My Killers

This is how we seek redemption.

"He's a murderer." He looks at me over the top of the manuscript. "Why do you keep doing this? Why is your main character always something flawed?"

We like to look for the good in others.
We look away from the wrongs.
We do this in the hopes that someone, some how, will do the same for us.

He nods as he closes the pages. "I understand the challenge of it. I understand that the reader will like whomever the writer tells him to like. It's all in the writing, we both know that. But why do you keep doing it?"

We understand the main character's indiscretions.
We accept him for who he is.
We look for his honor, we see only his strength,
because we want to be given that same chance.

"He's faulted. He's imperfect."

This is the genesis of forgiveness.

The Ebayer

"I can write this. I can write this up exactly as you're saying, but it makes you sound asinine." I'm scrolling up and down the pages on his computer.

He's standing behind me. "Have you ever bought anything on Ebay?"

"Yes. I've been buying back my childhood on Ebay for quite some time now. And I would not bid on your items for several reasons. The main reason being statements like, I am not responsible for items once they leave my hands. It really shows you have no clue what you're doing."

He isn't paying attention to me. He's flipping through his mail, while standing behind me. "I can put whatever I want in my seller's policy."

"Sure you can. But it doesn't matter what you put into a unilateral contract. Especially if it's against the law to begin with."

He is opening an envelope, "Lots of sellers make statements like that."

"Lots of sellers are morons. Ebay is not a Mensa group. It's a big garage sale." I turn to face him.

"Just write the fucking policy the way I said to."


******


"I'm being sued, again!" He is mad. I'm barely in the door.

"I'm fine, thanks. How are you?" I pull off my gloves and smile.

We're standing on line at Panera's. I didn't know why he had asked me to meet him. And now I'm further confused. I'm a writer, not a lawyer. "Who is suing you now?"

He orders his coffee and fruit cup. "Another guy on Ebay."

I order. I know what this is about now. "You come to Panera's and you don't order something involving bread? What is wrong with you?"

He shakes his head. "You wrote my pages. You scripted everything."

I pay and pick up my order. "You are not being sued over my writing. I bet you are being sued over that ridiculous seller's policy you stuck in there. I told you that thing was asinine."

We find a seat. He still looks mad.

I knew this was coming. "I warned you about that stupid thing. You didn't want to listen." Soup in a bread bowl is the most warming wondrous thing. Sourdough, and New England Clam Chowder: a marriage made in heaven.

"The first time I got sued was by this bitch. I clearly stated right in the listing that I am NOT responsible for items once they leave my hands. Her stuff arrived broken, and I declined to refund her. Hey, it's clear in my policy!" He shakes his head like he still doesn't get this. "She sued me, and she won! Can you believe that?"

"Of course I can. It's legally your responsibility."

He shakes his head again, "Well I changed my policy to offer insurance. But I state clearly that if you deny to purchase the insurance, I can't be held responsibility."

There's just no learnin' some folk.

He picks at his fruit cup. "So this guy won my auction for a set of Fiesta mugs. I offered the postal insurance, he declined. The mugs arrived broken. Now he's suing me because I won't refund his money." His little fruit salad looks so small in the grandeur that is my soup in the bread bowl.

"I'm not even going to ask what's wrong with your packing that your shit keeps arriving broken. Let's move right to the law. The first time you were sued, didn't the judge use the words unilateral contract?"

He shrugs. "Yes, but the buyer is agreeing to it, by bidding."

Now I have to laugh. "Are you actually saying that in your opinion, the judge was wrong?"

"Yes!" He can barely get the little piece of melon into his lips, drawn tightly in a smug grimace. "My seller's policy says that I can not be held responsible if insurance is waived! The buyer knew that, and bid!"

I have to smile. OK, the concept of a unilateral contract is so far over his head, it's not worth re-explaining. So I move directly to the law. "Honey, you could state whatever you want to state. You could state, that you're going to shoot a gun into the guy's house, and you can't be held responsible if he doesn't get out of the way. It doesn't matter what you state if it's against the law. You sold him something. By law, you have to get it to him, and you are responsible for anything that goes wrong in shipping."

He shakes his head. He is adamant that his little ebay seller policy will somehow override all trade regulations. "He didn't have to bid if he didn't want to adhere to my seller's policy."

He's taking the fun out of my soup in the bread bowl. "Now you're back to the unilateral contract thing. Look it up. He could either bid or not bid. That doesn't qualify him as being part of a contract. Your one sided contract is not enforceable. A contract, to be enforceable, has to be a mutual negotiation." I am pulling at the soup soaked rims of the bowl. "This is just like when you go skiing, and you sign a waiver stating you won't sue if you break your leg. That's a unilateral contract. You didn't negotiate anything. And signing it was the only way you could ski. If you break your leg, guess what! You can sue! You fight that little waiver, and you will win. I don't care if you agree or disagree, this is the law."

"NO!" He is so upset that he isn't eating his remaining 4 pieces of cubed melon. "I called my lawyer and he refuses to come to court with me. He said to pay the guy! Can you believe that? He actually told me I'm wrong!"


******


"I went to court yesterday."

I balance the phone in between my shoulder and mouth. "How much did you lose?" I can't believe he didn't settle this. I can not believe he had to be taken to court, again, to do the right thing.

"Seventeen hundred bucks." His voice is flat, and annoyed, and quiet.

"Wow, that must have been a lot of fiestaware."

"It was a six hundred dollar auction. And he won for everything else. Court costs, replacements he had to buy for some event, it was horrible. The judge didn't even want to hear my Seller's Policy."

I bang the phone into the table. Then I tell him, "That was me, smacking you on the head. What is it that you don't understand? Oh my God with the fucking Seller's Policy!"

He still sounds annoyed. "My Seller's Policy was clear. If he didn't like it, he didn't have to bid."

"The fact that you lost twice in court, the fact that two judges have explained this to you, the fact that your lawyer said you're wrong and refused to go with you, should be penetrating. Listen to me. You are not congress. You do not get to create any laws, or break any laws. You do not have that power. Your seller's policy: A- is not enforecable, and B- makes a statement that claims you intend to break the law. I have tried to explain this to you. Your attorney has explained this to you. Two judges and two verdicts have tried to explain this to you."

He's quiet for a little bit on the other side of the phone. I feel sorry for him. There's a fine line between being stubborn, and being incapable of grasping or understanding. I'm not sure on which side of the line he has landed.

"Look, I can write your Ebay pages for you if you want. Last time, all I did was edit and grammar check. This time, I will write it. With my Words. I will eliminate that stupid Seller's Policy of yours, and put together something more in tune with the law. I will compose something inviting, and humorous. I won't even charge you. I can come over right now." He lives near Panera's. And I would love another bread bowl of soup.

He sighs. "Let's wait until next week."

"Why? What's next week?"

I can't believe my ears...

He clears his throat. "I'm being sued again by someone else on Ebay. I go to court Thursday."

In the Quiet

I grew up in this forest. Under cover. In the woods.

He was a friend of a friend in California. He let it be known at a Halloween party he had a crush on me. He had seen me. Heard me. Performing spoken Word. He had seen and heard. He had come through the forest. I was dressed like Adam Ant. He had a flat tire. I had really clean blow. He needed a ride.

He believed that he knew me. He believed that he could.

A few days later, I showed up at closing at the book store where he worked, with a bottle of tequila and a couple of lemons. As we lay panting and naked on the floor in non-fiction,
In the quiet,
In the forest,
He whispered: You're her.

I said out loud: I'm not.

I was never her. I was just the one in the quiet. In the forest. On the floor.
I was the one that fucked him. But I didn't mean to like that.
I was in the quiet. In the sorry.
He was the one with the broken heart. In the forest.

In the weeping.

I made a clean break, because I thought that was kind. I never meant, and he said: I know.

In the quiet I missed him. In the quiet.

Years after,
Which was still years ago,
He mailed a letter from the forest, to my father's house. Years after the weeping.
And it said he was happy, in the fairness, in the world.
It said he had been successful, in the life, in the woods.
It said he remembered, in the quiet. In the storm.
It said: I don't know if this will find you,
But that he had to try. To write. To thank me.
It said:
You taught me how to find my Words.

I look for things that aren't there. I remember things that weren't. I speak a story as only I can dismember it. How could it be possible that I could be the one in the quiet in the weeping that taught him how to find his Words. His way. God.

In the humbling. In the honor.

In the whisper.

Sense

His body was found laying on the kitchen floor in his apartment. Had he been up to date on his rent, he might have been there longer.

I wore my new black shoes with my old black dress, and I told his mother that I was very sorry for her loss.

Back at her house, the coffee was strong, and the little cucumber finger sandwiches were cold. I sat on the piano bench and looked out the picture window at a yard I never played in. That no body ever played in. Nobody. He sat at that piano. I knew that much. I remember that much.

I wished for more to remember.

The drive to the airport was longer than the flight.
And the flight home was shorter than the flight there.

Sometimes there's a secret. And sometimes, there's a sense.

It wasn't safe to walk through that week, but I had to make my way, and I was able to find little islands. I don't want to be removed, even when I am. This wasn't my debt. That wasn't my yard.

Two weeks later I received an acknowledgment in the mail. An ivory card with black lettering, thanking me for the flowers, and for coming. Maybe she knew who I was, maybe she didn't. Maybe she had secrets, or sense.

He liked blackberry brandy in his coffee.

I think of him every time I wear my new black shoes. Sadly, the strongest imprint happened after he died. But something made the way. Something cleared the path, for the sense, of quiet backyards, and pianos.

Sheepshead Bay

I don't know exactly where I lost you.
Somewhere along the way.
A little bit at a time.
Until you were gone.

And I will always blame her for that.

Tempered

He was shining.

He was bigger than life. He was bright.

"I hope the directions were ok." He shook my hand. I couldn't believe I was meeting him. I couldn't believe it was really him.

"Thank you, I found you just fine." I wasn't about to tell him I made a dry run yesterday. I was so nervous. I wasn't about to admit I had gotten lost, and found, and lost again.

"Did you get a chance to read what I sent you?"

"Of course. And I have written out several ideas of-"

He raises his hand in a stopping motion and then nods toward the door. Clearly he didn't want anyone to know he was hiring a ghost. And I understand that. I follow him from the outer office to the inner office. I look at the desk, where masterpiece after masterpiece must have been written.

He closes the door behind me
and very gently,
very gentlemenly,
says,
"You understand, I don't want anyone to overhear."

I nod.
He was shining. He was bigger than life. He was bright.

I produce the folder from my messenger bag and then I sit, awkwardly, waiting for a cue. Some indication. From him. Some inference.

He sits, and reads.

It was probably five or six seconds, but it felt like longer. I began to explain. "I used the style of your 3rd book. I used the long dramatic run-on sentence structure, and I paid attention to the way you use interjections. You started that in your first book, but I think it really kicked up by book three. I tried to capture that. It's almost like a stammer. It's captivating. It's effective as hell."

He nods as he continues reading.

"Really." I couldn't seem to stop. "I love your books. I love the Wording."

He finally gives me quick eye contact. "I'll tell him you said that."

Him.

I was quiet. Him. I was quiet as I thought of him. I was quiet, and I thought.

Ghosts? If I am here, have there been others?
No. That isn't it. It's been too conisitant. It's been too bright.

Still. He was shining. He was bigger than life. Right? Wasn't he? "They're not yours? Those incredible books, aren't your books?" This isn't your light?

He grins a little, a sad grin. A not bright grin. And he lifts his eyes over my folder. And he looks at me.

He wasn't bigger than life.

Because there is balance to things. A bright light is made even, by a light of equal intensity. It is leveled. It is balanced. So that we can take it. It is tempered.

"It's not exactly what you're thinking." He closes the folder and leans forward. "There have been no other ghosts, technically."

"But," I squint. "You didn't write these books?"

"I didn't write any of the books." He smiles. Sweeter than a grin. "They've all been written by one person. But he doesn't want to be known."

I remember the first time I signed the name Veronica. I remember the first time, the first ghosting. The first time my Words were free, and my identiy was safe. I remember the adversion. I remember my freeing. I remember.

And I get it. The He. The nameless faceless, who writes, not to be known, just to be heard. I whisper, "It's a pen name."

He nods. "He writes. All the time. He just doesn't want to be famous. So I am his hired face."

I sit back. And I look at the secret. The face. The famous. The famous face behind the Words.

"He's hit some kind of block here. You'd probably know more about this than I would. But he's just looking for inspiration. Not real ghosting. He needs a push, that's all. He... " He stands, my folder in hand. "He's brilliant. Don't forget that."

He's the tempering. Bright and even. The friend? The son? The lover? It matters not. It is. And he balances the Words with the ...
with the...
publishing contract,
with the world.

"I was assured you would understand." He looks as if he knows everything. He knows the secret, and the He, and the Words, and the block. And me. He looks as if he knows me.

"I do." I nod. "I do understand." More so than you can know. More so, than I wish were true. More so than all the Simon and Schuster's in the world have ever imagined.

And I am seen. I am tempered.


******


"Veronica."

I cuddle the phone. He is shining and I am even.

"He loves it."

"Wonderful. I'm, I'm flattered. Seriously." I press my hand to my heart. I am shining. I am bigger than life. I am bright. And it is he that is tempered.

"You understand," he explains, "That he is using it for inspiration. It's not going to be published. He wanted to see someone poke holes through the veil of it. For some reason, he just couldn't see."

This changes nothing. "I understand."

"Good."

I appreciate his protectiveness. I see his tempering and I sign Veronica,
and I don't know if anyone has ever believed in me like that. Like him.

"Tell him something for me, alright?" I am humbled as he shines.

"Sure."

"Tell him,..." I sigh.

"I will." He really does get it. He really does temper. He's the reason that there is shining, and brightness and bigger than life. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Veronica."

You too.

In the balance of all things brilliant. In the light. I remember the first time. And the Ghost of me. The secret. And the face that shines.


*****


"I didn't realize his next book was out!"

"It's not, this is an advanced copy." I tuck it into my messenger bag. I sip my coffee and pretend I am not shining.

"Why do you have an advanced copy?" She looks surprised.

"We share a mutual friend." Not a Word that belongs to me is in that book. Not one. It's all him. It's all him. I think about the famous face, the friend and protector. The famous. The Tempered. And an opportunity to help someone else be bright. To help someone else shine.

She nods. "So what do you think of him?"

I think we are all bigger than life.
And I think only some of us,
are lucky enough,
to be tempered.

The Liner Notes

Quotes from the band:


If you were really too stoned to play, you would not be duct taping your sticks to your hands, or is it the other way around?

We audition five gazillion singers, finally find someone that doesn't suck, and he turns out to be a felon.

If I'm not back by midnight, start the gig without me.

Ladies and Gentlemen, this impromptu acoustic set is dedicated to our soon to be ex-drummer.

You may have written that, but the Beatles wrote it first.

How much of our equipment did you load into the wrong van?

This can't be the right club. No one in there is younger than Plato.

Free drinks for the band?? Are you insane??

You - write out a set list! You - help me finish assembling the drum kit. And you - go sit in the van until I say you can come out!

No, I doubt very much that they would be treating Dio this way.

I don't care if you did lose a bet. We are not covering Dream Weaver!

Twenty bucks? You mean twenty bucks each, right?

7? What do you mean we go on at 7?? What is that, am or pm??

And this next tune is something we ripped off from Tool.

My head is bigger than your head!

Touch your volume one more time and I will kick you to death.

We can't cover Rush! Dude, if I could sing like Geddy Lee, I sure as hell would not be here jamming with you idiots!

"Load in" does not mean "all singers can go home to take a shower!"

Our demo is doing great in Germany, and you can't prove otherwise!

Because if you dedicate a song to your wife, I'm gonna have to dedicate a song to my wife, and my girlfriend is not gonna like that!

If you wear that on stage I will be rock hard and singing extra fast.

I don't have to be on the guest list if I'm the drummer, do I?

Give me an "E" and don't sing along.

And just how much of the master did you accidentally erase?

Why do we always go on at 9pm or 3am??

What rhymes with audacity?

-How many people can you bring in?
-What, you mean in my Subaru?

The last time we opened for this band, I lost my guitar stand and my girlfriend.

Keeping Track

Words are everything.
And some people track them.

WordCount™ is an interactive presentation of the 86,800 most frequently used English words.

Linked, with permission, from
Jonathan

By the way, I found a sequence I liked:
Word # 9336 thru Word # 9340
cocaine hesitation suburban knives harmless