart's mother won't notice a thing?.)

(Well, I hope you're right)

"Do you, Margaret Ann Teresa Callahan?.."

(You don't think they'll look down on her because she's Irish?)

(Mother, everyone in Boston's Irish? I'm sure they'll be wonderful.)

"I do."

(There, she said it. Now she's safe.)

"And do you, Stuart Matthew Alexander vonTraeger????"

(He is handsome, isn't he?..)

(You'll do just as well, Angie, and probably better, a beautiful girl like you?.)

"I do."

(They do look happy, don't they?..)

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Marrying Stuart wasn't a bad decision in the beginning. He didn't love me, or really even like me, but he had money, and he was a "proper man." I was a good wife. I kept our house on Beacon Hill, raised Emma, and made Stuart's dinner every day. When Angie died, he let me go for a week to visit my mother, who was also ill, which was very good of him. I left the bills to him, always said yes to everything he asked. We slept in separate beds because he was sensitive and couldn't handle people being too close to him for long periods of time. He said he was happy with just one daughter, and didn't want to risk any others to make more of a burden for me. I thought it was sweet of him to think of me, but sometimes I remembered the months after prom, when his eyes would brighten and his face flush when I pouted and put my hand on his shoulder. I missed those fumbling kisses and secretive touches in the dark. But I watered my plants, kept everything spotlessly clean, and watched after Emma and was perfectly content.

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"Tell me, Mrs. VonTraeger, is your husband at home much?"

Why is he asking me that? "Stuart? Not much, I'm afraid. He's very busy right now, you see, attending to his father's estate and getting family business in order."

"Ah. Yes, I see."

He sees? What is that? Does that mean I'm doing something wrong to make Stuart stay away so much? "But he's very loving when he's home."

"I'm sure he is, Mrs. VonTraeger, but I think I can see the problem now in a clearer light."

"Oh, really? Can you help her then?" Anything to make her stop wetting the bed. I can't keep up with the laundry it causes, and I just don't understand. True, she'd potty trained early, but she had seemed just fine until last month?.

"Yes. You see, Mrs. VonTrager, children who grow up without the firm discipline of a father figure tend to be rebellious. They push limits. I think Emma is a good example of this kind of child. She wets the bed to annoy you, because she knows she can."

"Well, I mean, but she's only five?."

"I admit, Emma's a bit young for such a behavior pattern. However, I've seen younger cases. And Emma certainly doesn't seem to have any other problems that would cause this."

"It's true, I'm not the most strict of parents?.." She follows me everywhere during the day. It's not as if I ever have to worry about what she was doing. At the same time, I think I was consistent in my punishment of her bad behavior. Maybe I'm missing something.

"I suggest, Mrs. VonTraeger, that the best course of action would be to ignore the violation until the morning, and then to deal with it when Emma can't see you."

"Isn't that dangerous, Dr. White?"

"Not at all, though I recommend getting a plastic mattress cover to go under the sheets so the mattress isn't damaged. This will teach Emma that her behavior does not get the desired effect - mainly, she will not be annoying you or successfully rebelling against you. She will only be creating discomfort for herself."

"And you're sure this will stop her behavior?"

"Perfectly sure, Mrs. VonTraeger, but you should feel free to call me at any time if any other problems arise."

He wants me to leave. "Thank you, Dr. White. I'm sure it'll be fine. Come along, Emma, it's time to go home."

"Goodbye Mrs. VonTraeger. Goodbye, Emma."

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Dear Stuart -

Virginia is lovely, and the hotel is beautiful. Thank you for such a wonderful present. I know the past few months have been hard on you, but I promise I'll be all better when I come home, and you won't ever have to worry about me again.

How are things at the office? How is Emma doing? Please tell her I miss her very much and I hope she's behaving herself. I can't believe the first week is almost over, and I'll be home in just two weeks. Time seems to fly here?.

?.It's very warm here, and the afternoons are like a scene in an old movie. Mr. Carter, the head bellman, carries me onto the porch every afternoon and gets me fresh lemonade. I try to tell him I can walk, but he says that I'm there to rest and recover, not to walk. He's got such white teeth, Stuart, like tile?.

?.I know you're worried about me being among so many colored people, but I assure you, they are taking the best care of me. Dr. Hoffman comes to see me in the morning, and all the employees follow his instructions to the letter. They won't let me walk more than an hour a day, even though I'd like to see the city. The Doctor says it would be too hard for me, and of course I don't know anything about that kind of thing?.

?.But I'm sure you have better things to do than read my babbling. I'll send you another one next week letting you know what the Doctor says. Take care, and don't work too hard.

Love -
Margaret


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Stuart didn't ever write back to me when I was at the hotel.

Mr. Carter the head bellman and I became good friends. He talked about his wife, who had died the past year, in such glowing terms that I saw something new about my life. I was content, true, but Stuart and I didn't love each other as I'd always thought. I wasn't even sure if we liked each other. My life until I became ill revolved around Emma and the house, his revolved around business and he seemed to have no interest in me. I must've been so preoccupied in my house that Stuart had seen no other option. I envied Mr. Carter's loneliness without his wife. I was just lonely, but he had something to remember.

I went to the hotel in Virginia again the following summer for three weeks, at Stuart's insistence. Mr. Carter was still there, although I could walk to the porch by myself just fine by then. One night, after too many mint juleps, I told him I was afraid Stuart was having an affair, because he didn't even look at me anymore. I knew it was all my fault, but I wasn't sure what I'd done wrong. I didn't explain that Stuart hadn't looked at me at all since our wedding, and Mr. Carter was very sympathetic. He suggested I sneak home a night early to see if my suspicions were correct, for surely I would catch Stuart in the act if I arrived unexpected. I thought maybe if I caught Stuart in the act, I could find out how to make him happy again.

Arriving at the airport without anyone to greet me was exhilarating. I hadn't taken a bus since high school, almost nine years. I admit, I rode the bus longer than I had to, watching people get on and off at different stops. But finally, I climbed down the metal steps and walked with my suitcase clacking behind me on the bricks up the hill to my house.

Stuart was cheating on me, and I discovered that night why he never looked at me. I wish I'd never listened to Mr. Carter, never left Virginia early, or never gotten off the bus. I wish I never had to know about it. Needless to say, I couldn't stay in a house with a man who liked his daughter more than his wife, and neither could Emma. So we left. I couldn't go back to Mother, either, because she was old and sickly, and because it was all my fault. I must've made a mistake somewhere, messed up enough to make him turn.... turn that way. I couldn't tell her I'd failed her. So I got a job a thousand miles away in Cleveland and put Emma into a public school there. Stuart never even tried to find us; most likely he found a better wife who wouldn't make him feel that he had to turn elsewhere. I never told Emma. I didn't want her to know I was a failure too.

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I remember the dark. Summer was always hot and sticky, but I always wore my winter pajamas. They were pink, and very hard to get into and out of. I felt safe in them.

I remember how pale he was. I don't think D? my father ever saw sun. He never said anything that I can remember, but then again, I don't remember much.

I remember I always held my breath as much as I could. It was something to focus on, and it was hard to breathe anyway.

I remember it was sticky. I can taste it in my mouth sometimes, if I think hard enough. He used to make me eat it, I think. I remember it made me piss, sometimes. Little kids only have so much space. I think he liked that, too, but I don't know.

I remember that it hurt, but I couldn't tell you how much; I don't think I had any idea of how to measure pain then. I think it felt a lot like splitting in half. At least in my dreams now it does.

In my dreams, it's pressure, like a giant fist pressing up into me. In my dreams I am pressed between my parents and my father has his hands up my cunt and he's tearing me in half like a piece of bread. Half of me is for my mother, who is screaming. The other half is covered in my father's cum and my blood mixes with it in pinkish puddles on my remaining leg. In my dreams he never finishes ripping me in half, because I wake up first. Some nights, I have this dream four or five times. I have it at least every other night, at any rate. I have to shoot up to make it go away. Hell, shooting up makes everything go away, and that's exactly the way I want it. After all, why the fuck should I live in reality if I don't have to? Reality sucks.

I don't remember that night, and my mother won't talk about it. I know she caught my father fucking me in my bed. I know we left the next day, and I had to switch schools. I know we moved to a bad part of Cleveland, but most parts of Cleveland were bad then.

Sometimes, when I have the runs real bad, I pretend it's all the cum my father pumped into me as a little kid gushing out into the toilet. Sometimes I get so angry thinking about it that I scream at the toilet afterwards, throwing insults at the muck-filled water. In the end, though, I know that all the shit inside me is still there, because I'm the shit. The toilet's just a small white receptacle of me.

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Coyote, he's this crazy skin. He sits at night with his bottle and when he's real drunk, he howls at the moon. Like all of us, he's lonely, but he doesn't know where to go. He lives with this skin who keeps getting drunk and throwing Coyote out into the street at night. Eventually Coyote gets it in his head to sneak back into the house and tell the skin it's rude to throw people into the street.

But he gets there, and the skin is drunk and laughing to himself, talking to a woman who isn't there, crying on her picture. He calls her his angel, crooning, singing love songs to his lost reservation sweetheart.

Coyote, he's got a wax heart melting under that fur, so he feels bad for the drunk skin. He also knows angels, he used to have one of his own, but he got drunk and angry and now she's gone. And he knows this skin could look down into his whiskey and see why his angel's gone, so he feels sympathetic. So instead of yelling, Coyote hitch hikes out to the Rez to see if he can find the skin's angel for him, or maybe just to see.

And he gets there and she's plump with breasts like the moon and smiling with two kids and a quiet voice. And he doesn't know what to do, so he sits outside her window, drunk, and howls to the night until her husband wants to shoot him. But she comes out the door in nothing but a blanket and invites him in. And she feeds him and gives him a place to sleep and takes away his whiskey. Coyote knows she really is an angel, then, because he doesn't want it back too bad.

And Coyote spends some real time back on the Rez and she teaches him how to play with the children and how to smile and wag his tail and not to be so angry. He learns not to drink and he doesn't howl at the moon so much now that he's got a friend. Even her husband starts to like him. But eventually Coyote's got to get back to the city because that's his real home and he needs to make money, but he wants to thank her somehow. So he takes it in his head that he came there with nothing and made something, so he'll take nothing and make something for her. So he goes around gathering up all these pretty bits of nothing, shiny things and brightly colored things and glues them into a statue of her, so she can see for herself that she's an angel. And it glitters and shines in the sun; it's the best he can possibly do. She cries when she sees it and tells him he's wonderful, and he's Coyote, so doesn't he know that already.

Coyote goes back to the city but he doesn't go to see the old skin, and he doesn't drink all that much anymore. He takes it in his head to make more statues, so he goes around collecting bits so people can see who they are.

-----------------------------------

It's one of my pasts, one of my favorite stories, although I suppose it's better if I don't pick favorites. It's a blend of myth and modernity, this one, straight out of a novel. Of course, novels are real too. I sometimes think that doubt is like carrying all the novels in the world on your back - you're stuck in the mud no matter where you move. But if you read the books, catch the stories, believe them, then you don't have to carry the books around anymore. You can just have your faith and then you'll float. That's what I mean, even though you don't believe me. That's why you're on the ground and I'm weightless. I don't have to justify myself to you, your doubt does that for you.

------------------------------------

Keith killed himself the same year that our middle brother, Ryan, was an uncounted casualty in Somalia. Dad and my stepmom, Margaret, argued over the funeral. He was still an atheist, and she was still a Catholic. I still don't know how they ever got together, but she still seems to think she's the best thing he's ever had. Fortunately, they got married right before I graduated from college, so I never had to really deal with her.

I flew in from Philadelphia, landing in Cleveland only a few hours before the funeral. I didn't have time to change at Margaret's house, so I threw on some work clothes in the funeral home bathroom. I went in like a bum, according to Margaret, and came out every inch the ACLU lawyer my dad was so proud of.

"My daughter fights for all the freaks," he'd always say, with my stepmother frowning at him for his impropriety. They'd met when Dad moved to Cleveland to get away from Mom's memory. The way she fussed over everything, I could see that she made an easy distraction.

Her daughter, my stepsister, Emma, was there too, which was odd, but I didn't say anything. She was the same age as Keith, and she'd hung out with him and his friends after he dropped out of college. There'd been a problem, though. One of his friends had abused her or raped her or something - no one knew the details except her, the guy, and Keith, who felt so guilty he fell into the depression that eventually killed him. So none of us were particularly glad to see her, even Margaret, who only saw the impropriety of her presence.

Emma just stood off to the side of the grave, looking strung out, while the rest of us ignored her. We all filed past her silent stare after our last goodbyes to the handfuls of dirt. One of Keith's friends muttered "bitch" at her as he walked past. I wanted to defend her, of course, and say it wasn't her fault Keith felt guilty, or that she'd gotten hurt. She was a victim, like Keith was a victim, like all my clients were victims. But my own grief and loss clogged my throat. She just stood there, as if she didn't hear. As we were climbing into the funeral limos, I looked back in guilt. I saw her light a cigarette and squat down beside the garish stone angel Margaret had ordered as a gravestone. I couldn't see her expression.

I think she moved out west after that. I never saw her again, and Margaret pretended she never existed, focusing all her rules on Dad until he died. Then Margaret joined one of the new religious cults that sprang up everywhere at that time and stopped talking to all of us, so Emma wasn't missing anything. Dad used to ask about Emma when the Alzheimer's kicked in and he was feeling almost like religious sinner. I always said she was fine.

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We don't talk about the story he told me, but I spend a lot more time with him now. It means having the shakes more, but I'm learning to live with that. He gives me all the cigarettes I want, at least - he's making real money as an artist, so he can afford it. He's been doing private sculptures for rich folks in the suburbs, taking the bus to the edge of the city and then walking to their gated mansions. They tell him their life stories and he brings them sculptures of themselves. They're eating this up, because there's nothing like having someone else pay that much attention to you to make you feel good. Maybe that's why I spend so much time with him. Maybe it's cause I know he's been telling me his story all along and it's nice to be the person who pays attention to the listener. Maybe it's the cigarettes.

Today he tells me about the rich woman he's collecting bits for now. Raised in a single mother home where she wasn't allowed to cry, both sisters dying in a plane accident in the seventies, and she never cried.

"Sad."

"She doesn't think so." Crow picks an abandoned earring and puts it in his pocket.

"What does she think?"

"That she's strong."

"But that's not true."

"It is to her."

"I bet it just made her crazy like my mom. Her sister died too, and she's not strong." It's the most I've ever said about it, and his face doesn't change but I think he likes that I finally said something. He just shrugs and keeps on picking up trash. I pop a squat, light another cigarette and wonder how this rich strong woman's going to feel, having a sculpture of herself made out of trash.

"You want to come with me tomorrow?"

"What?"

"To the suburbs. You can remember things they say that I don't."

"I don't know. I haven't left this city in years."

"It's time to leave, then. Don't you need the money?"

"I need a new life... or at least a hobby."

"Try collecting. Come with me tomorrow."

"What, collect stories?" I can't believe we're having this conversation. It's so, well, friendly, that I'm staring at him. He's smiling. He's actually smiling.

"Why not?"

I stutter. I don't want to turn him down, I don't think. Do I? "It's not very, well, tangible, is it.... I mean, I can't put them on my wall or anything."

Crow just shrugs and picks up an old piece of goldish metal, looks like a bent housekey. But then he reaches over and drops it in my pocket and grins again. "All stories are real, Emma."

---------------------------------

What you don't see, they don't see, is that their stories are mine too. And I will eat them and realize them and live them all. You cling to your single past as if that's something special, but it's my past too, just like all my pasts are yours. You think you can control the telling of the past, but I'm the one who has all the power. I have all the endings, you see. Each past makes me lighter because I don't cling to them. I take them back to the beginning, back to the source, and they're light as air, these stories. And I sit on top of their lightness. They all ask me how I do it, the reporters and the scientists. How I levitate all day; how I keep from falling. The thing is, I can't help it. I have transcended, and I don't need the earth anymore.

---------------------------------

That's why I live here, where no one can see me. They're like you, like my sister, my daughter, my stepchildren, my husbands. Stuck to the earth, stuck in doubt. But I have faith now, and I can float. Don't you feel heavy looking at me? But can't you feel the stories, all the stories, and how light they are when you know the truth. You can wander away and scoff, but in the end I'll be right, and I'll know all your stories too. And if you try, you'll know all of mine. You only think I'm crazy now. They're all the same you know, in the end. Nothing is true. All stories are real.

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Anansi, the spider, married the most beautiful woman in the world because he was afraid of the dark. He took her to the edge of the world where dark hung like a curtain, and said, "You are the most beautiful woman in the world; the sun won't mind looking at you all the time." And he gave her the edge of the dark to hold up so the sun could always get through under her arms, and he sat himself down at her feet.

But this made the other animals angry, that Anansi had sunlight all the time and they had it only half the time. So they went to the sun and said, "Anansi is cheating you. He has his wife hold up the dark so you shine on him all the time. He makes you work twice as hard as we do. You should give his wife blisters to make her stop, and then Anansi will have to deal with the dark."

And the sun was angry with Anansi and gave Anansi's wife blisters. And she cried and dropped a corner of the dark, so Anansi was in shadow. And he screamed in fear and jumped up and down and begged her until she lifted it back up again, and endured the blisters for his sake.

And the animals saw this, and they were even more angry. They said to each other, "Look how Anansi treats his wife. The sun gives her blisters and he still makes her hold up the dark. He does not deserve to have the most beautiful woman in the world as his wife." So while Anansi was sleeping under the arms of his wife one afternoon, the animals crept up silently and snatched her away before she had time to react.

And Anansi woke and his wife was gone and it was dark all around him because the curtain had fallen across him when his wife was stolen. And he moaned and wept in fear and cursed the sun, yelling, "You have taken my wife! And the light! There is no sun; it is gone with my wife!"

And the animals began to feel bad for him. His wife had traveled far away and could not be brought back, and Anansi was all alone and crying in the dark. So the animals lifted the curtain and showed him the light to make him happy. But they told him that never again could he try to have more sun than anyone else??..

-------------------------------------

I am not the man I was. Ha. It would've been impossible to remain unchanged by those days. Everyone thought the world was turning upside-down, you remember?

I did a good job, though. I had things to think about, dark rooms in which to strain my eyes over ancient texts. I had my masters to think about, the universe to unfold.

It's all your fault. Why?. No?. When did you think this would be a good idea? When did it occur to you to trap me like this?

I'm sorry?. I'm sorry?. It's not your fault?. It's no one's fault. But it should be! Then I could make them correct the mistake, turn back the clock, leave me to my studies. You could've met someone else, someone less demanding?. More caring. Then I wouldn't be stuck here with school clothes and diapers and instant formula. But then it wouldn't matter because I wouldn't have met you. But then I could've been happy??. I can't win this one, Eve! Not without you! Look at them! They're tiny and frail and all my responsibility! Didn't you want them? Didn't you want me?

No? wait?.. I'm sorry. It was just one of those things. One of those damn events that no one can control; not doctors, not me. It seems so small, now. This tiny piece of marble, the fine print engraved. Is this all that's left? Where's the rest of you? I miss you, Eve. I miss you, and I can't do this without you??.

------------------------------------------------------

At some point, I must've thought they were endearing. My clients, I mean. I don't remember. Now they're all the same. A few are honestly nice people who've been screwed over by the system. Most are just angry because life didn't turn out the way they wanted. I always want to tell them that no one's life is their perfect dream; that would be too easy. Instead, I take notes, gather evidence, make phone calls, and then dance in front of the judge, trying to make both of us believe my clients are innocent victims.

Sure, I remember believing in "The Cause." Everyone's a victim of our society, right? Someone's fired because they're a fat asshole and they're a victim of weight prejudice. They're still an asshole, though. It's hard to blame the manager who had to put up with that person day in and day out, now matter how well they did their job or how much they weighed. But it still stands that the manager didn't have the guts to say, "you're an asshole," and dropped too many fat people jokes in the hall. So the guy's a victim, and you've got to defend him on the grounds of weight, not personality. But you can't believe in what you're doing, because it's just not worth the belief anymore. It does make you a lot more careful around the break-room coffee pot in the morning, though. Maybe that's why I got so burnt out before hitting middle age - too many people tiptoeing around with their morning caffeine boost, half decaf because we're all "trying to cut down for our health." That same damn miserable joke every time someone spills - "Too bad we can't sue McDonald's over this one." Now that I'm middle-aged, I'm not burnt out anymore; I'm on automatic.

You know, I remember visiting this building as a kid, back when it was important, when it was a good spot for field trips and talks about Bobby Kennedy. Dad was on the PTO then, and he pushed things like this through, playing on the white guilt of most of the other socially correct parents. We all marched off the school bus leaving the school-provided bag lunches and orange drink cartons in their milk crates in the back seats. It was a beautiful building to me. People were really doing things then. Racism, sexism, hate crime cases, the big stuff. All the lawyers were sincere, eloquent, ready to face the Supreme Court to defend the downtrodden masses. The linoleum floors gleamed righteousness back in our awed faces.

Since then, it's all changed; you don't hear about those things anymore. There aren't anymore pro bono cases either; they don't make news or money now. Hell, I'm the only minority in the department now, and I'm only half black, once again classified as "mulatto" on the census. There's something you never saw in the 90s. Back then, poor minorities still had a chance for help; they still existed in the law.

I remember when my colleagues all started leaving. Switching careers, or moving to different law firms - corporate law, government jobs. One of them even became a Buddhist monk in Northern California. I couldn't blame them; none of us expected to make a difference anymore, and the benefits were better.

I should've changed careers then. Margaret would've liked it, so visiting Dad would've been easier. But here I am, and now I'm stuck, I think. I've got "law firm tenure" inside the skeleton of the ACLU, where there's no such thing as becoming a partner. Bigger than ever, the institution's like a supersized anorexic supermodel, with all the bones jutting out in a towering monument to how everything can starve. There's no meat on the bones, nothing really worth fighting for.

I planned it all out as a kid, one day when I was skipping school again. The cops were out harassing the street men, so I stayed indoors. I lay on the living room floor with all my colored pencils and a pad of graph paper. I built my house in color, hundreds of rooms, each one for a different activity, for all the other freaks like me to live in, all the people I was going to meet as an ACLU lawyer. I remember making a sign that said "No Normal People" and hanging it on my bedroom door. Dad usurped it later when I went to college, but I kept it for all the years until then. He hung it in his office, next to the picture of him and mom before she died. I think Margaret took them both down when they got married.

I remember the last time I saw Dad, right before he died. I remember his prematurely senile face, the original tabula rasa, completely free of thought. I remember thinking that he was finally peaceful; he'd finally forgotten mom, forgotten all of us. I remember why I got around to leaving this stagnant office building of forgotten justice, that last moment of lucidity in his eyes as I was leaving. A slow sort of chuckle, a preening pride, "There's my daughter. She fights for the freaks, you know."

----------------------------------------

In truth, I never started floating. I've always been floating, just that I couldn't see it, so no one else could either. You think you're going to learn something new in this interview, but the fact is that there's nothing new to learn. It's always been this way; I've always just been working towards this point, and now I'm here. Zen had it wrong, you see. I don't reach out and become one with everything, I remember that everything is inside me already, and I listen to it come pouring back to the source. The Universe becomes one in me, I do not become one with the Universe.

----------------------------------------

Before he starts drinking, Rabbit's always scared, that crazy skin. He never talks to nobody and he always keeps his head hunched down, in case someone wants to eat him for lunch. He never breaks up a fight, never sticks around for trouble. He's the most terrified skin you've ever seen.

He smiles at his woman, though. And she smiles right back as she smooths away his worry-wrinkles. He'd do anything for her, and she knows it, too. Rabbit, though? Rabbit has big ears. He hears things no one says, hears whispers in the night. He hears in his ears that his woman might leave him, and he's terrified. He sees her smile, sees the smile on his new son. His ears tell him the new son might replace him in the woman's heart. Mad with fright he scampers into the open.

His friends see him, they say, "Rabbit, you crazy skin, calm down, no one's left you." But he's all messed up with fear, that crazy Rabbit, so they buy him a drink. Rabbit likes it so much that he stays in the bar all night, until he can't feel any fear at all, and he starts to like his new son. After all, it's his; it can't ever leave him.

Rabbit laughs all the way home with his new bottle. He doesn't need the woman anymore to be brave. He laughs when she closes her door on him, laughs at her tears. His new son will never leave him. He takes his son, and he leaves, because he's brave now, that Rabbit. Crazy Rabbit.

He tells us boys all about how brave he is, and they all laugh, 'cept Billy, who says, "But Rabbit, you're son'll be gone too."

But Rabbit, that crazy skin, he just laughs and says, "That ain't my son, Billy, it's just a story." We all know different, but we pretend. No doubt, that's one crazy skin, Rabbit.

----------------------------------------

I am standing in front of the mirror. I spend too much time here. But today I am not moving. Today I am not busy hiding the blemishes. No control-top pantyhose to make me feel one size smaller. No cover-up on the acne that still pursues me into adulthood, no clippers to trim the hangnails, no tweezers between my brows. No push-ups, tuck-ins, smoothing-outs or blending-aways. I am staring at me, ugly. Ugly and brilliant. This I know; this, my new job, my salary, and all my friends tell me. This is why I am alone.

To be honest, in the mirror, alone is not so bad. There's no one to make messes but me. There's no one to see me standing here, ugly. There's no one to tell me I'm wrong. And I am ugly, but I want to be beautiful. And I am brilliant, but I want to be stupid; I want to stop thinking. But in the glass there are rolls of fat. In the mirror, there are wrinkles, sagging muscles, the aging of out-of-shape youth. I am not that old, but the mirror shows me that everything is still wrong, and I am untouchable.

Every day, I stand before judges, masked and calculating and brilliant. Untouchable. I would win more cases if I were beautiful. The mirror tells me what they see, even with the hose and the make-up.

I want to smash the mirror, bleed till someone notices, create a new image of myself in a new piece of glass. I cannot lift my hands beyond myself, cannot reach beyond my own frustration. I touch the counter, pick up the nylons fresh from their packaging, wrinkle them with impotent gentleness, and lean over to slip them over my toe.

--------------------------------------------

It'd be nice to walk down the street without the homeless guys. Just once.

"Hey baby, c'mere? yeah... What's your name? You got a good smile, yeah, a sweet smile."

"How old do you think I am? For you, baby, I'm always 30."

"C'mon, work wit' me here; I jus' want yo' number."

"I'm clean, Baby, I swear. You know I'm a real man."

"C'mon home with me, and I'll get you so high I'll have to carry you home, I will?"

I'd like to explain that all I want is to walk. Just walk. That I'll talk to them tomorrow when everything's quiet. I just want to see the sunset. I just want some peace. I don't care if they're clean, which they're not. But I'm not either; I'm just a cheap cunt who's no better than them. They respect hookers more than me; hookers have a price.

Damn me.

I try and sleep on the rich side of town sometimes to avoid them. Cops don't bother mostly normal looking women napping on a bench outside the park walls. I sleep during the afternoons, like I'm someone's lazy maid slacking off.

I mean? I have a place, if you count the abandoned remnants of lost industry a place. I even have an education. It should be a sweet deal, a place with no rent and a good vocabulary. I could get a job, even. A sweet deal, except for the damn noise the minute I step out the door. I spent a lot of time making that door secure; no one gets into my room. All those men just outside though. And my head.

I haven't seen Crow since I told him to go to hell. He just said, "okay" and left. I haven't seen him in weeks. It's funny how you never think of someone until they're gone. If I didn't want to see his face, maybe I wouldn't look at people on the street so much. Maybe they'd leave me alone then. Then absolutely no one would want me for any reason, and I could just be me, in this place. I could've left. I should've left. I didn't.

"I love you."

"Go to hell."

"I mean it."

"And so do I. Go to hell."

"Okay."

Damn me.

I see the instant replay in the mirror Crow found for me when I found my place. I don't see my fist smash it, but I watch the blood smear across the glass, across my hands. There's one thin sliver standing like the steadfast tin soldier, embedded painlessly in the thickest of my arm's needle scars. I sigh, and the breath of air makes it quiver, and fall, bloodless, to the ruddy mess on the floor.

Damn me. Now I need a new mirror.

---------------------------------------------

[Branflakes]

COOL!!!! Ok, I gotta sit down and read through this from the beginning again. THANK YOU.

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The ninja lesbian milk getter. aka dorkflakes.
Take the time to look up at the moon and stars.
ChatterBox

[Branflakes]

This is damn good, Chili. Amazing how things came together. Thanks for reposting it.

------------------
The ninja lesbian milk getter. aka dorkflakes.
Take the time to look up at the moon and stars.
ChatterBox