Untitled Novel Chapter

I am a man of contradictions.

Though not the type where I confuse my actions out of rage for spite; nor flatter myself with nonsense psychology such as “bi-polar” excuses and “split personality.” But more the man who deems his actions justified when another might speak of my justification as a betrayal of, not only the nature I claim to live, but the ever-growing mission put before me and my lack of consistency with God’s will. Since I am a man of contradictions, it is common sense that consistency would go against my very nature. For I will call myself a man of God, then curse Him in times of tragedy, as I beg for Him to pick up the pieces I’ve dropped along the path, while on my way to acts of sin. I am the one who reaches for realism in others, while fabricating my actions for cheap thrills, easy laughs, high pay checks and free drinks while calling the next man a “sell out” for committing the same actions (often I will down talk an action, while pursuing that very action for my own self gain, and laugh at the enjoyment of my double standard and lust for debauchery). For my contradictions cause the internal stir within my liquor filled gut, while soaking my stomach with fast food in search of momentary sobriety so I may make sense for the moment then return to drunkenness for the long haul. One may think I live for the moment. But oh, friends, I must say with all honesty, the moment is too short for me. Too short, indeed. I’d much rather live for eternal life and see it all before I live it in order to kill the thrill of surprises to avoid let downs for high expectations. For it is my contradictions that lead me to loneliness while interrupting my company with a demand of social isolation where I may freely be vulgar, obnoxious, argumentative, loose lipped, and broke from over spent time in my wallowing intellect. These contradictions. Rule me. Take me over. Lead me to blackout – after a long night, I intended to be sober, but ended up with an excuse of self-made depression caused by failure and self-pity; and it was the blackout that caused me to find a corner, place myself in position, and the world around me was suddenly gone and I found myself going into a blackness…

…where I soared into a long nightmare that drug me through the lowest depths of myself and I heard the noise of demons and debauchery calling my name in echoes, as I roamed the streets in utter loss looking for the quickest lay or the quickest death – which ever came first. The demons knew my pain and debauchery wouldn’t question…but they’d both laugh. And laugh they did. They laughed hard at me. They laughed and laughed until they took the form of two old Negros on a porch preaching the life advice they never followed, high on reefers and slurred on whiskey.
“Ain’t that…?!”
“Diane’s boy?!”
“Ain’t it?!”
“It ain’t!”
“It is!”
They called out to me as I walked the street in search of any type of trouble I might find to allow a fair exchange that most victims long for: my self pity in trade for regret.

Them two old Negros continues with me:
“Aye boy! Diane’s boy! C’mon over now!”
“I tell you it ain’t him!”
“I tell you it is! Hey boy?! Ain’t you Diane’s boy?!”
I said: “Yes I am.”
They said: “Tol’ you, ya ole drunk!”
“You drunk too!”
“Mo’ high than drunk!”
“High and drunk?!”
“Drunkly high!!”
They laughed for a good long five minutes then proceeded to talk of my life.
“Right now you feel you ain’t worth a damn –“
“—which is OK cuz we feel it too!”
“Not that you ain’t worth a damn –“
“—but that we felt like you feel once or twice or a few thousand times, like we wasn’t worth a damn!”
“Just like you!”

They spoke in circles and bulls eyed the core of my problem. For they saw clear in my face I was looking for a way out; yet a way out through the exterior world would only cause my downfall and suffering, and this part about my search for trouble they could not tolerate.
“Ain’t no question better answered ‘bout yo’self than from yo’self!”
“You lookin’ for the answer?!”
I said: “I am!”
They said: “You lookin’ for the ladder?!”
I said: “I guess!”
“Then look in the sloppy walls of your own damn mind and all your problems will be answered!”
“Well…not all of ‘em!”
“Still gon’ have money problems!”
“And woman problems –“
“—Ain’t no cure for them problems.”
“’Specially when they both happen at once.”
“Then you really got a problem.”
And they laughed some more, good and long and loud and proud, but to their own failures, dismissing my worries with a “you’ll be fine young bru!” Then they lit the reefer, passed the whiskey and continued to explore the complexities of themselves. I continued my search for trouble as their laughs began to echo in the distance. To the average bigot or black Republican those two old Negros looked like God’s example of failure, when in contrast they were God’s example of their being no such thing. It was God’s example of God’s intention, in that God says:

“IF I MEANT FOR THEM NEGROS TO BE SOME PLACE ELSE ‘SIDES ON THAT PORCH I’D’VE PUT ‘EM SOME PLACE ELSE!”

In to say “failure” is the failure to listen to the inner voice that speaks in the voice of God that gives way all them clues to placement:

“IF I MEANT FOR YOU TO BE SOME PLACE ELSE ‘SIDES THIS MENTAL FUNK YOU IN, I’D’VE PLACED YOU SOME PLACE ELSE!”

Which God buttoned with

“UNTIL THEN…TAKE FROM IT THE LESSON!”

…then I awoke from the blackout to daylight, surprised to find myself fully clothed and in tacked. For no one had taken advantage of my vulnerable state. No one had wondered if I had come across an early death through my internal journey; but rather I was left to ponder my previous actions, while the others go about in silent judgment for my previous state. For Lord only knows what they recall. What they retained from what I might have spoken of out of personal rage. Yet they did not say it out loud, though I felt it…I felt it and I was alone; me and my contradictions, whom I thought would have left me after such a dream; but instead my contradictions contradicted themselves and began to question their purpose…

…and now I can’t move…

Coleman Letters (excerpt)

Orbic,

My coverage has been random. Anything from under age kids with fake ID's smoking cigarettes, to bikers who trail together and enjoy such events as relaxation with a cup of hot cocoa and late night street dancing. I find it all interesting and a bit over the top. I am in no way judging -- for I have to find an interest in my subjects in order to write objectively of them. However, I'm bored. I am terribly bored with what I do. It kills me to not have my major topic. My colleagues have there’s, and I seem to be catching all of the left overs and using them for what they're worth. But like left overs, I am best the next day, late at night, after a twelve pack and a lot of music. I am good in the hours where you are reminded that such left overs are present, and I cause a private excitement. I don't get much "fan mail", per say. But I do get the occasional blurb in the opinion columns, where someone will comment about a topic I have covered (I have enclosed a letter from a woman who was fascinated with my coverage on the porn industry. She calls it "...the most feminist approach, by a male voice, on such a controversial topic."). I shared some private joy with that letter. I have it framed and above my couch, where I once kept all of my rejection letters from previous novels. I took all of the letters down (a friend of mine says it contributes to my cryptic thinking) and filed them away. I still have them, mind you, but they are just out of sight. But not out of mind.

As far as the surgery, it's just a matter I have to face: my eyes are terrible. I can see fine, except the doctors seem to think different. I really don't understand the "why" behind it. All I know is that it terrifies me. I'm not sure anymore of what I have to look forward to. All I know is that things can go one way or the other. Either I will come out with vision, or I'll come out with memories of vision; therefore, these next few weeks are going to be dedicated to seeing all that I can, so that I can file it away in case. I have done that throughout my life anyway. Filed away precious moments that I can refer back to. My life bathes in nostalgia as it is, so why should this be any different.

Fact remains, I could be blind by next month. This scares me to death. To have lived a life time of seeing everything, only to have it taken away is something that I never wanted to imagine. Hell, it's something that is hard to write, let alone face in life. I would much prefer to write it:

"He saw his wife for the last time that morning. The length of her hair. The crease in her smile. Her uneven, yet, appealing breasts. For some reason that morning, he watched her ready herself for work in a way that he never had before. He took his wife in fantasy upon the kiss 'good-bye'. And when she walked out the door -- and he was reassured of her departure by the sound of her car, the garage door and the sudden silence -- he took himself in his hands, with her body in his image, and made love to her without the worry of her being displeased."

This is just my example (not an excerpt from the book yet...but it might be), but I think you get the picture. To write it, it sounds like a tragedy; pitiful, almost, with it's description which hints at the fact that this man and his wife have not had a sex life for some time; or their sex life is without excitement; and men being men -- responding audibly to sexual stimulation -- desire their wives to speak like strangers and take advantage of them...but that is a whole nother topic all together.

I spend massive amounts of time in front of the computer. I have the Anthony Burguess syndrome, where I am told I have a limited time of my lifespan, therefore I am determined to write everything I have ever wanted to (of course, in the case of Burguess, the doctors were wrong about his diagnosis; but he produced some of the greatest writing of our time). I hope to find this type of mode. And I hope to compile my articles into a book at some point -- especially the stuff I'm writing now -- and sell it as a collection. Call it "The Esoteric Blindness" or something post-modern, and kick back in the beautiest feeling of artistic achievement, that I celebrate in the blackness of the rest of my days (oh, I'm being cryptic again).

I'm on to another book. I don't have a title for it yet, and I'm not sure what it's "about" per say. It's pretty Don De Lillo in it's approach (think Underworld). The book is full of scattered events that connect in subtlety, but don't hold any strong "story points." I'm off of that. I don't care anymore. I have rejected all the bullshit I was taught of what makes "good writing" and I am off to write something that speaks to me, rather than instructs me to speak to my audience. I am convinced that things become popular based on the the mood of the masses, not what Mary Higgins Clark or Danielle Steele tell us that's popular. It does not matter anymore. I am writing the book from what I know, love and experience. I'll send you chapters when I break my 200 page mark (I'm 20 pages away).

Now, Jill and I. It just did not work. She and I live in two different worlds. She extraverted, I'm introverted. It's that simple. For awhile I thought our differences was our charm; and perhaps it would have been, had I not been such an insecure soul. I stopped trusting her. Not based on anything she did (that I know of), but rather based on what she MIGHT HAVE done. I often imagined her flirting with men at her job. In grocery stores. When we're out to dinner. Every time she'd excuse herself to go to the ladies room, I imagined she'd made contact with a man across the restaurant, and signaled him to meet her (it's not like this does not happen. Remember me, you and that woman Joanie in Seattle at her husband's "congratulations dinner?" Did you ever talk to her again?). I would check the history of her cell phone. Spend ours trying to break the password to her email, only to get in and grow more upset at the fact that I COULDN'T find anything. Jill was too pretty. Too loving of attention. And this, in my eyes, made her guilty. This, in my eyes, made her not love me. This, in my eyes, meant she was waiting for a way to politely end it with us. Until the day came that she did, when she told me she was tired of feeling trapped around me. She was tired of my insecurities and contradictions. Meaning, I could go and cover porn stars and hookers at brothels, and she was just suppose to "understand." However she couldn't get a cup of coffee from the near by Java City without me raising a fuss (I can hardly remember how I would raise these fusses; only I know I did because she told me over and over "You always raise a fuss!").

Eventually Jill grew tired of the assumptions and accusations and me not trusting in her love and loyalty and dedication to me, and soon found herself in the arms of another man. One has to figure, if I am going to accuse her of all this, she might as well do it and have something to be guilty for rather than nothing. Yes, I know, cryptic logic. But how else can I look at it now? I live in a two bedroom apartment (a definant downsize from our large Victorian that looked straight out of a Woody Allen movie), one room as my room, the other as my office. I sleep more in the office than I do my room, only because of the large amount of work I do, and my lack of sleep in the process. I put thick curtains on all of my windows and allow in no light in the office, nor my bedroom. The light, simply, hurts my eyes. It's why I transferred to the night beat to begin with. That, on top of my, rather, nocturnal way of life that has been my staple for as long as I can remember. I can recall being a child, with a bed time of 8 PM, and yet, NEVER falling asleep before 2 AM. I would long to sleep through the day; but my school schedule (and a Mother who was a stickler for education) forbade such tactics. And I would find myself suffering through the day, and fully awake come evening.

The living room is a different story. It's like walking into the throws of heaven with lights thick and blinding, and through the light you can see God or somebody standing there greeting you. I'm an atheist, so I stay out the living room in the day time, as much as possible. My eating habits have dropped as well. Food is such an after thought in my life, I might as well donate my stomach to an appreciative bulimic and call it a life. My consumption consists of junk food -- hot pockets, chips, and fast food. The only good thing I have going, health wise, is that I don't drink. Never really been my thing in the fist place, except when I was falling down drunk every night for ten years straight. You know, the nights I would call you at 3 in the morning, after a 12 hour bender and harass you into hearing out my problems (soon you limited my phone calls to no later than 10 PM on weeknights and midnight on weekends. I'm sure you HATED when I finally let myself get seduced into email). I don't think I was an alcoholic. Just a bit too in love with the drink. I didn't think anything of it. It wasn't, like, I needed it first thing in the morning; and most of my drinking happened at home at the typewriter. Often times (to Jill's annoyance) I wouldn't come to bed. She would wake up in the morning or the middle of the night, only to find me, head down on the keys of my typewriter, empty wine bottle next to me, and my white tee shirt stained red from spills. It got to be so often that when she would retire for the night, she'd close the door expecting for me to not crawl into bed (for the last 2 years of our marriage, I hardly did).

I'm being random. I know. It's just been a long time and so much has happened, it's difficult for me to keep a linear thought. I am forced to do that in my work, but not with you. I know you can cluster through all of my ramblings and extract the gems. Or you find the most ridiculous sentence, shake your head, and make that the basis of the "he's such an idiot" theory you have carried for me over the years (one of the many reasons I love you).

I'm going to close for now. I will keep you posted on what happens. Write back to me soon, so that I can hear how you are as well.

Take care.

Your Friend

Chic

Chauvinists & Jezebels (chapter one)

Denise flinched at the idea of what they might be calling her. Jody taught her better than what they summed her up to be, so all she could chalk it up to was that it had to be something in her own actions that caused it. She'd never done what they'd said she'd done. She'd never felt the desire. Only the pity tossed to others for their indulgence. But not in the case of Denise Collins. The one man she'd been with lived all the way in Utah. He didn't as much abandon her as he submitted to the inappropriate nature of their relationship. Of course he acknowledged this fallacy in the aftermath of their carnal connection. As they laid in the nude and the guilt washed over him like peircing sound waves from feed back in cheap amplifiers, he couldn't help but think of the consequences for his actions. Not the type of consequences that leave a person with inner shame. But the type that turned ones' life into flood of disaster.

Yet, Denise failed to see the harm in this; for she was thirteen and believed herself to be in love; for him to be in love; for a love had been created, so she thought. So the age difference and relations could not have been so bad. At least this is how Denise would justify it twelve years later, while comparing her adult expeiences with her childhood lover. She had to. It was all she knew.

But that is not why they called her what they called her. It was the white guy that stirred up the questions. Not from the white guy himself, but the neighborhood talkers -- Mae and Joanie. They thrived on the gossip, and hardly found a flaw in Denise until this one. "I'll bet he be givin' her money," said Mae. " Thass why she be around 'im." "I heard he ain't got no money," Joanie responded "Girl, he a white man. Course he got money. White people'll're suppose to have money." "I heard different." "You heard wrong." "How you know what I heard if you ain't heard it?" "It ain't what I want to hear, so it must be wrong." But that was to name a few. Gavin did have money. But he wouldn't, outright, give his money to Denise. Rather, he would not allow for her to pay her way through their time out together. Gavin would insists she ride along and indulge. This could have been a possible envy for Mae and Joanie; then again Mae and Joanie were not known for their tendency to covet, but rather their tendency for pity. They were proof in the idea that black culture does not keep a hidden agenda when conveying action. The agenda is in the action and there is nothing to de-code. Mae and Joanie would never think in terms of envy in regards to Denise (no matter how much Denise tried to tell herself that); but rather a crying shame for her standards; and not any standards that were bad for her. Just her standards in general. Nothing was too low or too high for Mae and Joanie. Nothing truly impressed them. They left behind the capacity of being impressed back in their twenties. Black women over thirty loose the naivette that white women carry on into their thirties and forties (during the crisis of "finding" themselves, getting into therapy, and turning to organic food). Black women loose the ability to tolorate much beyond their own impervious psychology. The "mm-mm's" become more definate. Being ahead of you is key to life; and all that makes them stand up and say "That's good. That's real good" is sign of success from a young person; cuz in that young person, there is the idea of hope. Outside of that, black women like Mae and Joanie ( two years away from their forties) cared not for what you "could have been"; but rather "what you are, based on what you did, while avoiding who you could have been and settling for this." In a way, this is how they saw Denise. Though they never chalked Denise up to have been anything outside of what they saw in front of them.

The white man was enough to sum up Denise in one breath. Because of the gossip, Denise found herself counting the months until she'd finish Junior College which would enable her to transfer out the neighborhood and off to a much more "progressive" surrounding. She longed to be amongst those who would allow her to be who she was. She longed for the freedom she day dreamed about, while drinking Buttery Nipple shots on hot afternoons with Gavin.

Jody could not tolorate this.

She could tolorate the day time drinking (for Jody had her day), yet she had a low tolorence for Gavin. She did not trust his kindness. In Jody's experience kindness was a prelude to betrayal. For human kindness does not exist, Jody would say; and to be fooled by it is to beg for pain. Jody cringed at the fact that her own daughter never took her word. James took her word. Cory took her word. Hell, even Vanessa, with her old hard head self, took her word. But Denise managed to march uncomfortably to a different drum. "What is that music you're listenin' to?" Jody would ask in a rage. "It's Steely Dan, Ma'." "Turn that off." "Why?" "That ain't what we listen to in this house." "But I like it." "Well un-like it and turn it off. I'm not raisin' no confused child." Steely Dan was to blame, as far as Jody was concerned (a name she purposly mispronounced "Silly Dan"). It was this type of open mindedness that caused for Denise to be lost to begin with. In fact, Jody would support the neighborhood gossip for the sake of teaching Denise a lesson; in that it DOES matter what others think, because it's other people who determine your place in society, not you. "Like a person in office, you have to be voted in; and if you're not pleasing the people, you're bound to be voted out!" Denise would try and emphasis the importance of being an individual. "Girl please!" Jody snapped. "Black folks don't care nothin' about no individual. We care about what we relate to. And if you act different, we gon' question you for it." "You" as in her own daughter not excluded.

Yet, Denise continued along her path. In those afternoons with Gavin drinking Buttery Nipples and conversing about the random acts that pass by the windows. For Denise would take these afternoons as a perminant vacation. A time to blow out the candel of reality and blissfully smile in the presence of her live action imagination. For Gavin had no call to judge her. He wasn't even sure how to judge her. He, simply, was not raised that way. And he certainly was not interested in learning. "Sometimes I think everyone thinks I'm some kind of easy girl," Denise would say. "Easy how?" "Easy like bein' with you. Easy like bein' loose. Easy like..." "Slutty?" "Yeah. But I'm not. Maybe I was once. But I wasn't really. I just needed to explore myself. Explore him a bit." "Who was it?" Denise smiled behind her Buttery Nipple shot, glaring down at the table. Gavin smiled along with her, as his curiosity raised even higher, causing him to order two more shots. This erupted laughter between the two of them. For it was past three in the afternoon; by five o'clock, Jody's judgement would begin. But Denise took steps to release this from her mind. The steps of the drinking. The steps of laughter. "I don't want to get you jealous" Denise said. "I don't get jealous. I find it interesting." For Gavin to find Denise's sex life "interesting" was his cover up for "erotic." In the back of his mind he remembered his ex-girlfriend Tanya. A relationship that began in the middle of Tanya's marriage. It was Gavin and Tanya's relationship that ended her marriage. Gavin recalled the nights that Tanya would be in bed with him, and they'd talk graphically about what Tanya did with her husband the night before; what she did with the UPS guy one week previous; what she would be willing to do with his best friend Martin. When Tanya's marriage ended, Gavin's jealousy was channeled into his sex with Tanya and masturbation when she was not around. He often envisioned her with other men. Shamelessly cheating, with no regrets as she did her husband, and Gavin found the arousal in this. He needed to. It was the only way for him to control his tendancies towards a jealous rage. "Interesting?" Denise asked, with a puzzled scrunched up look about her face. "How is that interesting?" "It helps me get to know you." "Maybe you can get to know me yourself." "That too." Denise laughed out loud about this, as the Bartender delivered their shots and Gavin reminded the Bartender to add it to the tab. "What do you take me for?" "I take you for whatever you offer," said Gavin. "Yeah, but I ain't never heard of a man who wants to hear about his woman's sex life." "You haven't been with the right men." "I've only been with one man." "When was this?" "When I was thirteen." This caught Gavin by surprise. "You were thirteen?" Denise was suddenly embarassed again. "See? I knew I shouldn't have said anything." "No, no, no. I wanna hear it. How old was he?" "He was my Uncle." Denise did not realize that this had come out. Gavin hardly realized that his reaction was nonchalaunt and still interested; his look was an erge for her to press forward, but Denise was frozen with shame. "I can't believe I just said that," she said. "How'd it happen?" "I can't talk about this anymore." "Why not?" "Because it's wrong!" Gavin allowed himself to back off. He did not want to press Denise into a territory that would damage the afternoon. He never told her he had a room waiting for them; nor did he tell her about the bottle of Coppola Pino` in his trunk. He just rubbed her arm to give her comfort. Denise worked to pull herself together, while attempting to welcome Gavin's touch. She felt more judgement in his touch than she ever felt from the gossiping women in the neighborhood. She hated herself for her loss of control. She felt this was aided by Gavin rather than avoided; and soon she found herself mad at him. "Will you take me home?" she asked. Gavin was reluctant, but he complied. But Denise would not let Gavin drop her off at her house. She could not bare the look on Jody's face. Instead she asked for Gavin to drop her off five blocks away, on the main street near the gas station, where she would buy a bottle water and use the walk home to gather her thoughts. Gavin could not apologize to her enough. He worried that he'd crossed a line. "It isn't you," she assured him. "I just have to really take in what I let happen." "It's not your fault." "Where I come from, it doesn't matter if it's my fault. It's still my shame." Gavin pushed on, attempting to calm Denise of her guilt. His life had been much different from hers. In his world a mistake is just a mistake, but usually forgotten or if remembered, remembered with laughter. Yet Gavin could not grasp the worry that palgued Denise. One would think this event with her Uncle happened hours ago for the way she harbored it. "I will call you in a few days," she said. "Why so long?" "Because that's the way I need to do it right now." And she was out the car. Gavin did not stay around to see her off. He drove down the main street toward the freeway, while Denise waved off the idea of bottle water and started the journey home. Jody's voice rattled through her head. The tone. The look of disappointment. The shaking of the head and the "mm" under breath. The beaming sun ignited Denise's lush-ful swagger that she worked to control as would a "normal" person. This work caused Denise more internal worry. She was not sure she would be able to bare the comments from the neighborhood women. The intoxication would raise her worries even higher. It was not what she had done, it was what they believed she had done. Who she'd done.

Charlie Beckem. The High School sophmore who stood 6'3 and muscles like a grown man. This was the rumor through the neighborhood, that Charlie and Denise "had a thing." It wasn't a "thing" that lasted very long, but it was a "thing" no less. It was not suppose to get out. Nor was Denise suppose to ever return for a second time with Charlie. But both of these "suppose to's" went belly up. Charlie promised not to talk about it, and Denise believed him. She did not think about the fact that Charlie was a fifteen year old who had just slept with a twenty-one year old woman. She ignored the idea that he would run and brag about his accomplishment. For an act like this does not go quietly. Not in a black neighborhood. Not, really, in a white neighborhood (though, in a white neighborhood, the rumor can take longer to surface). This was the first thing Charlie did when they'd finished. After Denise snuck herself out through his bedroom window, and did everything she could to get as far away from his house as possible without being noticed, he was on the phone with Tyron Power. Tyron was immediatly on the phone with Brian, who in return was on the phone with Mike and Jason. By sunset the news had transfered over twenty times through the phone wires and internet and by dawn had traveled around the school, catching the ear of Cece, a neice of one of the gossiping women, which floated back to the neighborhood, through a text message, before lunch time. So by the time Denise was off the bus from her day of class at the Junior College, she found herself confronted by the shaking heads she walked passed, and the unsubtle comments: "I hear you like doin' a little tutorin'." "Little revisit to the years you missed?" "Ain't the ugly duckling no mo' is you?" It was a week later that Denise had gotten fed up with the jabs. She went to Charlie's house and tapped at his window with intentions of having a talk with him. This led to the second seduction, which led to the second round of phone calls, hallway talk and text messaging, that landed right back in the neighborhood, this time in the ears of Jody. But Jody never commented directly. Just like she never commented on catching Denise with Eric when she was thirteen. She would not allow herself to give attention to the realities. She wanted to comfort herself with denial. With the calm of judging her daughter's actions. "You know you damaged for what you did," Jody once said to her. "You gon' have to answer to God." God was not Denise's worry. It was Charlie's parents. His parents that never pressed charges, but chose a silent approach instead. Though the whole neighborhood knew about what Denise had done, it's been said: "We don't call the police in the ghetto. We just let them come to us." But they never did. It was nearly four o'clock and Denise was four blocks from home, but she decided to cross the street to the tucked away hooker-motel, get a room and sleep until she sobered up. She ignored the stuffiness of the room and the noise of the rickity bed. She blocked out the loud talking hookers and stressed out nickel pinching pimps. She closed her eyes to a vision of her Uncle. Of Gavin. Of Charlie. She aloud her head to spin as much as it needed, until the mini-dreams stopped, and there was only darkness.