Some angry spirit come to earth to take her over?
Who are you?
What are you now?
I've seen you cross the street on invisible feet, you've been hit by a car that didn't see you, maybe because you were looking at me.
I started admiring myself so much and it looked ugly, sinfully ugly.
I can be ugly and so can you.
I've seen it with my own eyes.
My terrible eyes that pierce into you.
Imagine if I stared at you with eyes big as saucers. Would you want to cut them out?
I've been struck of something new at my core, some new metal, it hurts.
Struck .
Struck by you?
You too?
You were struck by you or you were struck by me too?
Someone once told me not to take the lord's name in vain, but I forgot. Sometimes they were there to remind me. Later I remember their words in a very small voice. A voice soft enough it wants to be really listened to. Its shouts are quietly calling me.
The people around me want better lives. We're tired of suffering.
The world is full of deals.
Like today we might've made a good deal with Japan, but on the other hand they may have temporarily gained the upper hand. I mean some people had to die probably. In some deals people die. Like the deal of life. The deal is eventually you die, even if you are 353 years old now, an ancient alien living on earth, I'm so proud of you.
Suddenly it's a letter to you or some kind of divinity. I'm proud of you, but I'm not sure what I am. It may be an easier letdown to know I've always been a chimera in some way. The mythological type. And suddenly I'm happy.
But part of me wants to be at sea on a small boat with a little bed and canned beans. Part of me wants to go out there and catch some fish and eat it raw. Part of me is at sea.
But you, you silent watcher. Are you still so sure I'm transparent as glass? Is that why you shatter me?
Who are you now?
The Japanese guy with the case and the mechanism?
I think so.
I saw you on the Astral plane again, usually you skirt around me.
I read something about how the universe is not symmetrical and amino acids contain only left handed spirals and no mirror images. And I don't think it has anything to do with being left handed.
Have you perfected the left handed compliment?
I have.
But we can all always do better.
When you run you run stairs, hallways, dark streets, snowy streets, empty streets, busy streets. I don't think the treadmill is where I would find you.
When I run I set up perimeters in a map in my head or I just run into the unknown. I run metaphorical stairs.
More stairs to run.
There are always more.
Here we go again.
Who?
Who are you baby?
You're not like a baby though.
Sorry baby
Whatever
I don't know if the spirit travels bodies or if he's stuck in one.
We, you and me, are polar opposites.
If you overtake me I can overtake you.
You probably love me and hate me.
I only despise you for short periods of time.
It's so horrible.
We are all meant to have only love in our hearts.
I just don't know
I haven't met gandhi.
I feel like a duplicate with same flaw as the original. Destined not to be changed like that. Like the black pool in my lazy left eye.
Is there a singularity in me? Am I consuming and consuming trying to fill it. It looks so small, but consumes so much.
The destroyer he called me and that's how I think of you.
The spirit
Only in a way I can't explain
I don't know who you are, but we've been friends and we've known each other before. I think we'll know each other through and after this lifetime when we meet again in a different galaxy or universe or maybe if I'm lucky a multi'verse
You are a son, a brother, a father, a friend, you are kind of like a human.
Tuesday, February 21, 2017
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
De-escalation
In order to de-escalate a situation people usually have to agree to a compromise. I guess that's why intensities sometimes diminish over time, it's hard to fuel that kind of stamina. I'm not talking about sex. NOT. I'm talking about conflict resolution. I'm the absolute worst conflict resolver. I'm not talking about Resolve the cleaner. Stay on track. Are you with me? I'm the worst, because I usually loudly disagree and actively fight the person without any sense of the repercussions. Maybe that person is used to getting their way because of money and power or fame or something and I come along and disagree. Almost, it seems, to drive people crazy on purpose. This isn't nice and I wonder why I don't get a good reception. It's infuriating. And then there are all the people who've infuriated me.
So with me it's actually been, "Escalation, escalation, escalation, escalation" until there was no ceiling, like when the elevator in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory broke the glass one. At this point the reason why people can't really reach me is because I'm ascending through space at a very rapid rate, but some day I'll be stopped. Fixed in one place. With nowhere to run or hide. I'll be exposed for what I really am, which's been hidden for a long time. Read into it what you will. You might not know the whole story even if you've been picking my life apart like some kind of dismantling. And I shock you and you think I'm strange over and over again. I'm shocking people on purpose. Because I'm imprinting them the most at the very beginning. If I can leave a strong first impression on someone I have a better chance of being remembered. And people remember a lot. I can see people telling stories about me. What happened. What it was like. They're not all good, but they're full of life. I'm probably the most alive person I know. Oh the irony. I'm like some kind of rare bird with liberty protected by a council. And my writing is shocking because it's something you know you've never heard before and yet it's so familiar. And in my mind I see the future and I see my face on screens being broadcasted across the galaxy and that's what they call mental illness.
I don't trust and I don't believe. And people don't want me to write about this, because they want to project whatever they can onto me. Strangely maybe in hopes I'll wear it and take it with me. It's a matter of time. It's a matter of time before the truth comes out. The truth always comes out. Sometimes it just takes a while. It's not possible to de-escalate a situation that's so far out of hand. The only thing I can think of is to wait for nature to do it's work and everything has an end.
I'm a dreamer. But I'm also a realist.
My mind is cluttered because I've been hoarding up there.
So with me it's actually been, "Escalation, escalation, escalation, escalation" until there was no ceiling, like when the elevator in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory broke the glass one. At this point the reason why people can't really reach me is because I'm ascending through space at a very rapid rate, but some day I'll be stopped. Fixed in one place. With nowhere to run or hide. I'll be exposed for what I really am, which's been hidden for a long time. Read into it what you will. You might not know the whole story even if you've been picking my life apart like some kind of dismantling. And I shock you and you think I'm strange over and over again. I'm shocking people on purpose. Because I'm imprinting them the most at the very beginning. If I can leave a strong first impression on someone I have a better chance of being remembered. And people remember a lot. I can see people telling stories about me. What happened. What it was like. They're not all good, but they're full of life. I'm probably the most alive person I know. Oh the irony. I'm like some kind of rare bird with liberty protected by a council. And my writing is shocking because it's something you know you've never heard before and yet it's so familiar. And in my mind I see the future and I see my face on screens being broadcasted across the galaxy and that's what they call mental illness.
I don't trust and I don't believe. And people don't want me to write about this, because they want to project whatever they can onto me. Strangely maybe in hopes I'll wear it and take it with me. It's a matter of time. It's a matter of time before the truth comes out. The truth always comes out. Sometimes it just takes a while. It's not possible to de-escalate a situation that's so far out of hand. The only thing I can think of is to wait for nature to do it's work and everything has an end.
I'm a dreamer. But I'm also a realist.
My mind is cluttered because I've been hoarding up there.
Monday, February 22, 2016
In a Dream - Duplicate Post
In a dream I had I was sitting with a journalist at a press junket and my man was watching us from behind the camera. "They" weren't sure if I would be able to handle the topic of conversation. The journalist covertly presented the topic to me while we were chatting...she was hinting. She had long shiny thick chestnut brown hair, manicured nails, expensive flawless makeup, and brown eyes. It was her nails that I admired with something close to envy. They weren't very long, but it was the shape that struck me, it was as if they'd been trained into perfection over time. And they were painted a shiny navy blue that looked good with her chocolate brown summer coat cinched at the waist. Her nails matched her jeans. The woman was a standard of excellence that can only be found in L.A. A woman size zero, but still with curves. A competitive woman who trained and ate on a strict diet so her size zeros wouldn't pinch her when she sat down. There had to be a little breathing room.
So when the journalist started hinting to me that the topic was going to be on food and dieting I switched gears. I complained about eating nearly an entire bag of mini marshmallows and feeling like my teeth were going to fall out. She didn't complain about anything. But she did say eating a slice of cheesecake at The Cheesecake Factory is probably worse. And we laughed. That was when my man walked away with a slight smile on his face. He knew I was going to be fine. He was like a father watching over me, because he wanted to keep me innocent. He liked me being innocent.
So when the journalist started hinting to me that the topic was going to be on food and dieting I switched gears. I complained about eating nearly an entire bag of mini marshmallows and feeling like my teeth were going to fall out. She didn't complain about anything. But she did say eating a slice of cheesecake at The Cheesecake Factory is probably worse. And we laughed. That was when my man walked away with a slight smile on his face. He knew I was going to be fine. He was like a father watching over me, because he wanted to keep me innocent. He liked me being innocent.
Friday, February 12, 2016
Fair Game
Bring me to the shore and let me see the water.
You might look at me wondering if I'm going in.
I'll avoid the undertow and the rocks.
But somehow there's still a wondering - about whether or not I'll swim out too far - never to return to you.
Or whether - even though I can swim - I might leave anyway - it's just like me.
And all this time we're standing there and hearing the water and watching the sand get damp over and over.
In the end I do go in but I keep my clothes on - for the most part.
And even though it's been a long time I'm swimming like a dolphin.
I can save you from the shipwreck and the sharks.
The sharks swim around me but they leave me alone.
You see me swimming and diving and there's a silent joy - like a single tear appearing and falling down my face.
Leave your clothes on, stand on the shore, stay dry, stay warm, you shine the way home to me.
You might look at me wondering if I'm going in.
I'll avoid the undertow and the rocks.
But somehow there's still a wondering - about whether or not I'll swim out too far - never to return to you.
Or whether - even though I can swim - I might leave anyway - it's just like me.
And all this time we're standing there and hearing the water and watching the sand get damp over and over.
In the end I do go in but I keep my clothes on - for the most part.
And even though it's been a long time I'm swimming like a dolphin.
I can save you from the shipwreck and the sharks.
The sharks swim around me but they leave me alone.
You see me swimming and diving and there's a silent joy - like a single tear appearing and falling down my face.
Leave your clothes on, stand on the shore, stay dry, stay warm, you shine the way home to me.
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
Semper Fi
"Is there any such thing as too fresh? I know something can be too rare or underdone. But no one ever says, "This salad is too fresh." Do you know what I mean?" asked Natalie.
"I was at an audition once and I overhead the casting director say some chick was too fresh. So yeah I do think there's such a thing. Are you coming along for the ride or what?" Paul looked askance at her.
"Am I fresh?"
"Yes Natalie."
"Are you annoyed at me?"
"Why would I be annoyed?"
"You're just acting like you are."
"I'm actually in a good mood. Why are you having a hard day and you want to take it out on me?"
"No. You seem like something's wrong."
"Now something is wrong because you keep asking me. Please shut up."
"Shut up? You told me to shut up? Do you have any idea how offensive that is?"
"See I knew you wanted to start something. I'm not in the mood."
"Um, hello, YOU told me to shut up."
"Shut up."
"Oh my God, who are you? I don't even know you."
"Shut up."
"I'm seriously leaving if you say that again and I won't be back."
"Shut up."
"I was at an audition once and I overhead the casting director say some chick was too fresh. So yeah I do think there's such a thing. Are you coming along for the ride or what?" Paul looked askance at her.
"Am I fresh?"
"Yes Natalie."
"Are you annoyed at me?"
"Why would I be annoyed?"
"You're just acting like you are."
"I'm actually in a good mood. Why are you having a hard day and you want to take it out on me?"
"No. You seem like something's wrong."
"Now something is wrong because you keep asking me. Please shut up."
"Shut up? You told me to shut up? Do you have any idea how offensive that is?"
"See I knew you wanted to start something. I'm not in the mood."
"Um, hello, YOU told me to shut up."
"Shut up."
"Oh my God, who are you? I don't even know you."
"Shut up."
"I'm seriously leaving if you say that again and I won't be back."
"Shut up."
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
The answer is//
The answer is//
He's a runner of stairs
He's a buyer of merchandise
He's a collector
He's a poet
Work
Drive
Low tones register
Vanity
Pride
At least I’m not ignorant and ungrateful
He’s dignified and it shows, you’ll be treated with dignity too
The elements he’s mastered extend to the people he meets
If you take the gifts for granted you’ll feel the burn
The all-seeing-eye
The core of it’s bright, not dead at all
The goal is the ultimate
We don’t stop and we don’t stop
Deep blue depth that is you, once I mistook you for blackness
Hollow me out and come inside to rest
The golden rice I borrowed bought me two times the white rise
To borrow you I’ve got to get a contract
There’s this guy who might want a contract with me, but no marriage
When I was missed the most was when the moon eclipsed
Or is it that when the moon eclipsed - I appeared more brightly - and you missed me
Or was it the moon wasn’t eclipsed at all it was on vacation?
Vacation
Anomaly
Polished Rose Quartz
Queen
Revengeful
Domineering
If I were going to make a prediction: I would say:
The next president will be Republican.
He will be a maverick.
He will have an attitude and style that people are shocked by
He’ll take away our freedom of choice.
The next president is going to smash outdated precepts
He’s entrenched in the entertainment industry
He’s been through more than you can imagine
He was homeless for a while
When I met him he told me he would be the next president and I believed him
The science of prayer, like the mind of a demon
“Let it develop”
“It needs development”
By the light of the dark dark mmmmooooon
It was thoughtless of her to deny the crude and banal notice
It was his eyes that were warm like a tanned woman’s back
It was the cross they bore together that made it ok
It was the demon king’s alibi
It was the saint’s way of saying - “Pardon me.”
Give me the name of one person you will never see again
Borrow me for a while, but return me in one piece
I lamented the woods
The dry tinder sparked into a million colors
Grow branches before me
Hide the invisible one in your best location
The one you never promised to forget
He told me to tell you to be aware of him
In so many words
The namaste inside you
The green embroidery covered the table like a cloak of moss
My antennae is short
Your arms are long and keep you still - in one location
We’re all spread out, hiding in our caves, waiting for you
YOU
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Xerox It
Xerox It
The reason why Marc couldn't get the song out of his head was the lyric: When I'm without you I'm cold inside, borrow me again tomorrow. That combined with the hook:
I'm in love, but when I'm jealous my eyes turn green
I'm in love, but when I'm jealous my eyes turn green.
The tempo was fast enough it got him spinning. Spinning in a good way. And he lost himself for a minute, he moved so fast, so far away. But then he came back again and looked at the report in front of him.
The reports were coming in. A white female in her thirties saw a black Beemer with tinted windows cruising down the street real slow. She was taking video and she caught his tags. Later that night an Asian man in his fifties who was raking his lawn saw a man jump out of the moving car.
Ten minutes later the car was found abandoned in the middle of a crosswalk on 28th St. It was equipped with illegal self driving equipment and it was mounted with cameras giving a steady feed of 360 degree footage.
One of the parts that concerned him was that the woman who turned in the footage was actually a well known civilian in the department. Apparently she kept dying and coming back to life. And lately the heat had been on her. The surveillance pictures were stacking up, stacks of HD cards. So it seemed odd that she just happened to have that footage. The truth was that he also wanted a piece of her. And this was his opportunity. He decided he would inject himself into the situation a little further.
He called round and asked to speak to Heather McMillan. Could he have an interview with her? Today would be best. Yes, the local bakery on Pearl, the Greek one. He wanted to talk to her over baklava and hot sweet coffee. He wanted to see what it looked like when she ate. He wanted to coolly watch all her mannerisms. He wanted to find her tells. He wanted in.
He spent the rest of his day honing his routine. He needed to be prepared for this. He needed to be on his game. Better, harder, faster, stronger. He looked in the mirror and studied himself. He worked out on his home equipment and really took it to the next level. He admired his flexed arm, his flat sculpted hairless stomach, his jawline. He was always considered handsome in a very classical way. He had the square jaw and the even proportions of a movie star, except with the caveat of not having been overexposed. Yeah Brad Pitt was hot, but he wasn't a fresh face. And he wasn't Clint Eastwood. His jaw wasn't overly prominent, it was just cut, so he wasn't in any danger of having a double chin. This was important to him as he viewed people with double chins as inferior and he was used to relying on his good lucks to dominate women. He would make subtle criticisms to his dates about "watching your waistline" and "oh it looks like you've been too busy to work out." Then later he would drop hints that he could make things go a lot easier for them. The kind of ideas he had weren't calculated, they stemmed from larger issues in his life. He didn't set out to make promises he couldn't keep, but then again he didn't view them as promises, just previews of what could be in store for a lucky lady in the future.
It wasn't like he was promising them lear jets and horses in Aspen. It wasn't like he bragged about himself to anyone who would listen, maybe to turn them off actually. It wasn't like he had anything to hide. The skeletons in his closet had been swept up recently and discarded. He was given a new shot at life by the department. The department was his life. He loved it. There were people who were there who wanted to get away and he viewed them as traitors. He and his group of friends regularly hazed newcomers and they had been there ten years. The people who do the hazing are considered assets to the dept. Some of them are better at it than others. Sometimes the hazing is essentially torture for psychopaths and sociopaths to feed off of. The department is filled with sociopaths. The psychopaths are limited to two floors, because no one can stand them. He was considered a shoe-in, a rising star, a sure thing. He was powerful. Women did whatever he wanted and let him do whatever he wanted. Men aspired to be him. Everything had gone right. There was no abuse in his family. He was stable, he had a IQ of 190, he was in perfect physical condition, even slightly underweight, and his teeth were white and pleasantly shaped and his breath was fresh. So when he promised new women a hand up, he meant they could ride his coattails, because it made him feel good. He was a star, but he loved em and left em. No attachments right now in his career at the dept. They told him, programmed him, taught him who he was and who he needed to be. His TV stations were limited to eleven and each one was wired to program him for a different thing. He knew about it, but he didn't understand it and he was programmed not to anyway.
It was kind of sad actually. There was a hole in his heart and it hurt. He kept trying to fill the hole, but the scar tissue made it tight and constricted. He thought if he only matched up and was successful enough...if he could catch some kidnappers and save a little girl with blonde hair and find his wife and have his kids...then he would be okay. What about right now? He asked himself in an uncharacteristic stab at the heart of it. Was he okay now? No! And he wanted people to take care of him and coddle him, because it wasn't ok. And people did that and while they were at it they took chunks of him with them. They were like wraiths coming down and sucking off his life force, because he was weak and he wasn't okay despite every effort and every convenience. So it was with this desperate energy and a high sex drive that he arrived down the block from the "bakery." He actually thought this place was stupid and now that he was thinking about it baklava was fattening and he didn't want to look like a pig to Heather. He almost forgot about Heather, because he was so busy thinking about his bright future, but the mic in his ear came on. "She's walking up now. South side of the street."
"I've got a line of sight."
"Good luck man, we'll be here with you through it."
"Ten four."
The thing is when he saw her something took over. He knew he was right about this. This felt right. She looked a little like a modern Barbie doll. God he wished her hair was longer. It was so short! It made him feel weird. It was brown. The truth was he liked brunettes better than blondes. For him blondes were bimbos, well maybe not natural blondes, but those were hard to come by. He never liked red heads. He always felt he would fall in love with a woman with long straight brown hair like Demi Moore. Oh and she would have big tits. And she was smart and could help him. And she could give him what he needed to feel emotionally supported, physically met, and mentally challenged. But the woman standing in front of him inside the glass smudged doors wasn't that woman. Heather was the one that got away. But it wasn't over and he was going to get her. He was.
When he opened the door he saw her watching him in the mirror in front of her. Right he had thought that since her back was facing him he could get in closer, surprising her, pushing her off kilter. But he did the same thing all the time. He stared at any reflective surface instead of looking directly at things. Well when he was working, but who was he kidding, he was doing that all the time. At the dept. there was never a day off. Not at the level he was on.
"Heather."
She turned around and looked at him for a moment as if this was the beginning of her profile on him. He knew this was the face she would remember when he was old. And it was because of this face that she would make some last few moves before retiring on his behalf. But the look she cast on him was calm and even a bit cold. She wasn't a psychopath, but he had been warned about her. He had to be very careful with her because the goal wasn't to blow her cover, but after so many years they had to get closer to her. God after what happened a few days ago with her he felt protective. He heard that she made a bold move while she was in a veritable spotlight of scrutiny and no one knew if she knew they were watching. It seemed like she might know, but they all told themselves they were being silly.
"Marc."
"How are you?" Already he felt stupid. He said it in an overly friendly tone like a stranger with candy he thought. And he immediately regretted it and started obsessing about how much he hated child molesters. Then he tried not to think about that and casually looked at the menu. No espresso machine?
"Do you really want to stay here?" she asked. She looked dubious.
And then he felt relief and he didn't know where it came from. But he was looking at her face and it was like it was radiating light. And he noticed she smelled good and her face was nice looking and her lips were full like a doll's, and her shirt was tight and she looked strong. And then she did the strangest thing. She quickly grabbed his arm and pulled him outside like she was saving him.
"Let's go for a walk."
Outside cold air brought his senses back, but not completely, because she had touched him. And something happened, there was familiarity between them now and so quickly that he was caught off guard. He wanted to touch her again. They walked up the street.
In his earpiece he heard, "What are you guys doing?"
"Heather, I have no idea."
"What?"
"I have no idea what we're doing."
"Do you always have to have a plan?" She put him on the spot.
He pulled back. But then he saw her legs in those tight pants and he couldn't be mad at her, actually now that he noticed she looked upset.
He turned the attention back to her. "Are you sure you're okay?" He was doing what the people in the dept. did to him. And he knew for a fact she wasn't ok. So he did it a little viciously. If she wanted to play with the big boys she was going to get it just like everyone else. No special passes little missy. He wanted to be cruel, because he felt intimidated by her, but then he remembered how she died. Hm, he thought, I should definitely take the soft approach with her.
And for a minute they walked silently while she tried not to cry. He witnessed her win that battle, but the reality was that he had actually won, because if he ever saw her break down and truly cry she would be in his soft spot. Also because he needed to cry too and he wouldn't have to if she did it when things got tense. He realized he was thinking about her with an intensity that wasn't warranted by how well he knew her. And when she cried he would feel okay and in charge. Because they all knew how delicate she really was. Her mental health was very unstable. Yes, he thought he could help her. His mission changed from help himself to help her.
Then he realized it was happening too fast. What was this?
"Heather do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"
"That's why I'm here isn't it?"
"That footage you turned in. Do you know why we're looking for the car? Did anyone tell you?" That wasn't what he thought he was going to ask.
"No, they found me off the traffic camera. Can you tell me why they wanted my footage and called me in when they have cameras up everywhere anyway?"
He had thought about that. He knew it was just a ruse to interview her. Maybe. Actually he hated to admit it, but he didn't know what was going on anymore. A long time ago he thought he used to know. Not anymore. Oh well. C'est la vie. Quick sendoff. "The team that analyzed the footage thought your angle on the car might reveal something better than what we had."
She put her sunglasses on and grabbed his arm again and pointed across the street at some graffiti. Again he felt like he was dragged into her world when she touched him. She was warm.
All his prepared questions dropped away. He was brought back to the fact that they were undoubtably being viewed at the office on a big screen. A lot of people were watching them and he briefly felt overwhelmed by the pressure to perform.
"What were you filming when you caught the car on camera?"
"I was filming the traffic."
He was caught off guard by her honesty. "Why were you filming the traffic?"
"I don't know."
"Ok. Did you see anything that might help us?"
"Nothing that you don't already know. The car caught my attention because it was going so slow."
"If you don't mind me asking...how long have you lived here?"
"Long enough to be a local now. Plus I grew up in Colorado."
"Fair enough."
Then she looked at him in the eyes, his brown eyes, and she said, "I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?"
"I'm sorry I couldn't help you more." And she smiled sweetly at him.
"Are you saying goodbye to me?"
"I have some more stuff to do today and I'm sure you want to get on with your interviews."
He frowned, but quickly covered it. She was still there, but he could feel her moving away. He felt like he had lost her again. It made him mad. He wanted to hold her as improbable as that was.
"Yeah I guess I should get back to the office."
"Have a nice day." She quickly took his hand and squeezed it. She smiled and then she rushed off down the sidewalk.
He stood there in shock. It was as though the meeting had never taken place already - as heavily documented as it was. His mind felt like it was getting a sweeping with a broom.
"Well, I guess that's it folks."
"Ok come back to the van, we have to ask you some questions..."
"I think it'll be more natural if I take my car. You have to remember how many randoms there are following people around." He said. He called the shots not them. They needed to know their place. When he got back in his car he popped a couple Xanax and chugged a bottled water. He had something for everything. But the meeting felt like it went wrong and it was an anti-climax. Heather was there one minute, gone the next. He remembered a moment when he was talking to her and he caught a young guy on a skateboard looking at her. He wanted to see her again, but he wasn't sure if he could make it happen. That's what he realistically thought, it was too risky.
While he waited for the Xanax to kick in he turned on NPR and listened to Lakshmi Singh talk about the middle east. Forget it. He was going to treat himself to some steak and pomme frites and a glass of red wine at that restaurant down the street that had organic meat. Usually he would have called one of his stand by women, but this time he went alone. He was being watched by both teams. His own team and the "other" team. But it might have been his lucky day that he didn't go back to the van and that he didn't just drive home.
"You have never once given me what I want." He heard the voice of his ex girlfriend. His first long term girlfriend. It was one of those moments that haunted him. He felt like after a certain age some people just give up and start nodding and agreeing to everything, and then doing whatever they please. It was true if he had nodded and agreed with her she would've been docile in a moment. Handling. Handling.
He ordered a Scotch. He took another Xanax. He looked up and saw a beautiful Asian woman looking at him. A Japanese woman. He looked her in the eyes and nodded ever so slightly in approval. People in the restaurant took notice of him. He felt they were in agreement that he was a powerful successful man with no identity crises.
The meeting with Heather drifted into the background. He pulled out his phone and drew up a list of photos. Here she was dragging a recycling bin with an earflap hat on. Here she was standing in the wind at a crosswalk. Here she was standing next to a homeless man. Standing, walking, running, but not sitting all that often. At least publicly. He wanted to be here with her. Watching her. He wanted to watch her in person. The video kept getting corrupted anyway. If he could watch her maybe he could unlock the mystery. He was feeling all gooey when he left and crossed to his car. He really shouldn't have been driving but he did anyway. He did it occasionally. Point A to Point B. He got in his car and bent down to adjust the floor mat when a car cruised by. A Datson. He straightened up and took off. The guy in the Datson smiled and spun around to follow Marc. Marc's fogged mind kept him from looking in his rear view. He blissfully drove home with the red car close behind.
The reason why Marc couldn't get the song out of his head was the lyric: When I'm without you I'm cold inside, borrow me again tomorrow. That combined with the hook:
I'm in love, but when I'm jealous my eyes turn green
I'm in love, but when I'm jealous my eyes turn green.
The tempo was fast enough it got him spinning. Spinning in a good way. And he lost himself for a minute, he moved so fast, so far away. But then he came back again and looked at the report in front of him.
The reports were coming in. A white female in her thirties saw a black Beemer with tinted windows cruising down the street real slow. She was taking video and she caught his tags. Later that night an Asian man in his fifties who was raking his lawn saw a man jump out of the moving car.
Ten minutes later the car was found abandoned in the middle of a crosswalk on 28th St. It was equipped with illegal self driving equipment and it was mounted with cameras giving a steady feed of 360 degree footage.
One of the parts that concerned him was that the woman who turned in the footage was actually a well known civilian in the department. Apparently she kept dying and coming back to life. And lately the heat had been on her. The surveillance pictures were stacking up, stacks of HD cards. So it seemed odd that she just happened to have that footage. The truth was that he also wanted a piece of her. And this was his opportunity. He decided he would inject himself into the situation a little further.
He called round and asked to speak to Heather McMillan. Could he have an interview with her? Today would be best. Yes, the local bakery on Pearl, the Greek one. He wanted to talk to her over baklava and hot sweet coffee. He wanted to see what it looked like when she ate. He wanted to coolly watch all her mannerisms. He wanted to find her tells. He wanted in.
He spent the rest of his day honing his routine. He needed to be prepared for this. He needed to be on his game. Better, harder, faster, stronger. He looked in the mirror and studied himself. He worked out on his home equipment and really took it to the next level. He admired his flexed arm, his flat sculpted hairless stomach, his jawline. He was always considered handsome in a very classical way. He had the square jaw and the even proportions of a movie star, except with the caveat of not having been overexposed. Yeah Brad Pitt was hot, but he wasn't a fresh face. And he wasn't Clint Eastwood. His jaw wasn't overly prominent, it was just cut, so he wasn't in any danger of having a double chin. This was important to him as he viewed people with double chins as inferior and he was used to relying on his good lucks to dominate women. He would make subtle criticisms to his dates about "watching your waistline" and "oh it looks like you've been too busy to work out." Then later he would drop hints that he could make things go a lot easier for them. The kind of ideas he had weren't calculated, they stemmed from larger issues in his life. He didn't set out to make promises he couldn't keep, but then again he didn't view them as promises, just previews of what could be in store for a lucky lady in the future.
It wasn't like he was promising them lear jets and horses in Aspen. It wasn't like he bragged about himself to anyone who would listen, maybe to turn them off actually. It wasn't like he had anything to hide. The skeletons in his closet had been swept up recently and discarded. He was given a new shot at life by the department. The department was his life. He loved it. There were people who were there who wanted to get away and he viewed them as traitors. He and his group of friends regularly hazed newcomers and they had been there ten years. The people who do the hazing are considered assets to the dept. Some of them are better at it than others. Sometimes the hazing is essentially torture for psychopaths and sociopaths to feed off of. The department is filled with sociopaths. The psychopaths are limited to two floors, because no one can stand them. He was considered a shoe-in, a rising star, a sure thing. He was powerful. Women did whatever he wanted and let him do whatever he wanted. Men aspired to be him. Everything had gone right. There was no abuse in his family. He was stable, he had a IQ of 190, he was in perfect physical condition, even slightly underweight, and his teeth were white and pleasantly shaped and his breath was fresh. So when he promised new women a hand up, he meant they could ride his coattails, because it made him feel good. He was a star, but he loved em and left em. No attachments right now in his career at the dept. They told him, programmed him, taught him who he was and who he needed to be. His TV stations were limited to eleven and each one was wired to program him for a different thing. He knew about it, but he didn't understand it and he was programmed not to anyway.
It was kind of sad actually. There was a hole in his heart and it hurt. He kept trying to fill the hole, but the scar tissue made it tight and constricted. He thought if he only matched up and was successful enough...if he could catch some kidnappers and save a little girl with blonde hair and find his wife and have his kids...then he would be okay. What about right now? He asked himself in an uncharacteristic stab at the heart of it. Was he okay now? No! And he wanted people to take care of him and coddle him, because it wasn't ok. And people did that and while they were at it they took chunks of him with them. They were like wraiths coming down and sucking off his life force, because he was weak and he wasn't okay despite every effort and every convenience. So it was with this desperate energy and a high sex drive that he arrived down the block from the "bakery." He actually thought this place was stupid and now that he was thinking about it baklava was fattening and he didn't want to look like a pig to Heather. He almost forgot about Heather, because he was so busy thinking about his bright future, but the mic in his ear came on. "She's walking up now. South side of the street."
"I've got a line of sight."
"Good luck man, we'll be here with you through it."
"Ten four."
The thing is when he saw her something took over. He knew he was right about this. This felt right. She looked a little like a modern Barbie doll. God he wished her hair was longer. It was so short! It made him feel weird. It was brown. The truth was he liked brunettes better than blondes. For him blondes were bimbos, well maybe not natural blondes, but those were hard to come by. He never liked red heads. He always felt he would fall in love with a woman with long straight brown hair like Demi Moore. Oh and she would have big tits. And she was smart and could help him. And she could give him what he needed to feel emotionally supported, physically met, and mentally challenged. But the woman standing in front of him inside the glass smudged doors wasn't that woman. Heather was the one that got away. But it wasn't over and he was going to get her. He was.
When he opened the door he saw her watching him in the mirror in front of her. Right he had thought that since her back was facing him he could get in closer, surprising her, pushing her off kilter. But he did the same thing all the time. He stared at any reflective surface instead of looking directly at things. Well when he was working, but who was he kidding, he was doing that all the time. At the dept. there was never a day off. Not at the level he was on.
"Heather."
She turned around and looked at him for a moment as if this was the beginning of her profile on him. He knew this was the face she would remember when he was old. And it was because of this face that she would make some last few moves before retiring on his behalf. But the look she cast on him was calm and even a bit cold. She wasn't a psychopath, but he had been warned about her. He had to be very careful with her because the goal wasn't to blow her cover, but after so many years they had to get closer to her. God after what happened a few days ago with her he felt protective. He heard that she made a bold move while she was in a veritable spotlight of scrutiny and no one knew if she knew they were watching. It seemed like she might know, but they all told themselves they were being silly.
"Marc."
"How are you?" Already he felt stupid. He said it in an overly friendly tone like a stranger with candy he thought. And he immediately regretted it and started obsessing about how much he hated child molesters. Then he tried not to think about that and casually looked at the menu. No espresso machine?
"Do you really want to stay here?" she asked. She looked dubious.
And then he felt relief and he didn't know where it came from. But he was looking at her face and it was like it was radiating light. And he noticed she smelled good and her face was nice looking and her lips were full like a doll's, and her shirt was tight and she looked strong. And then she did the strangest thing. She quickly grabbed his arm and pulled him outside like she was saving him.
"Let's go for a walk."
Outside cold air brought his senses back, but not completely, because she had touched him. And something happened, there was familiarity between them now and so quickly that he was caught off guard. He wanted to touch her again. They walked up the street.
In his earpiece he heard, "What are you guys doing?"
"Heather, I have no idea."
"What?"
"I have no idea what we're doing."
"Do you always have to have a plan?" She put him on the spot.
He pulled back. But then he saw her legs in those tight pants and he couldn't be mad at her, actually now that he noticed she looked upset.
He turned the attention back to her. "Are you sure you're okay?" He was doing what the people in the dept. did to him. And he knew for a fact she wasn't ok. So he did it a little viciously. If she wanted to play with the big boys she was going to get it just like everyone else. No special passes little missy. He wanted to be cruel, because he felt intimidated by her, but then he remembered how she died. Hm, he thought, I should definitely take the soft approach with her.
And for a minute they walked silently while she tried not to cry. He witnessed her win that battle, but the reality was that he had actually won, because if he ever saw her break down and truly cry she would be in his soft spot. Also because he needed to cry too and he wouldn't have to if she did it when things got tense. He realized he was thinking about her with an intensity that wasn't warranted by how well he knew her. And when she cried he would feel okay and in charge. Because they all knew how delicate she really was. Her mental health was very unstable. Yes, he thought he could help her. His mission changed from help himself to help her.
Then he realized it was happening too fast. What was this?
"Heather do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"
"That's why I'm here isn't it?"
"That footage you turned in. Do you know why we're looking for the car? Did anyone tell you?" That wasn't what he thought he was going to ask.
"No, they found me off the traffic camera. Can you tell me why they wanted my footage and called me in when they have cameras up everywhere anyway?"
He had thought about that. He knew it was just a ruse to interview her. Maybe. Actually he hated to admit it, but he didn't know what was going on anymore. A long time ago he thought he used to know. Not anymore. Oh well. C'est la vie. Quick sendoff. "The team that analyzed the footage thought your angle on the car might reveal something better than what we had."
She put her sunglasses on and grabbed his arm again and pointed across the street at some graffiti. Again he felt like he was dragged into her world when she touched him. She was warm.
All his prepared questions dropped away. He was brought back to the fact that they were undoubtably being viewed at the office on a big screen. A lot of people were watching them and he briefly felt overwhelmed by the pressure to perform.
"What were you filming when you caught the car on camera?"
"I was filming the traffic."
He was caught off guard by her honesty. "Why were you filming the traffic?"
"I don't know."
"Ok. Did you see anything that might help us?"
"Nothing that you don't already know. The car caught my attention because it was going so slow."
"If you don't mind me asking...how long have you lived here?"
"Long enough to be a local now. Plus I grew up in Colorado."
"Fair enough."
Then she looked at him in the eyes, his brown eyes, and she said, "I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?"
"I'm sorry I couldn't help you more." And she smiled sweetly at him.
"Are you saying goodbye to me?"
"I have some more stuff to do today and I'm sure you want to get on with your interviews."
He frowned, but quickly covered it. She was still there, but he could feel her moving away. He felt like he had lost her again. It made him mad. He wanted to hold her as improbable as that was.
"Yeah I guess I should get back to the office."
"Have a nice day." She quickly took his hand and squeezed it. She smiled and then she rushed off down the sidewalk.
He stood there in shock. It was as though the meeting had never taken place already - as heavily documented as it was. His mind felt like it was getting a sweeping with a broom.
"Well, I guess that's it folks."
"Ok come back to the van, we have to ask you some questions..."
"I think it'll be more natural if I take my car. You have to remember how many randoms there are following people around." He said. He called the shots not them. They needed to know their place. When he got back in his car he popped a couple Xanax and chugged a bottled water. He had something for everything. But the meeting felt like it went wrong and it was an anti-climax. Heather was there one minute, gone the next. He remembered a moment when he was talking to her and he caught a young guy on a skateboard looking at her. He wanted to see her again, but he wasn't sure if he could make it happen. That's what he realistically thought, it was too risky.
While he waited for the Xanax to kick in he turned on NPR and listened to Lakshmi Singh talk about the middle east. Forget it. He was going to treat himself to some steak and pomme frites and a glass of red wine at that restaurant down the street that had organic meat. Usually he would have called one of his stand by women, but this time he went alone. He was being watched by both teams. His own team and the "other" team. But it might have been his lucky day that he didn't go back to the van and that he didn't just drive home.
"You have never once given me what I want." He heard the voice of his ex girlfriend. His first long term girlfriend. It was one of those moments that haunted him. He felt like after a certain age some people just give up and start nodding and agreeing to everything, and then doing whatever they please. It was true if he had nodded and agreed with her she would've been docile in a moment. Handling. Handling.
He ordered a Scotch. He took another Xanax. He looked up and saw a beautiful Asian woman looking at him. A Japanese woman. He looked her in the eyes and nodded ever so slightly in approval. People in the restaurant took notice of him. He felt they were in agreement that he was a powerful successful man with no identity crises.
The meeting with Heather drifted into the background. He pulled out his phone and drew up a list of photos. Here she was dragging a recycling bin with an earflap hat on. Here she was standing in the wind at a crosswalk. Here she was standing next to a homeless man. Standing, walking, running, but not sitting all that often. At least publicly. He wanted to be here with her. Watching her. He wanted to watch her in person. The video kept getting corrupted anyway. If he could watch her maybe he could unlock the mystery. He was feeling all gooey when he left and crossed to his car. He really shouldn't have been driving but he did anyway. He did it occasionally. Point A to Point B. He got in his car and bent down to adjust the floor mat when a car cruised by. A Datson. He straightened up and took off. The guy in the Datson smiled and spun around to follow Marc. Marc's fogged mind kept him from looking in his rear view. He blissfully drove home with the red car close behind.
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