A Quiet Night At Home

>>>Andy Gordon couldn’t remember the last book he read. It may have been a Dean Koontz or John Grisham offering. Andy used to love losing himself, his identity, for long stretches of time in the imagination of another’s pen. Not that he had anything to hide from. Life had always treated him well. But to forget everything, every fear, every unrealized dream, was a relief more welcomed than any drug or drink he had ever known.

Before the tomes of fantasy, there were heavy doses of the classics he was force fed in college. Hemmingway, Faulkner and Joyce. And then there were the poets: Dickinson, Byron and Shelley. Some of it he truly enjoyed. Most of it he simply tolerated. But to read something of his own choosing, even if it were deemed trivial and amateurish by the learned, that was something special. Reading was everything. It was an escape and a lesson. It was a dream to cling to, and a memory to forget. It was entertainment, education, and a perfect way to waste an hour or two on a lazy summer Sunday.

It was also something that Andy had not allowed himself, or been allowed to partake in for more lifetimes than he cared to reflect upon. That’s what made his assembling a bookshelf in the garage of his house all the more ironic. But what was left? He had already built the bathroom shelves and the kitchen cabinets. He had already constructed the back porch and his son’s tree house. And he despised working with his hands. He never took shop in high school because he knew he’d never pass the course. He was a thinker, not a doer. He could barely change a lightbulb before he got married. Now, 19 years later, Andy Gordon could find no greater peace in the world than a night alone in his garage with a power-sander.


>>>Emily Gordon had an inherent distrust of technology. To this day, the Gordon household did not include a microwave oven. If it wasn’t worth the time to prepare by hand, it wasn’t worth eating. That was her mother’s philosophy, and it somehow became Emily’s as well. Her children were more than comfortable in the world of DVD players and CD burners. But Emily was a throwback. She baked her own bread, made her own pasta and sauce. She oversaw the growth of both a vegetable and flower garden. One was practical, and the other was relaxation. She recycled everything that mankind could produce, and couldn’t tell Oprah Winfrey from Ricki Lake for a million dollars.

The one exception to the "No Technology" rule in Emily Gordon’s life was her 1.5 Ghz computer with DSL connection. At first, she used it exclusively and begrudgingly for dinner recipes. "You mean I can find ingredients without calling my mother?" she asked. It was an amazing, wondrous invention. Everything a person could ever want or need to know was right there, in the den of her immaculately maintained home. She discovered meals that she never attempted to cook before, gardening techniques she had never heard of, and people she had never dreamed of meeting. All kinds of people. Educated people. Intelligent people. Lonely people.


>>>Megan Gordon was a high school senior. A cheerleader on the verge of 18, she was the wet dream of every underclass boy. With flowing, dyed blond hair and a penchant for wearing blue jeans and sweaters one size too small, she was difficult to miss in the hallway of Weber High School. Academics were secondary to Megan. She was blessed with a high intellect that would not allow her to score anything under a "B" on any exam, no matter how many classes or homework assignments she may have missed.

But for Megan, grades hardly seemed to matter. In fact, nothing seemed to matter to Megan at all. Nothing besides popularity that is. And popularity wasn’t graded on or studied for. But it was a requirement. Straight "A’s" and a college scholarship hardly mattered if no one knew who you were, or worse yet, if no one cared if you were alive. Fortunately for Megan, she also seemed to be blessed with that ever-elusive Popularity Chromosome.


>>>Timmy Gordon was all of 14 years old. To Timmy, everything that mattered in this life could be found within the confines of his highly guarded bedroom. He had his own television, which was always on, but often muted. He had his own VCR and a vast collection of movies, most of which featured large objects being blown to pieces by machine gun fire. He had his own stereo with a six-disc CD changer, which he was rarely able to use due to volume restrictions in the house. And he had a CD collection that would put most radio stations to shame.

CD cases and liner notes were scattered from one end of the room to the next. His walls were adorned with posters, frighteningly dark and shockingly violent posters of grotesque looking musicians and stage shows. His wardrobe consisted mainly of black concert tee shirts with names like, "Marilyn Manson," "Slipknot," and "Mudvane." Even now, Timmy was sprawled out on top of his bed in a "Korn" shirt, listening to "Disturbed" bellowing so loudly through his headphones that an atomic bomb would have gone unnoticed.

Open up your hate and let it flow into me

His eyes were trained, as usual, on absolutely nothing. Hypnotically transfixed on nothing.


>>>SamOTanner was his screen name. Boring, bland and honest. For Sam Tanner was not attempting to promote himself as anything other that himself on the Internet. In fact, he wasn’t trying to promote himself at all. He was simply searching for pointers as he undertook preparation of chicken Marsala for a family dinner. Fortunately for Sam, Emily Gordon was a connoisseur of all meals Italian. Unfortunately for Emily, Samuel Tanner was as charming in real life as every one of those Internet fakes claimed to be. And charm was something desperately lacking in Emily Gordon’s life.


>>>Danny Foster wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but that was no cause for concern. For every point below his desired SAT score, there was a game winning touchdown pass to bridge the gap. Danny was all state, and had been since his sophomore year. He had a cannon for an arm (a left arm at that) and the mind of a battle tested general on the football field. Danny was going places, maybe not great places, but better places than this.

At the moment, Danny’s hand was going under Megan’s blouse. And she was hardly trying to stop him. She hadn’t since she was a sophomore. They were both fifteen then, and had no clue what they were doing. They were both nearly eighteen now and had no concern for the consequences. Danny didn’t care because in ten years he would have forgotten all about this town that wanted nothing more than to celebrate him. Megan didn’t care because in ten years, she’d have forgotten about her parents as much as they have forgotten about her at this very moment.


>>>You mother get up, come on get down with the sickness

You fucker get up, come on get down with the sickness

Although he didn’t dare sing aloud, Timmy was certainly mouthing the words with the veracity of a sweat stained lead singer. He was the star, center stage, a raging crowd screaming below him, reciting every word, every ounce of pure hatred back at him. He was something, somebody. He was a source of fear and inspiration. He commanded respect. He was the baddest mother on the block and would prove it to you in the parking lot, alleyway or classroom. He was not to be teased, picked on or laughed at. He was loved and despised at the same time. He was a star, larger than life, but filled with it. He was the man.


>>>His first undertaking was a magazine rack. There were no rounded edges or awe-inspiring feats of architectural design. It was barely more than the letter "V" with a wooden handle. But it was his creation. More than that, it was his creation for himself. His first such treat since his marriage. It was with him still today, in the bathroom, crammed with months of outdated Sports Illustrated magazines. And he made use of it every day. Once Emily tried to feminize it with the same fluffy pink puffballs that adorned the seat cover of his commode. But he’d have none of that. This was his wooden V, with his magazines for his personal reading time. If he wanted to stack the damn thing with "Penthouse" and "Hustler," he was damn sure gonna do it.

That was three years ago. Now he owned nearly every tool in the Black and Decker catalogue and was constructing much bigger things. Things the whole family could use. They even infringed on this. But this was his garage. Even if he were building a tampon dispenser for her, it would still be his garage. Her fu-fu caravan would not set foot in here. Not in his garage. Not near his circular saw. He’d carve it into scrap metal in a heartbeat. There may be no more worlds to conquer, but there were certainly empires to defend. Andy’s empire was the garage.


>>>When Sam’s lips had finished enjoying the best and only chicken Marsala he had ever tasted, they moved on to Emily’s lips, and neck, and shoulders, and nipples… At least in his mind they did, although it was never mentioned in conversation. In fact, there had never been conversation. He no more knew what her voice sounded like than what her nipples actually did taste like. But she knew. She never said a word, but she knew. And she liked it. No, she needed it. She craved it. Even while his tongue was sampling the meal she had helped him prepare, she was ushering it onto and into every inch of her body. Emily may have hated the computer, but she loved the magic it beheld.


>>>Darren Sharply was Danny Foster’s teammate on the football field. Unbeknownst to Danny, he also shared the same backfield away from football - Megan Gordon. But that was their little secret. Darren had every reason to hide the fact as well. He was screwing the homecoming queen. She may have been a little too nerdy, but she had a great rack. Even better than Megan’s, although she was hardly the freak that Megan Gordon had grown to be. But it took six months of hard work for him to spread those thighs, so he was going to enjoy it for all it was worth before he kicked her to the curb. Megan was relaxation. She was already well versed in the moves that he had to explain to The Queen. So he and Megan only hooked up once a week. Twice at the most. That way, he was free to keep The Queen, and she was free to keep the quarterback happy. That was what mattered most after all.


>>>She imagined that he was tall, although she had no way of knowing for sure. Andy was only 5’9" after all, 160 pounds at the most. Sam had to be more man. All man. A man with taste and style. He cooked after all. And she was certain that he had one of those military haircuts. Short, close cropped, efficient and manly. Andy’s hair was always in need of a trim, parted in the middle like some unfashionable schoolboy. And when he came in from the garage, it was always matted to his forehead with sweat and sawdust. Most unseemly. But Sam? No way. He was neat, but not prissy. Confident in his appearance and movement. He didn’t glide or prance like her husband had a tendency of doing. Sam commanded space. He moved space out of his way. He created space, but he could also eliminate it as well. He had eliminated the space between them more than once. He was eliminating it even now as she allowed her left hand to explore her aroused body while her right hand held firm to her mouse. Sam’s mouse.


>>>Timmy glanced at his right hand. The knuckles were bleeding again. He had been slamming his fist into the wooden post of his bed to the beat of the music. He felt no pain, only power. He stared at the trickles of burgundy and the raw exposed flesh with excitement. He then curled his fist tighter and pounded it into the wood harder than before. He felt the sensation. Not pain, just feeling. Any feeling.

It seems that all that was good has died and is decaying in me


>>>Megan had filled out the college scholarships and taken all of the appropriate entrance exams. Schools seemed to be lining up to welcome her into their bosom. In fact, they seemed to be tripping over their tongues like those clueless juveniles in high school do for her attention. And what would they do if she actually said yes? What would Benny Delpy do if she actually agreed to submit to his greasy-palmed fantasies? If she offered her lithe body to him on a Saturday night? He’d cringe in terror is what he’d do. For most of the boys she knew were pussies. In fact, most men in general were pussies. Sure, they acted tougher than granite to impress their equally pussified friends. But when it came down to action, do or die, for real this time, most boys didn’t have a clue. Benny Delpy and his straight "A’s" didn’t. Her father sure as hell didn’t.


>>>The dictionary was an odd choice. The encyclopedia even odder. But for the life of him, Andy couldn’t decide what book should be the first to adorn his new creation. He tried to picture where his collection of books actually was. There was a couple in the bedroom, but they were Emily’s. Cookbooks he thought. Nigella… somebody. What was with her fascination with cooking anyway?

He was certain that there must be a few tomes in the attic. Maybe some anthologies of great literature from the syllabus of a long forgotten college course. Maybe he still had a few Jack London or Hemmingway masterpieces tucked safely in a box somewhere. Maybe even a collection of John Cheever short stories. He had all of these and so many more at some point in time, but he couldn’t quite recall when, where, or how long ago. Then again, Emily was always prone to hosting an impromptu yard sale.

Even worse than having a bookshelf with no books, Andy couldn’t imagine where he’d put the thing. There was no room in his bedroom, not with the armoire and three oversized dressers. He remembered the day that all of his clothes could fit in the lap of an easy chair and a hamper. In fact, they still could. But not Emily’s.

The living room was out of the question. Ever since the entertainment center took center stage, there seemed to be no room left for living. First it was the TV. Then they had to have the sound amped through the stereo. Suddenly his cherished stereo was no good because it was invented before the CD player. Then came surround sound and finally that horrific Sony Playstation. The hardware on that entertainment center was worth more than the car he drove. He guessed books no longer passed for entertainment.


>>>Toby Kendall made fun of him today. Called him a wimp. Called him a freak. Pushed him into the lockers. Laughed in his face. It was a typical day of junior high for Timmy Gordon. He spoke not a word. He had no friends. He was all but invisible in the classroom. He skipped gym. He sat alone at lunch. He was midnight’s shadow, the roadmap to Atlantis. The only people that noticed him at all were the people who seek out the call of the weak, the cry of the mute. People like Toby Kendall and his ravenous band of directionless sycophants. People who pray on those that have no fight or will to defend themselves. People who would never strike back… until they had been pushed over the precipice of reason.

Timmy said nothing. His eyes never met Toby’s. He was there, and he was far away. He was on stage, microphone in hand, slicing his flesh with a broken bottle of Heineken. His fury was as red as the blood that spilled from his skin, and as silent as the decent of a feeding hawk. It was a vengeance in planning, a holocaust taking shape. It was an inferno ready to engulf Toby Kendall and a thousand more like him in the ash-encrusted hallway of a thousand junior high schools. It was the ticking of a time bomb.


>>>Emily imagined what it would be like to meet Sam Tanner. To actually share the same breath as he. To be close enough to touch him, even on accident as she reached for her pocketbook, a drink, or a headboard. She imagined how her skin would react to the heat emanating from his body. How the hair on her arms might spring to attention. How the smallest traces of sweat might appear around her temples, her armpits, between her breasts. She wondered if these things would even happen, could even happen to her anymore. Was she capable of feeling passion, desire and an overwhelming urge to rediscover her womanhood? Had that been taken away as well by the crafty hands of an unseen villain?

She dared not ask anything so personal of Sam. She didn’t know how. Didn’t remember how. How to flirt. How to play the wounded mouse to the powerful cat. How to say "no" while praying to all that is holy for "yes." She had forgotten the electric tingle of desire. How every cell of her body could react as one needful being. How a word, a breath, the slightest touch from another’s hand could set her on fire. She wondered if she had ever known. She wondered if she could even make it worth another’s efforts. Sam’s efforts.


>>>She knew that Danny Foster loved her. He had even spoken the words. Spoken them far too often for her comfort. She even managed to repeat them to his hungry ears on occasion. But we all had roles to play, lines to learn. Megan needed Danny. Not the ‘I can’t live without you’ kind of need though. Danny was the man, the star, the stud. He was the over inflated ego of small town hero worship. She needed to have him because if she didn’t, that meant that someone else did. And although trophies amount to nothing more than polished paperweights, they’re still nice to have around.

So there she was again, lying prone on her queen sized Serta allowing the quarterback to call his own plays. Feeling his hot breath cascade over her face and neck. Sensing his hands as they roughly caressed her perpetually tanned skin. Listening to his inane "oh baby" and "yes, yes." Little did he know that she was running the show. Every move and each moment of surrender were steps in a highly orchestrated dance that had become second nature to her. He was getting what he wanted, but she already had what she needed. In four months, when school was dismissed for the last time, Megan’s back would be forever turned away from the cherry schoolboy, walking towards the glow of brighter lights. Until then, a few minutes on her back were hardly a sacrifice for the cause. And a few moments is all that it ever was. Besides, stringing the poor boy along was all that she required to get off.


>>>He lived in Massachusetts. Too close. Less than an hour’s drive on Interstate 84. She could be at his door in the time it took to fill a shopping cart with carefully selected double-coupon items. Less than the time it took to wake her children and usher them out the door to school. Less than the time allotted her husband for his daily lunch. Too close.

She dared not divulge the fact that she lived in central Connecticut in a quaint, rural community a mere four turns and three streets from the interstate. She found his location by accident, he asked for hers purposely. He let slip the fact that he still attended football games at his alma mater, Boston College, on those lovely New England fall afternoons. How he could tail gate at the game during the day, and be home in plenty of time to try out one of her recipes for dinner. To share a meal prepared for her, by him, in his house in Massachusetts. He asked if this could ever happen for real. She committed to nothing, neither acceptance nor refusal.

He playfully goaded her during every one of their highly guarded chat sessions.

"Are you coming tonight? I placed an extra setting at the table."
"Sure," she’d reply, "I’ll bring Andy, you’ll love him."
"Why would I?" he asked, "You don’t."


>>>How one could become addicted to the scent of sawdust was something he had yet to determine. Especially him. Andy was never one to experiment with addictive substances. There was always too much cause to remain on high alert. Other students vying for attention and better grades. Lethargic co-workers spending more time trying to take credit for other’s contributions then than pulling their own weight. Siblings with higher paying, more prestigious careers. He never found the time to drop everything and go out for a beer with the guys. He never picked up the smoking habit since his parents so strongly disapproved and damn near disowned his brother Kenneth when the found him lighting up in the basement. Anything stronger than that took balls for someone to try. More balls that Andy Gordon ever owned.

But somewhere along the way, Andy became addicted to the scent of sawdust. He needed that rush from the freshly carved pine or oak or maple or whatever the flavor of the day may be. At first, it concerned him that the finer particles were being inhaled and coating the lining of his lungs. He insisted on wearing a mask whenever the power tools were unharnessed and put to use. But slowly, his fear diminished and was replaced by an odd sense of achievement, of belonging. He poured his heart and soul into the work he created in his garage. Why not allow that work to become part of him as well? Why not enjoy the experience in totality? The hands on, the scent, the microscopic particles? It was obvious he needed it. He’d spend some nights in that garage just fading into his own background without ever even touching a tool. Just siting there, breathing in the wood and the fumes of the gas can, sifting sawdust through his fingers.


>>>Sleep would most likely bypass Timmy again tonight. He had already planned the menu well past dawn. After Disturbed, he would foray back to the classics of another time. Metallica would be next. And not the shorthaired sell out Metallica that became fashionable to listen to. Timmy would queue up "Kill ‘em All," and fade into tracks such as "Seek and Destroy," "Whiplash" and classic cover of Diamond Head’s "Am I Evil." Those were the rebellious sounds of the generation before his arrival. But they were more than rebellious. They were fear inspiring. They were shrouds of frightful mystery.

Timmy Gordon inspired neither fear nor respect on his own. He was twenty pounds underweight after Thanksgiving dinner. He was a walking skeleton, frailty personified. He was a slow moving target; easy prey for those cursed with confidence and a sense of belonging. He was the release valve for every tension the popular crowd could ever dread experiencing. He was the trailing snicker of a hilarious joke, the taste of bile after a bout of stomach flu.

But in his music, Timmy found his highly sought sense of escape. For his music was not for the faint of heart. His music was the torture rack a battle-tested soldier could not endure. His music was a medicine too toxic for the weak to ingest, a chemotherapy cocktail. His music was the dividing line between those strong of build, and those impenetrable of spirit. One could not dance to his music. One could not seduce to his music. One could not ignore his music. His music was a chainsaw slicing the jugular of the dime a dozen posers that laughed at him throughout the day. It was his way of breaking the jaw of Toby Kendall and every one else that laughed at the mere mention of his name. It was this music that would guide him from dusk to dawn and allow him to tolerate another day.


>>>She wanted nothing more than to sleep. Being popular took a lot of energy. Much rest was required to present the image that would cause adolescent boys to masturbate before falling to sleep at night. But Danny was not obliging tonight. He was still on top of her, inside of her, lost in a world that only he could describe. Just what was he thinking anyway? His eyes had been closed for an eternity. Megan knew this because she never lost sight of them, praying that this exercise in futility would finally come to an end. But he showed no signs of stopping. His underdeveloped yet attractively defined muscles were still tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing over her prone frame. Had he been reading letters to Penthouse, trying in vain to become a better lover? Love was not what Megan required. Rest was what she needed.

It was much the same feeling she experienced while suffering through the SAT’s last fall. Childish games. It was necessary for the paperwork, but useless in the grand scheme of things. Megan knew where she was going. Mind numbing exercises like placement tests and screwing high school athletes were neither needed nor enjoyed any longer. She had figured out the game. She had played her hand, and now awaited the awarding of the pot. And in the hand of life, Danny Foster was a joker to be discarded. She only needed to tolerate him till graduation, and only two or three nights a week until then. The rest of her time would be spent in the shadows of life with Darren Sharply. Her parents would never meet Darren, but that was okay. Darren would never permit such a thing. Darren would never even wink at her in the senior class hallway. And more than anything, Darren would not cause her to lose sleep like this.

Danny Foster grunted. He was not yet done.


>>>She never considered the idea of cheating, infidelity, adultery, or whatever the phrase of the week might be. Even now, as mere black words on a white screen caused her to experience the only sense of arousal in her otherwise sensually deprived life Emily was able to rationalize her relationship with Sam Tanner. She had never so much laid eyes on the man, nevermind hands. And even if she did want to touch him, so what? It hadn’t happened. And it wasn’t going to happen. She was smarter than that. Wasn’t she?

She was never going to submit to his request for a quick meal and an even quicker workout in his sheets. The logistics would be impossible to fake. She wasn’t good at such things anyway. How could she account for her absenteeism for such a rendezvous? She belonged to no club or social group that would take up so much as an afternoon; forget an entire evening. She had no out of town friend or relative with which to concoct a believable alibi. She was trapped. Shackled without chains in a world whose boundaries stretched no further than the city limits. But that confined area was a thousand universes compared to the cave her emotions had been a prisoner to.


>>>Chucky Simpson was inferior in every way to Andy Gordon back in the Pleistocene era when they were in high school. His grades never equaled Andy’s. He was unable to land a date to either the junior or senior proms. The guidance counselors never promised him a brighter future if only he "applied himself" a little more. So why was Chucky Simpson able to find happiness in a world that depressed Andy Gordon so?

They had run into each other last summer during their 25th high school reunion. It was the first such gathering that Chucky had made time to attend. Shortly after dropping out of college, Chucky had somehow won the heart of world famous exercise guru Susan Rappaport. The same Susan Rappaport who at one time hosted her own aerobic exercise program on the Lifetime network. They had been married for fifteen years by the time Andy discovered this sick joke. Chucky had spent the last decade and a half acting as a house-husband to Susan, watching over their nanny’s watching over of their two children and ten acre, sun drenched, California estate. During that time, the underachieving Chucky Simpson even found time to write a best selling autobiography of his life with a beautiful fitness guru. The same Chucky Simpson that used to cheat off of his English mid-term exams. Life was not only unfair, it outright sucked.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Maybe Chucky’s dumb luck wasn’t the way things were supposed to be either, but it was a hell of a lot closer to the promised land than Andy would ever tread. His parents raised six children without so much as a complaint to be heard. If one of them stepped out of line or broke the rules, there was a price to pay, and order was quickly restored. And it wasn’t accomplished by his father’s belt strap or his mother’s Valium deprived outbreaks. It was done by some black magic spell known simply as parenting. His parents knew how to be parents. In fact, everyone he knew from that generation knew how to be parents. None of his siblings or friends ever got in trouble for drinking, fighting or drug possession. There were no sunglasses to hide the bruises on his mother or any of her friends. There was no Judge Judy or Divorce Court fouling up the airwaves. There was only work, school, homework and curfews. And once these boundaries were set, no one dared to question why. There was both authority, and a healthy respect for it. So just where did he go wrong?


>>>On the shelf above the computer, amid a collection of unpaid bills, outdated receipts and three jars of pennies sat a picture frame. In that frame was a photo of four complete strangers: a man, a woman, a child and a toddler. They were an odd looking group, all of them wearing honest-to-goodness smiles. Smiles the likes of which she hadn’t seen in years. The sun was beating down on a biblically perfect summer day. An eight foot tall Goofy standing in the background, the gentle purity of Disney World permeating every inch of the fading photo. The toddler sat in the man’s lap on a wooden bench. The woman was seated next to him, holding hands with the young girl. The girl tried in vain to pretend she didn’t want to be there. She was having the time of her life.

Emily stared at the picture quizzically. Like characters in a late night movie, she recognized the faces, but couldn’t place the names. They did not appear to be from this or any other world she could comprehend though. There was a bond connecting those people. An odd bond of trust and love. She could see it in their eyes. Not only were those people there, together, but it was obvious that there was no other place that they would rather be, or people they would rather be with. Where do people like that come from?


>>>She would skip first period tomorrow: calculus. It wasn’t necessary. The only numbers that mattered in this universe followed a dollar sign. The rest was intellectual bullshit that those who couldn’t learn to do learned to teach. Instead, she would drive to practice field. No one would be there until well after the final bell. No one but Darren Sharply. There, inside the equipment shed, she’d wrap her arms around a real man. Offer her tongue to a real man. Lately, tolerating a night with Danny Foster made her crave the touch of a real man. Like an alcoholic forced to endure a fruit punch barmitzvah, she craved the taste of a Tequila drenched sorority bash soon after. And Darren would be ready for her tomorrow. The Queen would be busy with the homecoming committee all night, leaving Darren all alone to fanaticize about her. He’d probably get less sleep tonight than she would, even if Danny never finished.

Megan didn’t even mind if Darren was dreaming of The Queen’s tits while he fondled hers. For her part, Megan was pretending that he was a Hollywood producer or famous actor. Or maybe a professional athlete. One with a guaranteed, multi-million dollar contract. Maybe even an upwardly mobile politician. A senator or a presidential candidate. If Monica Lewinsky could make a name for herself, than Megan Gordon could sell five million copies and a screenplay of her exploits.

The great thing about Darren Sharpley was that he didn’t care. She could be fucking anybody in her mind, as long as he was filling his daily piece of ass quota. He was going places too, and never envisioned her coming along for the ride. They were wild dogs, feral beasts completing their most basic requirement. But in that most emotionless and unattached relationship, they were as close as two breathing entities could be. Closer by far than Danny Foster could ever relate.


>>>The top drawer of Timmy’s nightstand held a collection of report cards. All of them revealed his failure as a Gordon. His sister sailed by with near perfect grades. Both of his parents were college graduates with framed diplomas. For all he knew, Einstein and Stephen Hawking were well kept family secrets. But Timmy was another story altogether. A ‘C’ was considered a crowning achievement. It was enough to get by. Enough to move on and forget. And he had his share of ‘D’s’ as well. He never managed to outright fail a subject, but then again, he never knew anyone who did. Thank God for quotas. Teachers didn’t like to fail anyone anymore.

His parents had seen those report cards. They had to sign off on them. But never did they voice even a word of disapproval. Not once. Signing off on a major portion of his life was treated the same as writing a check to the veterinarian for treating the dog’s ringworm infestation. They just didn’t care. Never was he reprimanded for his underachieving. Not once was he scolded for tarnishing the family name. He was never even brought to task for failing to live up to the standards set by his slut of a sister. Nothing about him seemed to warrant a reaction at all. The volume on his Walkman was already cranked to ’10.’ How he wished there was a ’12.’


>>>"What makes you think I don’t love my husband?" she typed.
"Because you’re here, with me, every night." Sam replied.
"So I’m not allowed to talk to a friend?"
"You tell me."
"Of course I can. I can have friends. So can he. There’s nothing wrong with that."
"So, does he?"
"Does he what?"
"Have friends?"
"Of course he has friends."
"Like us?"
"What do you mean?"
"Does your husband have a friend like me?"
"I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at."
"Sure you do. Is your husband flirting with anyone?"
"I am not flirting with you!"
"Is your husband trying to seduce anyone?"
"I don’t think I like where this is going."

In truth, Emily loved where this was going. In the nearly two months that they had been corresponding, neither of them had displayed the guts to approach the heart of the matter. To give name to the attraction, the desire that drew them to their computer screens every night. Leave it to Sam to break the ice. It takes a man to do something like that.

"Have you ever cheated on him?"
"Heavens no."
"Has he ever cheated on you?"
"Of course not!"
"How do you know?"
"Because I know."

Emily didn’t know what concerned her more, her uncertainty of her answer, or her lack of concern for the truth.

"Why do you chat with me every night, Emily?"
"Because…" She was searching for a non-committal response. "Because we have a lot in common. We share similar interests."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. That’s the God’s honest truth."
"And you have no desire to meet one day."
"Well, sure. I’d love to meet you someday. There’s nothing wrong with meeting with a friend."
"So let’s do it."
"Do what?"
"Meet. Let’s meet. What are you doing this weekend?"


>>>Andy didn’t remember turning of the sander, removing his goggles, or opening the half-empty bottle of beer her was now holding. He couldn’t remember how many more mortgage payments were due on his home. He couldn’t recall his birthday, anniversary or even his wife’s name. For a brief moment, he couldn’t recall anything since the summer of his high school graduation. How he and his best friends, Jason and Kevin, would drive endlessly through the thick summer nights with the top down on his father’s convertible, cranking the radio as loud as it would go. How nothing mattered beyond the taste of Becky Johnson’s lips, and the feel of her skin under her hunter green and yellow cheerleader uniform; as if any of them would be cool enough to find out.

There was nothing to worry about then, nothing to think about. The future was as endless as the visible stars on a clear July night. And that future beheld no monsters, no demons, no slow devouring cancers. It was the straightaway on the fastest riding racetrack in the world. It was the swing of Reggie Jackson’s bat on a cool autumn night. It was the flight of a Jack Nicklaus three wood. It was the soft, velvety landing into the bosom of his back yard swimming pool. It was a promise granted unto him from the moment of his arrival into this deceitful world.

It all seemed so clear and easy two and a half decades ago. And he had followed the rules as they were explained to him, as they had been explained to countless men through countless generations before him. Fall in love. Marry the woman of your dreams. A beautiful woman that would remain true and desirous through the remainder of your days. Procreate. Bring forth life into this world that will carry your genes forward as they sire future generations. Sit back and watch the fruits of your labor flourish as you sip margaritas from your Floridian fishing boat. It was moments like these, when the saw stopped whirring and the dust had settled and the light shone deep within his soul that Andy realized; he had bought into a lie. A lie that had stolen the best, most productive, most enjoyable years of his life. Years that had been ransomed for fool’s gold, and could never be retrieved.


>>>Sam was still typing away, but Emily had lost track of his words. Yet, somehow, they still held her captive. Her eyes remained focused on the picture resting comfortably above her. She tried to focus on it, like the dim light of a dying flashlight through a thick morning fog. But shapes were all that she was able to ascertain. The details were gone, and she doubted they could ever be rediscovered. They were buried under mounds of black soot, long forgotten strata condensed to a footnote in the biography of someone else’s life. A life that unfortunately bored even her.

And Sam continued to type, and she continued to listen. She listened because someone else cared enough to waste words on her. Even if he had no idea who she really was, or how she really appeared, he gave that monumental effort. For what are people besides the words they speak? Those carefully edited, all-purpose phrases that pass for caring and understanding? For as shallow and unfeeling as those abundant impersonal greetings may be, the people who offer them are usually tenfold more callous and uncaring. Especially those closest to you. Those who perhaps live under the same roof and share the same bed. Even those that emerged from your very flesh. Those people who owe their very existence to you. If caring and life affirming words do not come from them, than what could possibly be wrong with accepting such words from another? Someone who may not care next month, but who wants nothing more than to care right now?


>>>First period tomorrow would be American History. Further retelling of the lives of great men who made great sacrifices so that Timmy may live the carefree existence he so cherished now. Recounting of a time when there were better reasons to die than a ten-pace dual with the consequences of life for moping privileges. A further reminder that all was well, that life was fine, and that anything that bothered him was manufactured in his attention-deprived mind. Just another of life’s boot marks on his face.

In truth, nothing was fine. Nothing in his world of electric heat, five course meals and Tommy Hilfiger wardrobe was anywhere near fine. For the further mankind had traveled along the road of advanced living, the further behind it fell in understanding. A Walkman did not replace a spanking when he was out of line. A private phone line did not replace a two-week grounding for acting out in school. A locked door and a healthy respect for privacy did not replace a stringent, structured life of discipline that most youths railed against, but secretly craved. There is a fine line between over-bearing and unconcerned. And no matter which side of that diving line you happened to live on, dire consequences awaited. And as with anything else, varying degrees of those consequences existed. And when "unconcerned" crossed over to "don’t give a shit," those consequences are bound to be of the worst possible brand. And to Timmy, his parents didn’t care enough to even ignore his presence.


>>>Much to her surprise, Danny Foster had removed himself from her, and was busy pulling on his jeans and boots. She hadn’t noticed his climax, his big finish, his crowning, pimple-faced achievement. God she had gotten good. Not only had she lost track of his efforts; she lost track of when she might have lost track of them.

Maybe it was when she was dreaming of Darren’s hands sliding up her thighs, under her skirt. She would not be wearing panties tomorrow, which would both entice Darren and spit in the face of everyone that wasn’t him. She only wore skirts when her day’s action plan included Darren. Short skirts turned him on so. Sick freak.

Maybe it was when she was dreaming of college life next fall. A lecture hall filled with countless candidates to either whet or infuriate. Boyfriends to win and girlfriends to make jealous. Professors to tease and boundaries to cross. So many games to play. Games that would make Weber high look amateur night at a country-western karaoke bar.

Or maybe she had slipped into her favorite fantasy. The one that saw her dressed in the finest silks, eating the finest foods, sipping champagne at breakfast, lunch and dinner. A life that required her to be nothing more than beautiful, and available for any camera that might appear on the scene. A life that revolved around a jam-packed daily-planner with high profile people, scheduling high profile events that could not take place without her high profile input. A life that saw her as the star she is, and treated her as such.

"I know you’re banging Darren."
That sure brought the fantasy to an abrupt end.


>>>The bookshelf was nearly completed. It stood six feet high and boasted of five shelves on which to house his favorite reading material. All that remained was to attach the back wall. A barrier that would keep all of those works of fiction and fantasy from crashing to the world below. As it stood now, the bookshelf was nothing more than a skeleton, a frail frame that offered refuge to the promise of imagination. It was an effigy constructed to pay homage to a better tomorrow. A time to come that would certainly be superior to the days he tolerated now. All that was missing was that one section. A single length of plywood that alone impressed no one with it’s relevance. But when added to well constructed mainframe, constituted the difference between a solid structure, and a mammoth waste of time. For without a backbone, what is a bookshelf, a man or a family?


>>>Am I evil? Yes I am.
Am I evil? I am man, yes I am.

As the music blared doing further, irreparable damage to his hearing, Timmy clicked his remote control through dozens of channels with Olympian speed. He bypassed MTV with its cross-cultured, love thy neighbor format that force fed peace and acceptance across musical and humanistic dividing lines. He sped past ESPN and its accounting of who won, who lost and who gathered at mid-field to hold hands and thank God for their special talents. Since when did God pay attention to Las Vegas odds anyway? He blew by the gut busting infomercial for the miracle belt that melted inched from your midsection without getting off the couch. He flew past Tony Roberts, Carlton Sheets and Richard Simmons. He even passed on the Weather Channel, since apparently there were no devastating typhoons forming that would steal life from thousands of somehow unsuspecting Bangladeshi hut dwellers.

His attention was captured by CNN however. Apparently, another southern teenage boy with three names had had enough and let everyone in on the secret with the help of an automatic rifle in high school earlier in the day. The death count was at seven, but was expected to climb. The boy was described as a "confused loner," who apparently had difficulty making friends. The words he was unable to form with his tongue were spoken ever so eloquently with a semi-automatic firearm stolen from his second amendment preaching, sheriff’s department father’s gun cabinet. There was shock, disgust and disbelief on the faces of everyone interviewed. There was a coy smile creeping across the face of Timmy Gordon.


>>>Megan was as much surprised by the statement as she was surprised about her capacity to be surprised. She thought she was above that sort of thing.

"You know about me and Darren?"
"What, you’re not even gonna deny it?

Megan found herself at a loss for words.

"Relax, Darren told me. I can live with it."
"Darren told you?"
"Yeah. Sure."
"I don’t believe you."
"You don’t have to."

His complete lack of concern was throwing her off her game.

"I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re seeing someone else too?"

Uh oh, that almost sounded as if she cared.

"Hey, baby, I’m Danny Foster. I’ve got scholarship offers from Penn State, Purdue and Auburn. You think I’m saving myself for you? I’m leaning towards the Big Ten schools by the way."
"I can’t believe he told you."
"Darren? He’s a dog. He’d do my mom if she’d let him in the house."
"But we…"
"But you what, had some kind of connection?"
"Something like that."
"Yeah, that’s his gig. He’s got this Jim Morrison kinda poetic vibe goin with you chicks. Did you know that USC was looking at him?"
"Why didn’t you say anything?"
"What, and ruin a good thing? Besides, I didn’t know if I could actually get Jenny to give it up anyway."
"Jenny Hanson?"
"Yup."
"But she’s a cheerleader."
"Hey, she’s captain of the squad I’ll have you know."
"You’ve been doing Jenny Hanson?"
"Me and Darren both. Sometimes at the same time. She’s one sick fuck man. She’s into this whole pain thing. Has Darren pour candle wax on her tits. I say go for it, you know. As long as I get to hit it before the night’s done."

Megan was sitting straight up in her bed, sheets folded across her naked frame like a suit of armor. She wasn’t sure if what she was hearing was really happening, or just another bad dream. Bad things only happened in her dreams, when her guard was down, when she was vulnerable. During the daytime, she was a ninja warrior, fatal to all that crossed her path. Danny Foster would never do such a thing. He didn’t have the nerve. He was a younger version of her father, weak, transparent, easily manipulated. Megan never believed in that bullshit line about people being like an onion, with many layers lying beneath the surface. People were pathetic. They were waiting to be taken advantage of. Other people. Not her.


>>>The faded man in the fading picture held tightly to the fading memories of the family he had help construct. He had offered such hope when they first met. Then again, she had still believed in hope back then. Marriage was the crowning achievement in life for women her age. At least for the women in her family. Her mother never worked a day in her life. The thought probably never crossed her mind. She was a mother, a wife, and a homemaker. What more was there? Work was the man’s responsibility. It was his job to bring home the bacon; it was her duty to make the BLTs. And her mother made it look so easy. More than that, she made it appear so rewarding.

She was raised to believe that finding a good husband was better by far than holding a winning lottery ticket. To have a man, a loving man, a caring man, a gentle man that would give of himself entirely to make certain that all of her needs were met. ‘Til death do they part. Her father was such a man. He must have been. Her mother never complained about him, about their lives together. Not even once. It was a winning formula. So why had she been losing the game for so long? And why did it take her so long to notice?


>>>It all seemed like such an idiotic idea suddenly. A bookshelf for a man that no longer owned any books, nor had time to read them if he did. What was he thinking? Like so many other things in his life, it was a fine notion that that became somehow poisoned with the passing of time. On the surface, it seemed natural, necessary, even expected. You like to read, you own books, you keep them on a bookshelf. Simple, rational. But what are you expected to do once the very thing that once brought you so much joy was no longer possible to partake in? Do you continue to build for the sake of appearances? Or do you just stop, and admit that all hope is lost?


>>>Of course, by now, she was sick of her mother. Sick of her nightly telephone intrusions into her domestic bliss. Sick of putting a smile into her voice as she gave glowing accounts of her, her husband, and her children’s lives. Nothing was ever wrong with any of them. No one ever had a bad day. No one ever got sick. No one ever failed a test, got chewed out by the boss or stepped in a pile of dog shit. No one complained, no one worried, no one suffered. Not in her family. Not to the delight of her mother who would love nothing more than to offer her own special brand of nauseating advice. A woman who never lived a moment of her life for herself. A woman that could not define her existence without measuring the level of dependency others placed on her. Emily would not give her that satisfaction. Not again.


>>>Timmy held no desire to do actual physical damage to another human being. Not even Toby Kendall. But he did fear it. He feared his capacity to become incapacitated, to be overrun by the lava flow of hatred brewing within his distant demeanor. He felt it. It was white hot. And it resided within him, yet independent of him. Sometimes it was buried deep inside where the light of day could never be traced. Other times, it rose to the surface, peeking out though his pores, causing his skin to tingle. He was not in control of it or it over him. Not yet anyway. He supposed that all people struggled with such a beast. Some to a greater degree than others.

He was able to recognize the actions taken by the southern schoolboy as undiluted evil, a grizzly act not to be forgiven perpetrated by a soul too far gone for caring. He held no empathy, respect or idolatry for the boy. But he did understand. The shock and disbelief that tightly gripped those living in the world of unblemished sanity was what confused him. How could people not foresee the terrible consequences that inevitably follow the ruthless torturing of such a frail soul? How could impressionable children be preached the virtues of their individual worth while at the same time be shoveled through system after system in uncaring, assembly line fashion? How could parents disavow their role in the raising of their own children in favor of the bureaucratic hand of a schoolboard? How could trained, licensed educators not care enough about their students to detect actual learning from carefully crafted BS? How could adolescent boys and girls sequester themselves into tightly knit social groupings that lived to torment those not invited into their brand of elitism? How could no one care? And how could anyone be surprised when the forgotten, uninvited, unloved loose thread finally raise his fist to proclaim; "I’ve fucking had enough!" Timmy understood. He understood far too well.


>>>Megan couldn’t wait for Danny Foster to leave. Whereas earlier she wanted him to leave so that she wouldn’t have to see his face, she now wanted him to leave so that he wouldn’t see hers. She didn’t know what her face was conveying at the moment. She feared she was loosing control of her emotions. Or worse yet, she feared she actually possessed emotions.

She had learned the blueprint from her mother, just as her mother had learned it from her mother. Men were suckers, idiots, robots easily manipulated. Find the right one and she’d never have to break a sweat her entire life. That’s where her mother went wrong. She chose poorly. Her father was a pathetic looser. He was a man aged twenty years beyond his birth certificate. A friendless, spineless rodent who was no longer welcomed, or interested in living in his own home. He lived in the garage for Christ’s sake, forever tinkering with his powertools. Freud would have a field day with that one. What drove her mother to him was beyond her capacity to understand.

Then again, she was no prize either. Apparently, no one had ever told her that Donna Reed was in reality a crack smoking whore who wore a corporate mask in order to sell dishwashing liquid and laundry detergent. The kind of person she so desperately wanted to be simply did not exist. And if they did, their world would be the sick underbelly of actual hell. Marie Osmond and Carol Brady were the true evil, horrific enough to make Satan cower in fear.

The secret to a long, fruitful and rewarding life was to find a man smart and talented enough to earn a fortune, but too dumb to realize that he was being used like a government mule by a beautiful smile and a Victoria’s Secret body. Maybe her mother and her mother before were on the right track. But, unfortunately for them, they weren’t intelligent enough shoppers. They settled for liquidation sell-offs when they should have been looking for showroom models. Megan was savvy to the equation.

Or so she thought. For three years she had cultivated the aura of the alpha-female by taming the ultra jock of her community. Parades were held in his honor, and she was by his side looking more salacious for each one. But that was only high school. Her princess aura would only be elevated to queen status as she rose through the food chain. College would offer bigger and better game. And after that, her potential exceeded the stratosphere. And she would owe it all to… herself, and her keen sense of understanding how the world really worked.

However, that world never allowed for the possibility of HER being used by Danny Foster, or anyone for that matter. How could this have happened in her world?


>>>There were no pictures of Emily’s parents in the house. While the photos of the life she lead previously, in a marriage that gave her pleasure if even for the briefest of moments, were turning yellow with time; photos of the life she lead before that one did not exist at all. But why would she need pictures anyway? She saw her mother’s face everyday, in everything she did. Her mother, Sarah, was the critical eye that scolded her for every wrong move. She was the miniature devil on her left shoulder that was offset by an absentee angel on her right.

From the moment Megan was born, Emily triple guessed every move of her parenting. Each decision she made had to be perfect in order to keep pace with Sarah. But perfection was an impossible goal. Perfection required confidence, and confidence was something that Emily severely lacked. Being the last of six children, there didn’t seem to be time or energy enough to instill such a virtue in yet another child. Yet, somehow, this was her fault. Her siblings were all involved in lengthy, healthy, happy marriages and home lives. And each and every one of them gladly picked up the phone to call Sarah every evening. So why did Emily choose to avoid making that call like an e-coli tainted sirloin?


>>>The speed at which life passed by was a source of constant amazement to Andy. He was a nine-year-old kid that wanted nothing more than to be a cowboy riding endless, open plains only yesterday. Somehow, he got out of bed a 43-year-old software engineer that imprisoned himself within the confines of his suburban home’s garage today. How was something like that possible? How could there be two children living in his house that were complete strangers to him? How could the idea of having missionary sex with his wife seem like an inappropriate idea? Why could he not recall which state each of his siblings lived in? His life seemed like a book whose middle chapters had been ripped from the spine. A book that would never find a home in his precious bookshelf.


>>>Danny Foster exited her bedroom without offering so much as a kiss on the cheek. He never did. But for some reason, that bothered her tonight. He would saunter down the staircase, walk past her mother, drive off in full view of her father, and not speak a word to either of them. For their part, neither would make mention of Danny to her. She had been having unprotected sex in their house since she was fifteen, and neither of them had ever said a word. Neither had ever objected to her inviting a boy past her locked bedroom door. She wasn’t even sure if either of them had asked the name of the football player that was screwing their baby girl in the three years that this circus had been playing. Then again, maybe she hadn’t spoken to either of them in that time.


>>>As the chainsaw guitars and eviscerating vocals blended into a musical Valium, a strange sensation began to overtake Timmy. Calmness. Even though the decibel level was enough to crack diamonds, he found himself fading into sleep. Sleep before dawn was a rarity for him. Sleep before midnight was unheard of. The throbbing in his knuckles had subsided, and the blissful numbness that controlled his mind began to seep into his body as well. He felt the weight of disappointment from every relative from every generation settling on top of him. But he didn’t care. He was able to let go and plummet deep into a pool of black nothingness. And the further he fell, the less everything else seemed to matter.

He had long ago lost hope of being anything but an abject failure. So many people had labeled him a loser that no other alternative existed any longer. His peers, his teachers, his family - they all saw him as a loser, and had told him as much. Some of them even used the word. But most of them conveyed the message by ignoring the very air he breathed. His most heartfelt wish was for those closest to him to actually care enough to call him a fuck up to his face. But he didn’t seem to warrant even that much effort. Somewhere inside, a small part of him must have still held out hope for that much. Tonight, however, that small part seemed to be surrendering as well. Maybe now he could finally rest.


>>>Maybe it was the thought of Sarah’s disapproval that excited Emily while chatting with Sam Tanner as much as the possibility of being caught by Andy. It didn’t make sense that she would be worried solely about his reaction. For as much as she hated to admit it, Andy didn’t react to anything anymore. At least not anything she did. Maybe she was killing two birds with one keystroke. Maybe she was daring to retrieve her life, her independence from two prison guards. One who couldn’t bear to see her stray because of the reflection it would be on her own failures, and the other who expected her to remain as miserable as he had become because that was somehow her duty. Sam had emerged from the dark of night as a life preserver to a woman who had no clue that she was drowning. She would be a fool not to grab on, wouldn’t she?


>>>As Danny Foster’s Camaro sped out of view, Megan found herself unable to focus on the world around her. Her eyes were fine; it was her understanding that was flawed. She was convinced that she had gained irrefutable knowledge on the inner workings of life and the people that inhabit it. There were two types of people: marionettes and puppet masters, with the latter being a much smaller group. A group in which she never for a second doubted her membership status. And usually, it took a lifetime of trying and failing to gain entrance into that selective company. But not Megan Gordon. She had figured it out before her eighteenth birthday.

Now, suddenly, she felt her own strings for the first time. And worse than that, she had no idea who may be pulling them. Tonight, she found out that gullible Danny Foster had been controlling her, for god knows how long. But who else might be an unknown puppeteer? Darren Sharply? Her parents for Christ’s sake? Disturbing thoughts began to pummel her mind like a beach at high tide. How could she have been so stupid, so blind? How could she allow herself to be… a victim? How could it be possible that she, Megan Gordon, could be like everyone else? Like her mother?

As the quarterback’s taillights disappeared into the blackness beyond, Megan found the weight of her new atmosphere too much to bear. Her once rock solid footing began to quake, and her sense of balance evaporated. She crumbled to the floor at the foot of her window in a naked heap, unable to control a single muscle. Maybe she never was in control. Maybe she had always been on the wrong end of the leash. Maybe she was incapable of control. Tear began to flow down the marble cheeks of Megan Gordon. She wondered what they were.


>>>Within the time it took for her words to appear on the screen after hitting ‘enter," Emily’s entire life came into focus. She was not being foolish now. She had been playing the fool since the day she was born. She had accepted apathy from a mother that preached her own maternal wisdom to anyone within earshot. She accepted answers spit into the back of a newspaper that was too important to be put down whenever she dared ask a question of her father. She accepted her walk-on role in the off –off-Broadway production of her own life. She accepted being a nobody with worthless opinions.

And not only had she accepted such treatment from the family that brought her into this world, she accepted it from the family she created. She accepted scathing glares from a daughter who obviously knew worlds more about this world that Emily ever did. She accepted Icelandic chills from her own son, whose life she held not a clue about. She accepted a Continental Divide from the man she married. She accepted it all, and placed the blame for each occurrence on her overburdened shoulders.

And she accepted the anger that came with all of it. Anger at her mother who never found time to be her mother – until Emily brought forth life into this world. Anger towards a father that died without ever calling her name even once to her recollection. Anger towards the band of misfits living in her home that felt utter disdain towards her for no godly reason. And finally, she felt a tsunami of anger towards herself, for allowing it all to happen, and for taking responsibility for everything.

It was time to stop playing the fool. Time for her to step up and demand what she was due. Demand her moment in the sun. A moment to enjoy, to feel alive, to feel wanted and appreciated. A moment to feel like anyone besides Emily Gordon.

She reached for the keyboard; "Where do you want to meet, Sam?"


>>>The bottle in his hand was empty. Puzzling. He placed it on the sawhorse next to five other mysterious, empty bottles. Andy had installed track lighting in the garage some time ago. It allowed him to view his creations from every angle with a critical eye. God forbid any imperfections be allowed to show. What would people say? What would his parents, neighbors or boss say if they even caught a glimpse that something about Andy Gordon’s creations was anything but perfect, pristine? That thought could not be allowed to cross his mind.

Perfection was expected. More than that, perfection was expected to be easy. After all, what was so difficult? Everyone he knew had built great things. Lifetimes filled with great things. His parents built great things. Even his clumsy brother Kenneth built great things. He lived in a neighborhood populated with countless people who had built great things. All of them with minivans, PTA meetings, town council gatherings, zoning committees and a well-placed protest here and there. All of them with manicured lawns and hedges, painted houses, smiling children and glamorous wives. Not an imperfection to be found, no matter how hard one may look.

But tonight, the track lighting had been dimmed and Andy viewed his latest creation under the heat of a single, bare hanging bulb. It was like a scene straight out of a classic spy movie. A blazing white bulb burning the truth out of a captured agent. Everyone cracked under such a light eventually. There was nowhere left to hide. No matter how Andy viewed his creation under this light of truth, imperfection was all that he was able to see.

Andy began to sweat, as if that single light was shining brightly upon him. His creation was flawed, horribly so. What he had built, sculpted and nurtured was hideously and irreparably scarred. There was no hiding that fact from anyone any longer. People would soon begin to see right through the cracks. It would have been different is there was only a small scratch or two. Then it could be repaired. But not this. This was factory flawed from the start, a pile of junk erected by an embarrassingly unskilled laborer. Andy was not the craftsman he had thought after all.

Andy stepped around to the back of his spineless bookshelf and studied his empire. There in the faded light, he saw his tools of production resting silently in the dust of ancient battles. Their brand of power would not be needed now. Their job was to create, not to destroy. And destruction was all that was left in Andy’s eyes. He could not let anyone see this ominous formation. It needed to be gutted, and it needed to be done now. Scanning the garage, Andy saw a battered and rusted axe hanging from a hook in the back corner. Perfect. A barbaric job like this called for an equally barbaric tool.

Without thought or hesitation, Andy grabbed the axe from the wall. It felt heavy in his hands. Heavy, but pleasing. It was the perfect word to a poem or note to a song. It was the brightly shining sun on a family picnic. It was the cool glass of lemonade in the oppressive August heat. As he stepped towards the bookshelf, he felt his heart grow heavy with disappointment. The experiment was a failure. Andy Gordon was a failure. It was time to stop pretending.