Cafe At The End Of Time 18.5

The variety of mind trainings available to the Centoi

was staggering. One could be trained in Imperial

Conditioning for honesty, loyalty and good judgment…

or, one’s brain could be trained  for it’s ability to suss

mathematical models leading to mental/computer

crossover skills. The kundalini could be awoken creating

mind engines of enlightenment. Ignorance and stupidity

were things of the past. Life was celebrated constantly.

                                         ****

It was getting late, and Frank had been drinking steadily.

No shifts of perception like yesterday. The drinking

seemed to help with that. He went up to his room and

laid down on the bed. He had an ipod and he put on

The Grateful Dead…”Hard To Handle”. The breeze

blew through the thatched cabana.

                                    ****

It was getting late, and Frank had been drinking steadily

all day.  He got up and folded his chair. He turned and

Gerlinda was standing there.

“I’m sorry…I wanted to apologize. I had no right to

accuse you of being rude.”

_”You’re a very emotional young woman.  Don’t worry,

I don’t worry about these little things.”

“Thank you.  Would you like to come to my room…

for a smoke?”

“Uh….sure…why not?”

Gerlinda was not staying at the same place as Frank. Her’s

was a bit up the hill. She had a private casita overlooking

the ocean.

“Nice. I guess you do have money.” Frank sat at a table

on the balcony.

Gerlinda came to the table with a wooden box, a bottle

of tequila and two glasses.  She sat at the table and

poured two drinks. That was when Frank noticed the

shape of her ears…they were slim and almost came

to a point at the top. The lobes were sensual and hung down. 
Gerlinda opened the wooden box and filled a pipe from 
what was there.

“Pipe weed, we call it….we took the name from the

movie, “The Hobbit”. “

Frank took a hit from the long clay pipe Gerlinda had produced. As he  exhaled, the smoke seemed to form recognizable patterns in the air.

“You sure you’re not an Elf, Gerlinda?”

Gerlinda laughed.  “I’ve been accused of it before,

but I don’t see where there is any proof.”

“Your ears.”

“Reconstructive surgery….they did a great job.”

“Yes, they did.  Uh…I should go now…getting

sleepy.”

“OK. Maybe some other time we can talk about a

few things.”

“Maybe….that was great “weed”…thanks a lot.”

“We’ll do it again…”

“Cool.”    Frank walked down the hill to his room.

The full moon was coming up on the right. He sat

on the steps leading up to his room and looked out

over the ocean. There were moments when he

experienced terror about what was happening to him.

But now….and maybe it was just the pipe weed…he

felt the rightness of what was happening, as if he

could appreciate the organic process that was taking

place……but it was just a feeling…he couldn’t prove

anything.  He got into bed and it felt so good and drifty.

Cafe At The End Of Time 18.0

He woke up the next day, He slept well, but he couldn’t 

remember whose dreams he was having. It looked like

another great day on the shore,

What was happening to him, to the world in fact, was

something that had been predicted by all the major

religions, the Hopi, the Maya…all of them. Everyone had

been waiting  for a specific date, a point, a pivot when the

great change was suddenly to occur. But observing the

USA today,  there are symptoms of massive pressure

building.  From competitive eating to reality television…

to psychotic teenagers with assault weapons, aberrant

behavior is pandemic in America.  Some of it purports

to be entertainment….but seen as a landscape, it is

obviously the product of unconscious activity. As

Gurdjieff wrote in 1916;  “It is precisely in unconscious 

involuntary manifestations that all evil lies. You do not 

yet understand and cannot imagine all the results of this

evil. But the time will come when you will understand.”

All these symptoms are similar to reactions to an illness.

There’s really a question whether the individuals performing

these acts are acting with a free will, or if the environment,

the climate, has robbed them of that.  John Wilkes Booth was

the last lone assassin…nowadays,  every city you go to you

meet nine or ten Manchurian Candidates. It’s all the social

engineering that went bad…imagine a production line

putting out Frankenstein monsters. Because many people

have realized what’s happening to them, the awareness 

movement has gained steam.  But the pressure I’m  writing

about has as its end the opposite of awareness…and what’s

producing that pressure holds power.

                                                ****

Senator Claybell from South Carolina takes the podium.

“The deficit, the financial crisis, mass murders,  all are

reasons why we need to create a department of government

to recognize and promote mental health in our society.”

Some of the senators were sleeping it off at their desks…

one was shooting heroin…another was getting a B.J.

by his assistant.  An pizza delivery guy brought in a large

pepperoni  to the senator from New Jersey...the big one.

                                          ****

Frank went up to the restaurant and ordered a shrimp

cocktail. You could see the beach from where he was

sitting,  and two soldiers were patrolling carrying M-16s.

A young woman sat down a couple of seats away.

“Hi,  I’m  Gerlinda….what’s your name?”

“F rank…how are you doing?”

“Very well…thank you.  I’m here because after December

twenty first was such a bust,  I had to get out of L.A.”

“Every time I was in L.A.  I felt I had to get out immediately.”

 “Really?  I think it’s such a great city, full of glamour and 

panache…such beautiful people. “

That was it. Frank picked up his shrimp cocktail, nodded to

Gerlinda,  and went back out to his beach chair.

                                               ****

“That was rude…to get up and leave like that.”  Gerlinda

looked as though she was about to cry.

“Honey, you got money, don’t you?”

“Yes…but…what?”

“Go spend some of it….you’ll feel better.”

Gerlinda stomped angrily off.

                                                  ****

“Welcome to mind training school #PS-47.  During your

course of study here,  you will experience days of meditation

practice,. You will become familiar with the techniques of

sensory deprivation,  biofeedback, and engram recalculation.

Your kundalini will be awoken and your charkas will be

cleansed.  Fasting and vision quests, sundance and temescal

all will be studied and practiced. When you leave our school,

your mind will be as slick as a baby’s butt.”

                                           ****

After Frank left school, he didn’t have any trouble

finding a job. With his certificate from the school

he could qualify for almost any training program.

His employers knew he would be able to learn new

tasks quickly and that there would be no psychological 

problems concerning his time of employment.  

Cafe At The End Of Time 17.0

                                             End of Part 1

Masunte on the coast of Oaxaca during the off season…

the perfect beach. Frank rented a room over a restaurant

that was right on the beach.  What Shela had told him

would play itself out…there was nothing he could do to

change what was going to happen…but he could still live

in the time he had left.

Funny, we all could say that about our lives…whether we

have two days left or twenty years, we always have the 

opportunity to live it now rather than wait for some golden

time in the future that never seems to arrive.

Frank wondered if he’d have time to make any progress

on the book he was working on…he didn’t care anymore 

if he finished it.  He wondered if he could even write material

anymore that had a plot: direction. Why do novels have plots?

Because readers like to read stories….ones that have a beginning

and an end and stuff in the middle that ties it all together so that

it makes sense. Like Mark Twain said: “It’s no wonder truth

is stranger than fiction….fiction has to make sense.”

Frank’s life, at this point, was true….but that didn’t mean

it was making much sense.

                                          ****

Frank took a beach chair and went down to the sand and shore.

He had a joint and a water bottle filled with tequila… he

was planning to do some heavy contemplating while he looked

out at the ocean.  Frank preferred the mountains, but sitting

on the beach he felt a vastness that he experienced nowhere

else.  He was starting to relax…he felt himself drifting off…

Frank woke up, but not quite….it was like one of those bad

naps you sometimes have where you wake up groggy and stay

that way for some time.

He was still at the beach, but it was not the same beach. There

were a lot more people…some swimming, some sunning…

somehow the shore looked different….and the palm trees behind 

him.  Maybe it was the same beach….but there hadn’t been

this many people on it since he arrived. Where did they come 

from?  Frank closed his eyes again….

This time, when he woke up, he thought he was still dreaming.

He was wearing blue clothes again, a uniform.  And he had a

clipboard in his hands. He looked at the writing at the top of

the paper:  FRANK 264499.  Somehow, reading that, made him

feel suddenly dizzy, and he fell to the floor.

                                            ****

Frank woke up and got out of his sleepingsac.  He had been

sleeping in sand, but somehow he knew he wasn’t at the beach

He had on a blue tunic and red pantaloons. A fez like hat next

him on a rock. Next to that, a rifle. He realized he was a Zouave.

A bugle blew, and Frank did what he knew instinctively to

do…he got up, straightened his uniform, shouldered his rifle,

and went to formation.  His body felt different: younger, leaner, 

stronger. He seemed to have new memories….a whole new

life. As the minutes ticked by,  Frank began to think that his

memories of the beach were a dream,  and  that this was, in

fact,  his life.

He fought that day.  His commanding officer fell into a trap

and they were ambushed.  Frank was a good fighter, and one

of the main reasons they got out of that fix.  But Frank got a

bullet in the left side and was bleeding heavily.  His body was

getting heavy and he sat down. He thought of his mother and

Suzette, the girl he loved…and he realized his name was Francois.

                                              ****

The sun was going down on the left side of the beach. Frank

woke up in his chair and stretched his body. He went up to the

restaurant and had fresh fish and rice for dinner. He still had half 

a bottle of tequila sitting on the table in front of him.  That would 

be gone soon.  Frank remembered what he had experienced

sitting on the beach.  This was part of what Shila told him

would happen to him.

Cafe At The End Of Time 16.0

Frank woke up in his hideout the next morning. He

remembered talking to the woman in the room, but

not much about what was said. Had she drugged him

somehow? An aerosol perhaps?  He couldn’t remember

how he got home.  She said she was going to tell him

something, but he couldn’t recollect if she had.

He glanced over to the corner. The cooler was still there.

They’d be after him again, soon enough, once they opened

the bag. Maybe they wouldn’t be so friendly this time.

He’d gotten nothing out of the conversation with Shela,

and he still hadn’t been paid to collect the bag. Well, they

were screwing with him and he was screwing with them…

S.O.P. for many of these kinds of shady deals.

He went to a different internet café and checked into the

private chat room. No one home. He wrote  a message:

“2 PM”, and left the café.  He took the subway down-

town and looked for a place to eat that was not one of

his usual haunts.  He stopped in at “Philbert’s”, a nutty

little place that catered to the theatre crowd.  He took a

booth away from the front door.  He ordered a Philly

cheese steak and a stein of “Devil’s Due” porter. His

mind began to wander.

It was as if he was having a waking dream…he had some

kind of blue outfit on,  and he was wearing a cap. He was

walking along a corridor in an industrial facility that he

didn’t recognize.  In one hand, he was carrying something

by a handle…it was heavy.

The plate hitting the table woke him up. The waitress

looked at him.  He must have acted startled… “Sorry…

I didn’t mean to interrupt your daydream.” 

“No, no, just not sleeping well lately…” The waitress

looked at him oddly for a seconded and walked away.

He enjoyed his meal.  He had a couple more beers and

started feeling right. He didn’t think it strange that he’d

nodded off…he was under a lot of stress.  He checked

the clock on the wall. He paid for his meal…smiled at

the waitress as he left…her expression was neutral.

He found a new internet café. He checked into the chat

room.  “Coffee10” was there. 

coffee10:   “What happened?”

Nick:         “We seem to have stiffed each other.”

coffee10:    “You got your money….did you check your

                      account?”

Nick:         “Not lately…I’ve been rather busy.”

coffee10:    “The money’s there…where’s the package?”

Nick           “Also, your friend l like to call Shela was going

                     to explain what this is all about….I think…I

                      think she drugged me.”

coffee10:      “We were trying to spare you from further

                        involvement.”

Nick:             “Too late.”

coffee10:         “Yes”

Long pause.

So now at this point in the novel, I should write about how

Frank makes arrangements to meet again with the unknown

and the various subterfuges concocted to make this part of  the

reading very juicy.  But, that’s not what happened.

coffee10:              “go outside.”  

Coffee10’s name vanished from the chat room. Frank went outside.  Shela was waiting for him on the sidewalk. “Let’s

walk this way.”  They walked.

“We can’t give you the big picture right now. The best we

can do is give you instructions to prepare for what’s about to

happen to you….in fact, is already happening…we know.

 The object you were supposed to convey to us emits a

certain…..radiation…not nuclear….and it’s shielded…but

some individuals are more…sensitive. You happen to be

one of those.”

“OK…”  Frank was thinking out loud….”So, why did this Tsnelda want to steal it?  Is it valuable?”

“Not intrinsically,  but it’s powerful….and there are always

those  that want power just to have it.  They are quite foolish,

really, no matter how evil they may be.”

Cafe At The End Of Time !5.5

I got there at 7:45.  I sat near the counter to be visible. This

was one time I wanted to be seen.  A youngish woman

came in about 8:05…she was wearing Banana Republic@

and her hair was a wig of feathers.  She walked by me 

stopped, looked at me, smiled, said: “Follow me please.”

We left the station. I followed her to an elevator. We

went up two levels and got out. She walked to a nearby

service door and went through…walked along a service

corridor above the station, it seemed, and eventually to

another door.  We went inside. There was a table and

two chairs….bare light bulb hanging from a wire from

 the ceiling.

“Please sit.”  It was not unfriendly.  She sat across from

me. She took off  her hair piece and she truly was bald.

She placed the wig to the right of her on the table.

She spoke:  “I am just an agent. I want to understand

your experiences as you describe them, because, I assure

you,  it will be in the best interests of all parties involved.”

“What should I call you?”

“What would you like to?”

“How’s about Shela?”

“That would be fine.”

“Great, well,  Shela,  do you mind telling me what the

fuck this is all about?”

“Mmmm…well,  when talking with dangerous men,

it’s better if they speak first…so….please….”

“OK…”  I told her about the leather bag,  the parallel

universe thing where I got shot but I was still here, and

that I watched myself having a conversation with a woman.

Shela listened professionally. When I spoke the name

“Thornvold Arnquist” she gave away that professional

tell of  forced seeming indifference.

“OK..”  I took a big breath and exhaled.  “Your  turn.”

“You might want to take another breath…just to be sure”

I did.  We just sat there for a moment. I had a flash of

something….like a faded photograph...a whiff of perfume…

a blues line long forgotten.

“Before I tell you what I’m going to tell you,  I have be

sure I can get the leather bag.  You understand that?”

“Sure…”  I took out the key for the safety deposit box

and slid it across to her at the table.  She looked at it…

recognized the number…put it into a pocket.

                                           ****

“So, what’s in the bag?” I felt pretty good at that point

that she had bitten for the bag in the safety deposit box.

I was about to get some free information.

She pulled out a pack of Delecado Dorados from

somewhere and calmly lit a cigarette.

“One thing you should understand is that if you try

to hide things from us, it’s not helpful to you, because

none of us truly knows what’s going on.”

“What’s in the bag?”  His hand felt slightly the contour

of  the Mac10 under his coat.

She had recognized his body language and spoke back to

him by leaning back in her chair and relaxing.

“Alright…I see you want to know. And I am obliged to

tell you because you are involved in this now and there

is no way out.  So, you see, we are all ants on a piece of

wood,  going over the edge of a waterfall together…so

how should we be enemies? “

Cafe At The End Of Time 15.0

                                              ****

Frank looked out the ship’s main window.  Carson’s nebula

was the main cosmic feature.  They were on a run to Alpha

Reticuli B384-875 with supplies. So far, the trip had gone smoothly. 

He went mid-decks to the garden. Most of the

ship’s crew spent as much time as they could there.  This kind

of ergonomic benefit made space travel endurable.  Frank

was lucky and he knew it.  He took a deep breath. Life was

starting to make sense.

                                                 ****

Whatever was going on with the parallel universes,  Tsnelda

was in on it. And it had to do with what was in the cooler.

And, since I was experiencing this parallel  phenomena, I was

part of it too. Natricia probably knew what was going on in

the universe where she shot me, but not in this one, but I

couldn’t be sure.  He called Joel on one of his throwaway cell phones.

“Frank!  Where have you been?”

“Joel, have you seen Natricia?”

“No, Frank….She seems to  have disappeared…Frank, do

you know what’s happening?”

“Not a clue…and I would suggest let me take care of it…

don’t look into it or try to discover anything. I think there

is something dangerous for anyone who finds out. I’ll call

when I can.”

He hung up.  He went to his apartment….cased it for a while,

and snuck in the back. The place looked fine…perfect. The

lights were off in the kitchen. He checked the floorboard, and

the hair he had left across the seam was gone. He looked inside,

and nothing seemed disturbed.  This was troubling.  He knew

he couldn’t stay long, or take anything…no one could know

he’d been back. He went out quietly the way he came in.

He took the subway to another borough and went to an

internet café.  He punched in the code for the private chat

room.  Someone was there…nickname “coffee10”  He

checked in as “Nick”.

coffee10:   “you have it?’

Nick:         “yes”

coffee10:    “problem?

Nick:           “I had to change cases.”…

There was a long pause.

coffee10:     “where is it now?”

Nick:           “safety deposit box”

coffee10:      “it has to get out of there.”

Nick:            “we have to meet.”

coffee10:       “impossible”

Nick:             “someone knew…they tried to take it.”

Another long pause.

Nick:              “I’ve had some….unusual experiences.”

(more pause)

coffee10:          “tonight….8 PM…Union Station…wait in

                         the main waiting area.

                                     ****

He had some time before 8. He went for a walk to

air out his mind.  What was happening to him  had seemed

part of his writing process,  but the story had taken over his

life…did he have the “Jarry complex”?  Was he loosing his

mind?  Nothing he was experiencing seemed like a dream or

hallucination.  He could be making it up, but hadn’t he made

up his whole life before then anyway?  When he talked to old 

friends about their past experiences, at times their memories

seemed almost incompatible.  He usually attributed that to

brain damage.  He knew a man once, Bill, who had been in an 

accident and had brain damage…Bill was fine, same level of

intelligence and functionality,  but his personality had changed

completely.  Before, he had been calm, and a bit shy. Now he 

was gregarious and hilarious…at times, outrageous. Bill himself

couldn’t understand what had happened.

He sat on a park bench along the side of the road. He liked to 

come here and sit.  The ocean was panoramic here. You could 

hear distant tugboat whistles and train whistles.  There were

seagulls and you could smell the Atlantic.  

If he had to, this is where he’d do it.

Cafe At The End Of Time (14.0)

Thornvold Arnquist was a character in a science fiction

novel I had red maybe forty years ago.

“He wants what’s in that bag.”

“And he’d kill for it….”

“Yes.”

“ He was going to use Natricia for that?”

“No!  I was trying to talk her into it, but she cares about

you too much.”

“She didn’t warn me.”

“You found me, didn’t you?”

“Do you know what’s in the bag?”

“No….do you?”

“No….I was told not to look,”

“Well, you’ve been betrayed by someone….don’t you want to

find out what it’s all about?”

“I’m not sure that’s possible. Look, you tell Arnie to stay away,

because I’m on to him. And you stay away from Natricia…and

me. …understand?”

I picked up the bag with the bricks in it and started out. When

I turned back, Tsnelda was taking out her cell phone. I walked

back to the table,  grabbed it out of her hand, and smashed it

under my shoe. Then I left.

I made no attempt not to be followed. I was hoping someone would.  

I walked to my bank and put the bag into a new safety deposit box.  

I took a cab to my apartment,  put the contents of

leather bag that I had hidden into a small insulated cooler.

Then, I hailed another cab and went to my safe house.  When

the drama gets too heavy at my apartment,  I have a tiny hole-in-

the-wall place under the El….like the place Akroyd has in

“Blues Brothers”.  I went in,  put the cooler in a corner. Checked

the fridge…it was empty.

I knew they hadn’t searched my apartment yet…I was sure

they would be going there soon. Then, I felt a shock of realization. 

If I had seen myself leave Tsnelda,  that means that

that me was going to  the train station.  I didn’t cross paths with him 

at my apartment, which meant his apartment was in the

other universe. It also meant that the Tsnelda I saw was in both

at the same time….and so was I…what I saw in the bar had

taken place in the other dimension in the past. 

I went back to my apartment, had the cab stop three blocks

away.  I walked down the alley in back and stopped short

of my place, trying not to be visible. My place was on the

second floor…you could see the kitchen door and window

from down below.  The lights were on …I hadn’t left them on.

I decided that, whatever I did, the place was trashed. Better

I stay out of view for a while.  I’ll show myself when and

where I want to be seen.

I was lying in bed.  The El was passing over….bum bum

bum…tacketa tacketa tacketa…bum bum bum.  This was

crazy.  I was just trying to do a little writing, and here I was

involved in what-all with guns and parallel universes…it was

all getting a little too complex and serious. And it didn’t seem

like it would just go away and be the way it was before. I still

hadn’t contacted the party I was supposed to deliver the leather

bag to…I  would have to do that from an internet café, in case

there was some collusion there.  Someone had actually shot me

in a parallel universe, so, this was beyond serious.  My creative

writing class in college had not prepared me for this.

                                              ****

Cafe At The End Of Time (13.0)

                                             ****

I realized I was in parallel universes at the same time.  I

had no idea how I was going to get out of this one.  In

one, Natricia was about to blow my head off…in the

other, we were having sex. Actually, it worked out

pretty well, because in the one, she pulled the trigger

and I just ceased to exist, while  the other I was having

a great time…and now he could concentrate.

                                             ****

He woke up in the morning and she was gone. The leather

bag was still there. She hadn’t left a note. She had left a

half pack of cigarettes. In the pack was a book of matches:

“Tangerine Club” …with an address.  On back was a name

in long hand: Tsnelda Von Crissendorf.  “What’s with these

names?” He thought….”first it’s Natricia and now it’s

Tsnelda…?  And why didn’t she take the bag?”

Then he remembered the other universe. In that one,

Natricia had known about the bag, was after it, and killed

me for it.  In this one,  it was as if she had no clue what

the bag was about.  He would have to locate this “Tsnelda”

person.  First, he would have to transfer the contents of the bag.  

There was a floorboard under his bed that was his hoarding place. 

He put the contents in the hiding place.

He got two bricks from a crumbling wall outside and brought

them inside, wrapped them in newspaper and taped them, and

put them in the leather bag. He looked at the address for the

Tangerine Club.  It was in a black market area…not a surprise.

He decided to arm himself.  He opened a door in the back of

his closet and chose a Mac 10 and a set of brass knuckles.

                                              ****

Clubs and diners…bars and cafes…these were the only places

I’d go into, usually…and my apartment. I had little use for

bowling alleys,  malls or museums, public spectacles or

gatherings. I didn’t mind a political rally, as long as

there were a few good fistfights.  Train stations were the

best places to meet people.  A nice quiet restaurant was the

best place to make a hit.

I was a hit man for two years and made enough to retire

forever. This thing with the bag was just a transporter deal, 

but the parallel universes had given me quite a shock, so I wanted

to find out the score before I finished the transaction.

The bouncer at the door of  Tangerine gave me the quick once

over and let me pass. I went to the bar and sat on a stool. I put

the leather bag down on the seat next to me. I ordered a double

Stoli martini, dry and dirty.  I looked around me…it was a nice

hallucination…fifties modern retro…lots of wavy chrome and 

black leather. The bar was bamboo with a faux thatched roof….

Gilligan’s Island meets Madonna…it seemed to work.

                                               ****

In the corner booth was a man who looked a lot like Steven

King…he had a squat face, dark hair and eyebrows and wore

thick dark rimmed glasses. He was speaking with a woman

who looked about forty, but it was hard to tell. She had black

hair in a crown of dreadlocks on top of her head that also

trailed down her back. She wore heavy black eyeliner and 

rich red lipstick. Her voice was throaty and deep.  His was flat.

She passed him the key to a locker at the train station. “This

is it.”  “OK…and nobody will be waiting for me…right?

You know I’ll know.”  “Yes….I know.” The man took the

key,  got up and left.  The woman stayed there, working on

her drink.

Frank had heard their conversation. He couldn’t believe what 

was happening there…to him. He would have to be very skillful

with his next move. He waited for ten minutes. He took the bag

 and walked over to the woman and stood there. “Tsnelda, I

believe?”

She looked at him and her mouth fell to the floor. Frank took the 

bag and plopped it on the table.

“How is this possible?”

“Oh,  a little parallel universes experience…but what I don’t

understand yet is whether you set me up with Natricia,  or,

that busting me was her idea…?” Frank moved his coat

enough to show Natricia the Mac 10.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really…then you don’t care about this bag here…ok…

well…goodbye…”

“WAIT!…..alright!….it’s just…I don’t understand how

you could do this…..alright….I’ll tell you…it was…

Thornvold Arnquist….it was his idea.”

“Thornvold Arnquist?”  I hadn’t heard that name in years…

“What’s he doing in my novel?” 

Cafe At The End Of Time (12.5)

                                         ****

This next minute or so,  for surely that’s as much time as it

could possibly have been,  seemed to defy the dimension

of time, so much went through my mind, as if Scotty in Star

Trek was telling Kirk “The shields ‘canna hold!!” as Natricia

and I looked upon each other in icy silence…

somehow the looking at each other was a neutral zone where

we could hold with our weapons set on apocalypse and we

could just rest there….for now.

Funny that the USA and the Soviet Union (whaddya-call-it)

have been doing the same thing with each other for almost

seventy years…..(funny?)  “Your tears are too late…she’s

dead.”

                                          ****

“I knew your name was phony…I knew you were phony,

your body language with Joel was distinctly foul…”

She got up,  pulled the hammer back on the Smith and

Wesson,  “Excuse me?”

I walked into the kitchen with my arms raised…

one went down to the chair and plucked

the leather bag…I held it up…walked back…put

the bag on the floor….walked slowly backwards

and sat back down.  It was another no-mans-land moment,

a dead zone, where the future could not be known.

                                            ****

She got up, took the cap off a fresh bottle of Wesson oil,

pulled the front of her shirt down and said: “Excuse me?”

I walked towards her with my arms raised…one went

down her shirt and I plucked her leather bag…I held her

up, walked backwards slowly and sat back down…I wore

her like a sleeve…

Cafe At The End Of Time (12.0)

Magically, it was yet another day.  I stayed in bed as long

as possible…’til the alcohol, the pot and the sleep wore

off….went down to the café. There were a few faces

there I had met. The Buddhists in town hated me because

I called them on their shaman worshipping trip. They

thought they were making “Mexican Buddhism” by

mixing two very different things, but they didn’t have

enough understanding of Buddhism in order to know

how to do that…but that’s common down here: lots

of people that claimed to be professional, but are

untrained or poorly trained. There are also some highly

trained people…

Mexico is a nation of children, as opposed to the USA,

a nation of ruling psychopaths, their sociopath managers,

and the neurotic horde of the proletariat…a perfect order.

What did Krishnamurti say? “It’s no measure of health to

be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.”

                                              ****

I was back in New York,  or, I had never left. There was

a guy across the street sitting on a bench,  playing an

accordion.  He had on a black winter coat and wore a

kind of pork pie hat…it too was black. He was playing

folk tunes.  A few people walked by, but they didn’t 

stop. I had the impression he wasn’t really playing for

anyone.

Joni Mitchell did a song about a man playing clarinet

on a street cornet in New York…hauntingly  beautiful.

The man took out a cigar and lit it. He retrieved a bag

of nuts from his coat and gave some to some birds. He

reached inside his jacket and pulled out a bottle of some-

thing in a paper bag and took a few good pulls. With

the bottle between his legs, he played some more. What-

ever song he was playing was making him start to laugh.

He put his instrument down and his body shook and he

had to wipe his eyes a couple of times. Must have been

a good one. He reached inside his coat and pulled out

a large sheet of paper. From his pocket, he took out what

seemed to be  a magic marker. He wrote something in

large letters on the paper.  He held it up towards my

building,  and I could see what he had written. In green

letters was written: “What’s your favorite color?”

The man held up the paper for only a minute,

then,  got up quickly and walked away.

                                          ****

I put the key in the locker at the train station…it fit. The

door opened and inside was a leather bag. It felt about

half full…or, maybe, half empty. This was not a time for

internal debate…I had to get out of there and lost quickly.

I  couldn’t tell if the place was staked out of not. I moved

towards the exit…dropped the key into a waste basket.

When I got outside, I walked to the corner and took a right…

then I walked to the next corner and turned left…walked half

a block to the alley and turned down it, walking to the back

door of a pub, went in, out the front, and into a taxi. The taxi

driver said he was from Haiti…lost family in the quake. It

might have been true. I gave him a nice tip.

I got out five blocks from my place, in the middle of a block.

scooted down the alley,  hopped a fence, ran between two buildings,  

opened a basement window and slid in…up the

stairs and out the front…I looked around cautiously...there

were no signs of pursuit…  I kept to the alleys as I walked

the last couple of blocks….up the fire escape in back to my

back porch….through the door into the kitchen. I turned on

the light, lit a joint, and breathed a sigh of relief.

The living room was dark. I mixed my drink and went in,

turned on the pole lamp in the corner….jumped back and

almost fell over!!  Natricia was sitting there on my couch,

a wicked little automatic pointing straight at me.

“WOAH!!  Uh,  Can I fix you a drink?”

“Pretty good comeback, Frank…I knew you had potential…

Sure, I’ll have what you’re having…but first, bring me the

bag please.”

“What bag?”

“The one you left in the kitchen.”

Woah…how did she know about the bag, or, that I would

bring it here? The situation was quickly getting out of control.

“How did you know about the bag?”

“Frank, you’re a sweet guy, but if you notice I have a gun pointed at you…..soooo….just do what I say and don’t ask any more questions…understand?”  As she said that last word,

Frank saw clearly that she really did want to know if he

understood…her face had hardened in that instant to a cudgel…

“Yes.”

“Good…now, bring me the bag”

Rock in a hard place?  Irresistible force/ immovable object?

Quantum paradox?