Bob and Jim were racecar drivers.  Won day, they drove in a race together.  Jim made Bob have a wreck.  Bob dide.  Jim won the race.  The end.
 

Snow fell soft and white with sharp edges. It settled on the shoulders of the long tweed coat he wore. He stood staring out to where the white mist haunted the road. The inconsiderate snow gradually filled the fresh tire tracks, the only tire tracks.

He turned to walk back up the driveway. A red compact drove by as he started back home. The car looked a little scared, not being your typical snow car. He wondered about the snow. Last night had stormed and stomped. The morning was clear, but as afternoon came around, he was afraid tonight would get angry again.

He turned just as he heard the sick crash of the impact. He started running around the curve of the mountain road. The car was slanted up against a telephone pole, dead. The driver’s door was opened. The driver’s window was bloody. As he ran, his eyes traced the footprints to the stumbling, surviving shape of the driver.

The driver’s earth came out from under her. The driver fell face-down in the snow. He followed the blood peppered snow and knelt beside the injured person. She was breathing. She looked around, but she did not seem to see anything. She was bleeding badly from the head as well as the right hand, where a bone had exposed.

She looked up at him. He couldn’t get her to talk. Shock was the only thing keeping her awake. He began to console her, telling her that it would be okay.

It wouldn’t be okay. A first-aid kit: he could barely use a digital thermometer. Hospital in town. Storm knocked out the phone. Only working truck just drove away. Bicycle only has one seat.

The fates stood up the road looking on, shaking their heads. The one at far right was laughing.

He could go back home. He could wait for the phone to come back. No one would slight him. Hell, no one would know. She’d die here. She will probably die anyway. He doesn’t even know her. He can’t do anything to help her. Even if he could, she will die anyway. Must have a concussion, maybe internal bleeding. She will die. Go home. He doesn’t know her. He doesn’t owe her. She will die anyway.

He stooped, worked her into a piggyback. Her head hung over his shoulder. She was heavy. Blood ran down his neck into his collar. He decided he would walk her to Dredger’s service station. Dredger lived there and had a truck. That was a long way. A very long way. He started walking.

He tossed his jacket onto a park bench and ran with the other children into the playground. The ground was fenced, so far a half-hour the twenty or so children would popcorn about inside playing tag. Children forget history because it has no relevance. He had forgotten, in his excitement, about the other children. Instead he was euphoric from his not having been tagged. He was so good at this game. Still not tagged. Running less now. And still.

There was a new it. It came for him. He giggled and scattered. Then he heard the others call. Then he remembered.

"Don't tag Sal!"

He fell inward and stopped running. He shuddered and strutted, cracked but together. He walked to the playset, dignified and unfeeling, broken and ashamed. He crawled under the slide, beneath where the tunnel joined the platform, where it was darkish and alone. He cried quietly.

He stopped and gathered the pieces when a little girl crawled under with him. He tucked the broken pieces away to prove they weren't there, to prove he was whole. He glared at her. Everyone was an enemy, and he could never be sure.

"Hi."

"Hey," he said.

"Are you crying?"

"No." Of course not.

"What's your name?"

In that simple question, she bought him. She had offered what she could. She was not an enemy. She might be safe, might even be a friend. He answered.

"Sal."

Her face twisted into amused confusion.

"Sal? That's a girl's name!"

She giggled and crawled away, leaving the burned out, mangled carnage of a little boy.

The wind picked up, cutting through his coat, into his armpits, into the edges of his mouth. He kept walking as the snow fell harder. She had fallen asleep on his back, and he knew she would most likely never wake up.

His foot, not paying attention, slipped sideways and he collapsed to his knees. He fell onto earth, no asphalt, the difference between bones and broken ones. It hurt, still. It hurt bad. His face wrapped itself in pain, and he breathed loudly through clenched teeth. He tried to focus.

He threw the shot back and handed the empty glass to the bartender. He made his way through the people, aiming loosely for his table. Some girl pointed at him and talked.

“You guys rocked. I’m sorry people didn’t make more noise for you, but you were great.”

“Thanks. That’s good to hear.” He was especially thankful that she had pointed out how little applause there had been, but he didn’t say that.

He found his table, and he found his brother sitting at his table. She was there too. His brother was nursing some dark brown concoction.

His brother said, “I love that movie. I don’t care. ‘Who is fuckin’ Keyser Soze?’ Great movie.”

“Isn’t that guy in some new HBO thing?” she said.

“Yeah. It came from some Israeli show.”

“Really?” she said. “How do you know that?”

“I don’t fucking know. Here.” His brother gave her a light.

“Thanks, baby. Hey are you okay?” She was talking to him now.

He became self-conscious and realized how turned-in he was. “Huh? Yeah, I’m good.”

“What the fuck’s wrong with you? You been brooding all night,” his brother said.

“Nothing.” Nothing.

“Hey, you need another drink?” his brother asked her.

“No. I think I’m getting ready to go.” She stood up.

“Hey, you need a ride, then?”

He broke in. “You can’t drive.”

“You fuckin’ can, Sal. Come on.” His brother stood up.

“I didn’t say yes,” she said.

“Come on. It’s me, baby. Come on,” his brother said. He judged his brother was drunk, and judged now was as good a time as any.

“I’m going to Seattle,” he said.

His brother blinked twice and tapped the table. “What?”

He sat.

His brother spoke, “We’re going,” and turned to her, “Yeah?”

She gave him a look.

“Oh, come on,” his brother said.

She shrugged. They started toward the exit. He got up. His brother turned and pointed fiercely.

“What the fuck? You selfish prick!”

People stared.

“You-- Damn you, you damn-- You don’t even know those pricks. You self-centered asshole!”

“I don’t wanna play covers all my life, man,” he said.

“It’s not about the covers.” His brother scoffed. “You missed the whole damn point.”

“And what’s the point?”

“You! It’s all fuckin’ about you. Go! Go to Seattle. We’ll replace your ass. You just think about you. Come on.”

The bartender gave him the you gotta get that guy outta here. They left.

He got back on his feet. One in front of the other. He ached, his head hurt, and his nose was half itching, half numb. Not far now. All downhill, too.

He forced himself not to think about whether or not she was still alive. The vertical hold was going as the storm picked up. He had eyes closed half the time, the other half blinking the snow away like windshield wipers.

The trees alongside the road were jostling about, making loud swish crack noises of barely contained panic. He worried that branches or whole trees might fly off and hit him. He was so stiff he knew that if he lost his feet even once, he would not find them again.

He clicked save and stood up. Then he heard the noises. He came out of the room, and she was rolling the big suitcase through the living room.

She saw him and stopped. They squared off.

"So," he said, "you were just gonna go, with me in there?"

She cleared her throat. "I thought it would be, I don't know, ironic. Maybe you'd be so into your work."

"That's pretty clever."

"Whatever, Sal." She started back toward the door.

"Steph, wait. Steph, we can fix this."

"Fix what? You mean I can fix it? You mean I can just get over it?"

"I thought--" Desperation. "Thought we were gonna--"

"I can't. Do this anymore. I mean, it's all I can think about. You with that--"

"What can I do? Anything."

"What do you ever do? You survive, Sal. You're a survivor. You wreck your life and then you slip through on the charity of others."

"Charity?" Indignation. "This is charity? I make money! I work!"

"I know. All the-- Listen," she held her hands up. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what?"

She paused. "You expect everyone's forgiveness. Poor Sal and his broken life. I mean, you said yourself, you were lonely and you needed someone to fix that. well, I can't keep fixing things. I can't keep getting over things. I feel like I married a child."

"A child? Oh, yeah, okay. You're the adult. You fix everything, 'cause you're the strong one. The better one, cleverer."

"It's not about me."

He sighed. "Then what, Steph? Then what?"

"You. Your choices. Your cock. Your needs. You broke this. We could've-- You just had to--"

Their breathing was audible. They were exhausted.

"You broke this, Sal. You."

"Steph, don't."

She gripped the suitcase handle. "I gotta go." She was near tears. He figured she was resisting, wanting to seem the strong one.

He followed her out, wordless. He watched her pack the suitcase into the truck. He did not help.

"So you're just gonna take it?" he asked.

"It's my truck. You've got your bike. You could've gotten the Cherokee fixed."

"No more charity, right?" Defeat.

"Goodbye, Sal." She closed the door. As she pulled away, he heart burst. He ran after the truck, right to the end of the driveway, shouting at her to come back. She did not.

A few tears appeared and vanished like ghosts, leaving no evidence. He stood there, staring down the road, the very road he was now carrying his burden along.

Out of the mist ahead, Dredger's station appeared. He felt his blood surge, seeing the journey's end, real and reachable. He was hunched over so far he could hardly see ahead. He had lost the feeling in his feet and lower arms, and no longer trusted his grip. The woman was more or less balanced on his back. The tired began a coup in his brain, stating an agenda of just sitting the hell down. He could not remember a time when he was this tired.

He started trying to remember all the songs that he had played. He went over the cords and the riffs, tried to remember the lyrics, anything to push off the tired and keep his legs moving.

He was entering Dredger's property. He saw the house next to the station, and that was his target. He felt terrible pains in his knees and chest. Then came a soul-crushing moment when he knew he was not gonna make it to the house. He decided that surely he was within earshot. It was late, but there were lights on. Perhaps they would hear. And if they did not, he had done his best.

He tried to yell, still staggering forward. He pushed, but could not make noise. Again, he tried, and again, nothing. The third time he managed a whimper, but it would not be enough. He kept trying. Eyes on voice. Eyes off feet.

He fell. She toppled off of him. He lay in the snow. A clump of it had gone into his mouth, and it made his teeth cold. He felt like he was losing it.

Get it back. Hold on. It's not just her anymore. He was afraid. He closed his eyes. He thought of dying here.

Once more he tried.

"Help!"

Screaming. Dredger. Blanket. Truck. Headache. Lights. Nurse. Bed. Dr. Sullivan. Warmth. Sleep.

He shuffled nervously on the couch as his mother eyed the school report. He was fighting not to grin like a fool. She looked up at him.

"This is much better," she said.

He grinned like a fool.

"I'm glad to see you putting forth some real effort. This is really good. Thank you, Sal."

"And, I want you to know--"

"Know what?" She put the paper down.

"I didn't just do it to use the car again. I really wanna do better."

She chuckled. "Salvador, did you meet a girl?"

He shook his head no and laughed.

"Then did you find religion or are you just on drugs?"

They both laughed.

"Listen, hon. You can maybe -- maybe -- start using the car again. But listen to me. You have a real inner strength in there, Sal. If you just don't let yourself get washed away, if you really set yourself to it, you can do something amazing. I know that. I see you getting down a lot. And I know life's hard sometimes. But you-- Well, I don't wanna preach. You did good. Go tell your brother to come eat, now."

He woke up alone in a hospital bed. That was easy. Then came the hard part.

Two weeks later, as he was signing the discharge forms, Mr. Dredger paid a visit.

"How you feelin'?" Dredger offered a hand.

He held up the stump, which ended near the wrist, and shrugged.

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"It's allright. I'm left-handed anyway. I'm going to physical therapy up at County. The say the new fakes are pretty good, so hopefully it'll be--" He trailed off, unsure how to finish.

"Well. It was the damn phones! It-- I wish I coulda done more."

"No, no, listen. You were great. You're my hero, man. And thank your wife for me, too."

"Sure thing. I, uh-- How's the lady?" Dredger asked.

"She's in bad shape, I guess. She's coming around, thought, slowly. I was gonna go see her later."

"Yeah. You keep in touch then. You know, if it's okay to say, I'm glad to have a guy like you livin' on my mountain."

He just grinned and nodded, unsure how to reply.

"What about your lady?"

He stopped grinning. "She's been by." He paused, long enough for awkwardness to peek in. "We're getting divorced."

"Oh. Damn, I--"

"No, it's fine. I-- I can't say it wasn't coming. And all this, well, it would be the wrong reason to stay, you know?"

"Sure, yeah."

"Who knows. Maybe when this girl gets her speed back, I'll ask her out, huh?" They chuckled.

"There ya go," Dredger said. "Get her to buy you a drink."

The nurse looked the papers over. "Well, looks like you're good to go. Stop by for your copies."

Dredger motioned. "I'll let you alone. You keep in touch, now."

"Yeah," he said. "Thanks, again."

He found his way to the nurse's desk. The fates were there. One of them handed him his discharge papers apologetically.

He left the hospital, shaken but sure. He would learn to type again, maybe get the Cherokee fixed, get over his wife, somehow. He would put his life back in place. He knew he could. He had saved a woman's life.

So, to hell with the world. Don't tag Sal. He won't mind.

This is sort of an experiment. I call it a "proem."
-----

A solitary tree stood leafless on a still breathing road, content in its old-man loneliness, a monument to its many long years.  Beneath in the dirt, etched like memory, was a groove cut by traveler's rears.  Beset by armies of weeds, in its branches birds sang in code.  There on the ground lay a cloth, torn or cut from a greater whole.  It was green, but time was a surly tax man and stole from it much of its dye.  Three edges were frayed, the fourth straight, the seam at center, that it were worn implied.  Tunic, shirt, or gown perhaps; no telling whose story it told.  And onto it three buttons were sewn, olive in shape and shade; without a buttonhole to be found, they were a named but unrealized means.  The buttons, retaining their color, made the thing an unsightly clash of greens.  Of no use and unpretty, it gave neither practice nor grade.

Just then a tailor happened by: gangly, odd featured, cleft lip.  He spied the cloth in his periphery; curious he bent to inspect it.  The buttons and threads he might use, but so old it was he could scarce expect it.  He smiled, such as he was able, kept it, continued his trip.  It was a woman of ill repute he sought; it was always the same girl.  He was poor, so she was not sweet to him, but she cooled the rioting fever.  A joyless stillness he took from her; he bought numbness with pay that he'd leave her.  Without wallet, after all, he'd be yet as an unfound pearl.  They were mimes, the two.  In meekness he spoke not a word to her, but quietly, quickly, to the priest, he spoke his sins, cardinal and immane at the chapel wherein he would hide and take shelter from devils and rain.  God crafted him hideous, yet to God apologies were.  He stole home to compare it, to find his small fortune a wife, but the threads were Father Time's victim, and the buttons were of an odd brand.  In the end he could find it no home, its matrimony but a fool's errand.  He cast the cloth aside; not using it, continued his life.

It fell to the ground near a butcher's shop just beside the door.  The butcher within, hard at work, to a washbowl stole to rinse away the red.  Stepping outside, he eyed the cloth; thought he might use it to wipe his hands and head.  With that idea he took it up and went back in the store.  A tough fellow on the outside, within lay a diff'rent face: a defeated man, owner of a corpse marriage, by fortune had been forsaken.  Of the four children that his wife had born, not a single breath had been taken.  His hands quite known to stains of blood; some stains would not erase.  He took back to his work, beating the slabs with cleaver and knife, taking his revenge on the unwanting universe, the life it deeded him.  But the cloth was not as he'd hoped; it was small, and the buttons impeded him.  He cast the cloth aside; not using it, continued his life.

On the road was an artist, awaiting his man and his ride.  He noted the cloth flutter on the cobbled street, took it as quick as he could, seeing a surreal cleverness, some joke only the cosmos understood.  As he pondered it, his carriage arrived, and he climbed inside.  He drew from the opium pipe, digesting its warm glow.  Willfully unknown, he'd wane as fame crept to him; his parents, well-made, might hear.  His mother, society's pawn and mistress; his patron a tinker of men's misfortune and fear.  He'd cast it off, the errant son, to follow where the wind might blow.  Once home he took the cloth from his jacket, and upon a small table it sat.  He studied it, wrote of it, sang of it; he begged of it an inspiration.  Then a moment, like a candle lit in a distant window, came to be his creation.  By morn he gazed on this wondrous thing the cloth and his soul begat.

He kept the cloth, a token of sorts, on the errands he'd tend, until one day by chance, as he walked, it fell, forgotten and finally free.  It lighted, nestling into a groove in the dirt by a lonely old tree.  The cloth, having been used, would never be taken up again.

Note: I wrote this story a long time ago in a notebook which I recently found. I was obviously in a foul mood. It's a bit of a "woe-is-me" piece, and I realize that it's a little tired. I only hope I expressed what I felt in a creative, engaging way.

-

James had a problem. He had woken up to find that the numbness was dripping away, and that the bottle had run dry. As the ability to feel came back, James began to cry. It vexed him that he could only barely feel his hands and feet, which were perfectly well, while he was sharply aware of his broken spirit.

James was sitting on a rooftop with two other young men. One had taken too much heroine, and in seven more minutes would be clinically dead. The other had found a pleasant mix of alcohol and pot and fallen into a very vibrant dream. Unhappy with the company, and not wishing to be found by police and arrested, James decided he should try to find a solution to his problem, a problem he was convinced was not his fault. He would tell himself that he hadn't chosen to be here. The truth remains: all of us are where our decisions have brought us, but our decisions seldom tell us where that will be before we make them. Making decisions is like taking buses with no schedule; we can only hope they move us in a generally forward direction. It was this disagreeable, seemingly unfair fact with which James would justify his position: he had not chosen to be here.

James had a simple plan. As soon as he could move his arms and legs, he would go in search of yet another ingestible toxin. As James saw it, the problem was, of course, not his inability to take responsibility for his actions. It was not the ego that constantly reminded him that he was his own boss. It was not his assumption that being jaded by difficulty was a receipt good for one free trip through life. None of these things were the problem. The problem was that he was not, at present, numb. He did not yet know that the purchase he would make would be an illegal narcotic. He had not realized that he would purchase it on credit, nor that he would be unable to repay. James had not foreseen that this would end his life, and that he would then become a file in the homicide division, a file no one really cared about. No one except his ex-wife, strangely. She would think of him often. Funny how women cling to the men that fail them, in their hearts at least.

James descended the stairway, stumbling and unfocused, in lunges and coughs. It was in eerily the same fashion that he had descended through his life. If only he could follow the trail of crumbs fallen from his hopes, he could find his way back to his childhood. Time was a nasty crow, and crows eat crumbs. He longed to hunger for Halloween candy and Friday afternoons again. He wished he could fly that stupid remote-controlled plane down by the lake again. He wanted to watch it frenzy and crash into the water and feel that new, curious disappointment that burns with optimism, that band-aid sense of wounds we know will heal. He had once thought the most hideous scars were left by the most grievous injuries, but in his self-proclaimed maturity it seems the deepest scars were dug by his happiest memories.

In the hallway at the bottom, he struggled in his barbed-wire mind to remember. Two doors led out, one on each end. One was alarmed; the other was mute. This time James would make the right decision. If only all life's defining moments were so dichotomous. "Two roads diverged in a wood," a poet once said. But it is almost never really that way. Most times it is standing in the middle of an open field full of landmines and biting snakes, with only a handful of twisted, true paths, while overhead circled vultures and warplanes, dazzling everything everywhere in light, such that no image could be trusted. That's why James hated that poem.

James had one more experience that was worthy of note. When the sun came up, James was on the sidewalk. He had stopped to rest at a bus stop, and the sun, the sneaky bastard, got very bright and the pit of his stomach grew ever deeper. He walked through the park toward the spot where he would later acquire his killing dose, when some kids playing catch threw an errant ball at him. He saw it and reacted. He reflex was suddenly young and sober, and his hand snapped into place and caught the ball firm and certain like old money.

No, he didn't. His shattered central nervous system failed, and he managed only to bat the ball with his forearm. It bounced back and struck his eye, then went rolling around the grass, laughing at him. He saw a quick flash, got dizzy, and fell on his ass. One of the kids ran over.

"You okay, man?"

He was definitely not okay. The kid's question was a cocktail of flavors James had never tasted. When James didn't reply, the kid asked if he needed a doctor. He abruptly declined and began to right himself. There were more drug cells than blood cells, and besides, he had no money. The thought struck him hard as the ball had. He was a penniless man in a free-market. An American might sometimes forget to breathe, might even forget to keylessly lock the car, but an American did *not* forget to own money. Those who did, and those who were careless enough to miss the soft, forgiving net of credit, were crushed regretlessly by the wheel of a great machine whose strength derived from dietary supplements, aerobics, and anachronistic bad habits. James's ex-wife, for example, had not forgotten to own money. It was with her not forgotten money that she had bought the Subaru she was in. She had driven it to find Gracie, a girl she knew James to be romantically involved with. Perhaps "romance" is not the word. Perhaps the word, or phrase, is dramatically increased monoamine levels coupled with a loft occupied by two other girls so diced they did not care whether or not Gracie sucked and fucked some just-met guy on the couch. Gracie had led the ex-wife to Lewis, a seedy sonuvabitch who informed her that James mostly hung around the bus station with the drunks, the park with the dope fiends, or the tower to avoid cops. That led the ex-wife, who had a boyfriend, replete with a CD-player, good income, and moderately-sized penis, and really had no reason to be crusading about to save a lost, tortured past from self-destruction, that led her to be driving by the park on that very day, at that very time, which is what makes the event note worthy.

Had James only remained on his feet, she might have spotted him, gotten help for him, spared him the fate of which I already spoke. He did not, however, remain on his feet, but, like so many of us, spent his redemption on the ground, pining over balls he was unprepared to catch. The ex-wife drove away, the ball kept laughing, and the world went on. None of us, after all, will ever hear of James, and even if we do, it won't make much difference.

Dr. Thaddeus Granyon was a very careful man. Likewise, he selected his tools with great thought. He had paid
a shiny shilling for a particular spatula, solely for the perfect flipping of a fried egg. It was with this same meticulousness that he selected his brush and pick and with terrible detail, began unearthing the small, metal
object.

He had been working the Middle East site for some time; it had, for the most part, been fruitless. This last week, however, had been one of events. If the bronze device, of which a square inch was now visible, proved as he hoped, it would be written in the textbooks. This discovery would redefine the assumptions being made about the cultures of ancient history.

The sun bore down on him as his partner looked on impatiently. Despite this, Granyon leaned back, wiped his brow, and breathed. No good thing was ever rushed. He reflected for the moment on the personal impact of what lay before him. He would be, quite simply, a made man. Not that his colleagues had anything but respect for him, but this would propel his name down hallways, out windows, and through doors, some of them quite lucrative doors, at that.

A hired hand brought them water, as Granyon resumed his work. Pleasantries were exchanged between the other two in the native tongue of the area, but Dr. Granyon was wordless. He was not a morose or withdrawn man; under other circumstances he was quite social. He had many friends; a close one had once described hims as being "loyal in the utmost." He was, however, a man who took in certain auspicious occasions in reverent silence, especially those that held enormous possibility.

He stepped back to drink, surveying his progress. Everyone who wished him success came flooding into his mind. The faces of all those who had supported him washed over him, and he was filled with a sense of place. So many people wanted good things for him, and for his family.

His family. Of all those faces, his family stood out most. They had sacrificed the most for his adventures. His beautiful wife, faithfully keeping his home in his absence. His two sons, intelligent and full of life. They know the exotic presents he brought a few times a year could not replace a father's love, but they made it be enough. He had, after all, not seen any of them in-- why, it was eight months now.

The normalcy of this struck him. He met with his family perhaps four times a year, at most. There he stood, on the cusp of his most brilliant moment, his community's future, his estate's certainty, and where were his wife and sons? Suddenly, he was terrified of his fate.

To say his partner was more confused or more upset would be difficult, but this did not stop Dr. Granyon. He explained succinctly that he would be unable to finish the project. He had hoped he would sound matter of fact, as though he were ordering soup, but the tremor of his voice betrayed him. He had hoped his partner would just accept his change of heart as Granyon himself had, but he was met instead with a barrage of loudly-voiced questions. He knew the questions would come incessantly, and would be hard to give answers to, but, four hours later, the only question that seemed to need an immediate response was the airline teller's.

"One way," he said.

His partner went on to finish the dig, and thanks to his attributions and lauding, Granyon managed to find work, despite his suddenly leaving a major project site. It was local work, and modest, but it paid bills. His home, his family, his dog, his English-Portuguese dictionary; they were all right where he had so carelessly left them. He would not leave them again. He raised his sons, teaching them to drive, cringing at their choice of music, cringing again at their choice of career. He retired with his wife, in that very same house.

Dr. Granyon was very careful in his choice of spatula. He had finally remembered why.