1

Crash Course

Paul Masters set his orange juice down on the kitchen table and grabbed his coat. This time not getting it caught on the top of the chair which always frustrated him to no end whenever it happened. He looked at his watch: twenty minutes till first class, dammit! Now the big question, where were the keys? Counter! Wallet, books, homework?—hurry! He threw his books over his shoulder and raced outside. What about the dirty dishes? Ewwwwwwww….he climbed in the hormone-driven hot rod, reversed out of the driveway (squealing the tires of course) but not before banging his elbow on the emergency brake again. He frowned. Why’s life such a pill all the time? The wheels screeched past one stop sign, then another, and through one stoplight without much traffic that left him feeling pretty good about himself. This strategy seemed to be working; he was actually proud of the time he was saving. Inside it smelled of polished leather, side doors carrying all the latest fit and finish with his firm hand on the steering wheel. This beauty made him stand out from the crowd. He was unique! He came to halt at a major intersection as the new tires grabbed the road in a commanding fashion. There was power in this awesome beast and the engine pulsed with the rhythm of life in front of him. At first glance it didn’t appear there was anybody coming from either direction. Look again? Ah, don’t be chicken—the brave don’t think twice! He saw his opportunity and sprang forth like a young buck in spring. At the same moment, Mrs. Jean Halston was inching out of her driveway in a pathetic excuse of an econobox car compared to the beast approaching without a care. The serene look on her face completely out of sync with what was about to happen.

^{She adjusted the rear view mirror to see behind more clearly. Slam! Oh my god! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! She screamed until her ears felt about ready to burst and her teeth shatter in fragments…spinning in a terrifying blur of fast-moving imagery. Loud noises, things crushing, sudden strange sensations and the cocoon, the car, coming apart at the seams. Her body…ohhhhhh nooo…}

^{ENDED HERE}

^{Masters felt the impact and at first it was exhilarating—the sound striking him like a big budget action film. His sensations were quite different from Mrs. Halston’s: accidents were a thrill and people always walked away loo King beat up but “cool” with their cars smashed but good-as-new in the next scene. The impact between the two cars a violent punch; a nasty altercation in which the goal is to get the upper hand and pummel the opposition.}

^{Mrs. Halston stopped spinning. She looked at her hands, bloody and trembling, heart beating like never before. She remembered the bright sunshine, the smell of the trees, and even the people running and shouting all around her before losing consciousness.}

^{Paul leaped out of the car and, seeing what he saw, wondered if his initial idea hadn’t been wrong. This did look serious and not at all like the movies (no one was laughing and giving} high fives…really?). No movement could be seen in the car either and the old woman’s position struck him as odd for somebody her age. He jumped out of his now creaking machine, eyes wider than planets, and dashed over to have a closer look. A sense of dread growing in his chest as the image became clearer and reality set in.

Masters stopped to catch his breath: blood was splattered copiously on her pink, flowered dress, below the neck and all down her left arm. Her head lay sickly to one side and her eyes were frozen in unimaginable pain. She looked dead, or so it seemed to the shocked boy standing there in awe of the fact. He was in some deep shit! Feeling like he wanted to scream, cry out or throw up! (Maybe all of the above?). Oh, god, let me turn back the clock a few minutes and undo what I did! There was no way he could reverse the damage, just one brief second and….

“Help! Help! Somebody help me…help her…help us!” But as he looked around there were already people gathering around the scene. They heard the loud crash and were just breaking out of the haze of everyday existence.

“Oh, my God!,” an old man shouted, “It’s old Mrs. Halston, quick dear call an ambulance…,” directed at his wife who dashed into the house while looking back with a frantic expression on her face. “What on earth happened?” directed at the boy standing next to the car and peering inside in terror and disgust. “We better not move her since we don’t know what’s wrong yet.” He couldn’t tell what Paul was thinking but it looked like he wanted to do something, something perhaps unwise under the circumstances to rectify the situation in any way he could. “This is a dangerous corner…they should put a light there…I’ve been telling ‘em for years,” the old man confided in him before calling out her name numerous times to revive her. “Mrs. Halston? Mrs. Halston, can you hear me? Say something, will ya? Mrs. Halston?” Paul Masters glanced through the glass to glimpse the surreal world of injury and blood—how could something like this happen so fast? Wasn’t he someone who tried to do more good than bad in the world? (and wondered privately if he succeeded). Was he paying for something he’d done in his life—a form of cosmic justice perhaps? He wanted to say something in his own defense but the old man didn’t seem like the right person for the job. One thing was sure though: this was serious. He took a long breath, but the red hot poker in his brain wouldn’t disappear.

The old man kept making casual conversation with him but he didn’t hear any of it, his life was simply a blur at the moment. There was no way out of this mess and the more he thought about ways to soften the blow for himself, the more he realized how impossible that would be. The old man said to him, “Look, her arm’s twitching a bit. Christ, she might make it! Mrs. Halston? Mrs. Halston? How’re you doing? Everything’s gonna be alright now…you just hang on…” She of course didn’t answer but it made him feel better to hear something positive.

Masters glanced at her hopefully, maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe things would be OK….Oh! Please God! The police arrived seconds later and began cordoning off the area as an ambulance whizzed onto the scene and began employing their medical devices. The extremity of the noise brought into Masters’ head a new idea: the consequences were real and beyond even his present understanding. He choked hard and steeled himself against a not-to-bright future…

“Son, I think she might be OK. By the way, why were you driving so fast down the street?” the old man admonished him while assessing what kind of man he was in a charming, old-time way. Masters mumbled offhandedly, “I was late for school….,” and realizing the way it must’ve sounded, “….and I didn’t see her…”

Just then a policeman approached and asked if he were the owner of the car that caused the accident. Caused? Did that really happen and was it wise to admit it to an officer? An act, if he consented, that could land him in dire consequences and even jail time in the worst case scenario. Might incriminate him on the spot and that’d be very bad to say the least, but was he guilty and was it prudent to admit it if he was? Doing the right thing now could land him in some serious hot water under the circumstances. So there he stood with the dilemma before him: admit he wasn’t paying attention to his driving and was only concerned with getting to school on time or lie and conceal as much as possible to save his skin.

“Son, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“Yes, sir, I was driving the other car…” staring at the old woman being removed from the driver’s seat…, “I didn’t see her when pulling out….she came out of nowhere…,” he choked off. She looked like a rag doll and visions of squashed cats on the road came to mind. He desperately wanted to scream and run away but felt that might be bad move under the circumstances. The overall impression might not be a favorable one. He killed someone, or might’ve, but at the same time understood his protection against self-incrimination under law.

“The old lady’s going to hospital with multiple injuries, she may die as a result and several witnesses fingered you as the cause of it. They claim you were really moving down this tiny little street…,” to emphasize the point, the officer turned to glance up and down the road at the trail of broken parts then looked at him sharply. “You’ll have to come with us for booking and questioning to get to the bottom of this…” and with that another officer pinned his hands behind his back, not roughly in any way, and lead him to the police cruiser.

Masters protested, “I didn’t try to hit her…I was simply trying to get to school.” The officer smirked cynically before turning around and driving in the direction of the station. His expressionless partner beside him didn’t turn around at all sending a chill down Masters’ spine. He fell back in the seat and turned to look out the rear window where the old woman’s car was twisted and smashed against the curb, flipped over on its side and pitiful-looking. The image of the old woman being fussed over by the EMTs and whisked away in an ambulance moments before stuck in his head with a burning sensation. Something was trembling on his lips, “I didn’t mean it….I’m so sorry…,” but couldn’t utter the words as they’d somehow lost the power to persuade even himself. When they arrived at the station, Masters was yanked from the car in a stumbling and catatonic state with eyes wide from the situation as he gazed upon the ominous barred windows of the county building: gray, rusty, peeling and decrepit like an old coat in the street, deepening his sense of fear and loathing of the situation. He wondered what his friends were doing at school now and envied them—probably half asleep in class, oblivious and unaware of the bad things that happen to people sometimes—lucky bastards! He knew he’d have to call one of them sooner or later to get him out of here…but which one of those knuckleheads?

A sour-looking officer with a blank expression greeted him on the other side of a locked door, taking him by the arm and handling him like an object. The arresting officer remarked, “book this one for reckless driving and possible manslaughter…an old lady’s at the hospital and four witnesses on the scene fingered him as the cause. He’ll probably be released in the morning but let’s do our duty anyway.”

ENDED HERE

“Drunk, drugs?” droned the receiving officer.

“Don’t think so…,” the other replied, “…don’t suppose he was trying to be negligent either, just not paying attention—in too much of a hurry I suppose—but the smash up was real bad! You should’ve seen it!”

The long booking procedure, including fingerprinting and photo modeling, seemed endless and in the end found him in a grimy cell the size of a small bedroom. Three other companions were there to keep him company: one a teenager, busted for drunk driving who wouldn’t stop talking; another, a middle-aged married man nailed for prostitution who acted like a ladies man and tried to enforce a humorous angle to his own situation; another seemed to be a career criminal from his obvious reluctance to talk about himself or change his scowling expression. After a few hours he’d learned all their names: Jonah, Clarence and Tanzia (the career criminal, presumably a made-up “street” name).

Tanzia informed them, “Dese pigs round here ain’t nothing compared to upstate…” in a low, conspiring voice; as if the politics of correctional facilities were of major importance in life. “Betta’ not let ‘em send you up there or they’ll frag your ass everyday!” Masters listened without particular interest to him; it sounded like the ravings of a downtrodden man. Still he was willing to admit fragging didn’t sound very good whatever the hell it was. The “John” who solicited the prostitute browbeat them all with levity toward everything they said and talked the most out of anyone it seemed—understandably embarrassed and perhaps so averse to anyone talking behind his back he did all the talking himself. Masters noted that anyone who slept with hookers was not only a degenerate but took incredible chances with his life: primarily with STDs like AIDS (though, truth be told, he might’ve taken greater ones with random pick-ups in Boston).

The kid busted for drunk driving slurred a lot and cursed abundantly throughout the morning. His buzz was wearing off and the unpleasantness of his situation—in addition to what he’d already been through—increased his irritation. He was genuinely terrified of what his parents would say and what the courts might do to him; feeling that his days of “getting away with things” were over for a little while at least. He wasn’t sure which one was worse as he kept cursing his friends for not being there to help him.

Masters was soon brought before another officer who questioned him for an hour about the accident. The officer bombarded him with questions but Paul stated he wouldn’t say anything until his lawyer arrived because he was leery of incriminating himself. He sat staring at an old, beat-up table in front of him and wondered what this experience might make him look like in the end…like that table? He appealed to the officer, “Am I in a lot of trouble?”

The officer stared at him blankly, “I don’t know…,” loo King down at his work again without skipping a beat, “…that’s up to the courts.” The officer went on flipping through a stack of forms in front of him then went about his work again, “So you won’t talk? I thought you might make this difficult…I can always tell about people.” Then cryptically winked at Paul, as if to say, “It’s not so bad kid, cheer up!” Not giving him the third degree which allowed Paul a much-needed deep breath.

It occurred to him that it might all just be formality and perhaps he wasn’t in as much trouble as he thought. He looked at his watch: four hours since the accident and even now he was beginning to feel a strong sense of relief. He’d already passed through the worst of the shock of what seemed like a life-changing event. Guilt hadn’t left him entirely and he was still worried the old lady might die, but the whole experience seemed more manageable now. Something about the way he’d dealt with the interrogating officer and the way the officer buckled so easily changed his entire outlook. He might survive if he stayed strong and silent. He examined the battered walls and faded gray paint around him and it felt part of him now and him, it. He’d never killed anyone from just being careless before and he began really shuffling through various scenarios about what might happen to him in the long run.

“What if she died?,” he said to himself, “He’d be a murderer…albeit an unintentional one, but still a murderer….he’d been foolish, not paying attention, something he couldn’t undo now no matter what he did or how sorry he was. The silence of the room weighed heavily on him. He wanted something to happen even if it were bad just to distract his wild and uncontrollable thoughts. Waiting around not knowing what was going to happen next was the hardest part and filled his head with all sorts of unpleasant ideas.

The interrogating officer came back after awhile and said his lawyer was ready to talk to him now. “Follow me,” he belted out. Masters didn’t smile as he followed the man because he was too absorbed in thought.

The lawyer was seated in a small and slightly less depressing room with a comparatively polished appearance. The lawyer was blond, handsome and rich judging from the expensive-looking watch, fine leather briefcase and “metro-sexual” appearance. The man gazed at him casually as someone who’d listened to millions of the world’s most shocking confessions without becoming shocked or losing composure. He was too casual of manner for Paul’s taste and he felt himself being sized up as he entered the room. The briefcase Paul saw next to the lawyer’s chair seemed in perfect alignment with his sterile professionalism.

“Good afternoon, Paul, would you prefer to take this to another room? This one’s a bit disgusting and not at all conducive to having a pleasant chat. A police escort’s waiting for us outside if you promise not to cause any trouble…,” The lawyer’s meek and appeasing voice was contrary to initial appearances.

“Of course…I won’t do anything,” Masters chuckled in an easy manner while following on his heels. His spirits lifted by a renewed sense that the old lady might live. If not, why would everyone act so chummy and familiar toward him? Another side of him wondered if that favorable notion were true or just a product of wishful thinking—dismissing that thought on principle alone seconds later because it scared him. When they arrived at the new room, Masters found it much cheerier and figured he’d been brought there out of consideration for the lawyer’s comfort more than his own.

The lawyer looked at his watch somberly because apparently time itself had placed restrictions upon their activities and fates, “OK, how did it happen? Were you speeding at the time? Looking the other way, perhaps?” He got quickly down to business after formalities were out of the way. The lawyer put on his glasses with a blank evaluative look and removed a group of papers from his briefcase. “What we need to do now is work out how to approach your case,” he said, covering his chin with his hand and casting his glance down at the paper stream before him.”

“I didn’t expect to see anyone coming down the street…I was in a hurry and well, she happened to be there…,” The lawyer glanced up and locked his gaze with Masters who took it was an accusation; he went back on the defensive, “…It was completely unintentional, I was trying to get to school and wasn’t paying attention…” He felt he’d given too much of a confession at the start and the lawyer’s gaze was merciless.

He admitted, “That’s not very promising on your behalf, but a lot depends on what happens to the old lady, whether she survives or not…” The lawyer flipped through some papers in front of him, trying to soften the remark with destructive actions. Something in the lawyer’s tone made Masters shudder, like a warning too serious to be ignored. He wasn’t sure what attitude to strike, how to mount his charge, his defense, in a way that would appease everyone and get him out of trouble. What defense would sound plausible to a jury of his peers in court?

“I’ll give it some thought, it’s gonna take some time to put the right spin to it,” the lawyer said soothingly, making Masters distinctly uncomfortable.

To which Paul replied point-blank: “Sir, do you think there’s any chance of me getting into serious trouble over this?” “serious” being a kind of code word directed at his expertise. The lawyer stopped what he was doing and sighed softly without loo King up; visibly weary at being asked the same question over and over again.

“Let’s go through it all first. See what we got. We’ll go do our best in any case…,” the lawyer assured him, “Go on about the accident, what street were you on? Where’d you hit her and so on? Facts. How fast were you going and did you look before pulling out?”

Masters began to arrange and formulate his thoughts into coherent streams, something he’d been reluctant to do before. Though, he had wondered previously whether the best course of action would be to lie to protect himself or whether doing so might actually make things worse. “I was heading up Fosterville Street, that’s where I live, to school……late as usual, of course, and wasn’t thinking so clearly…well, she just came out of nowhere, didn’t even see her, not even sure she saw me…” (that was it, he stumbled upon something, it was her fault or partly so!). “She’s old and maybe she didn’t see me,” he repeated irrelevantly. It was her fault or both of theirs, why didn’t he think of it before? Brilliant, she was old, and perhaps a little careless herself!

The lawyer kept scribbling without pause, leaving Paul not knowing what to expect from him—some dramatic battle of wills or skepticism (?) but there was nothing to match his newfound valor and it annoyed him beyond belief. This was different than those criminal dramas he’d seen on TV, less “sudden”, “impactful” and “high-pitched” he said to himself.

“Did you notice whether she was loo King or not?” A light turned brighter and brighter in Master’s head: an opportunity to protect himself. It seemed reasonable to do whatever one could to avoid trouble—even fudging the truth in some cases—wasn’t life a struggle for survival? In all honestly to himself, had he seen her at all? He searched his memory hoping he could draw some sort of life-saver out of it.

“I didn’t see her when I pulled out…,” feeling a bit foolish making such an honest confession but lying could be harder to justify in the long run if witnesses or facts ultimately contradicted what he was saying; a problem he thought might arise if he fudged his story too much. If caught lying, everything he said from then on would be suspect (a fact, he was smart enough to realize, that could be dangerous in legal situations). Might even cause him to suffer public disgrace in addition to having more trouble with the law. After the bottomless pit he seemed to have fallen into this morning, being honest felt like the only possible way out.

“All things considered, I think we might be able to get you off on a judgment of mutual negligence or fault as long as there isn’t an overabundance of witnesses claiming you were speeding or driving carelessly. That could pose a problem for us…other than that we might be alright (Masters reluctantly felt the “we” comforting)…..provided she doesn’t die.”

“God, I hope not…,” Masters said breathlessly.

Masters found himself out and on the street that evening after an infusion of cash from his dad to the lawyer and a remarkably peaceful slumber in a cell. The lawyer did just what he said he’d do. What a guy! The first thing he did was head to Burger King to get some “real food” (though calling Burger King real food was a stretch even for his overactive imagination). Oh well….another lost day of youth in which he’d have to catch up in school!

He thought about the old lady as he was chomping on a French fry and a pang of guilt struck him while wearing the odd ketchup blot on his face. He licked it off and prayed the old woman wouldn’t die; slurping his drink slowly and carefully. What if she simply ended up paralyzed or something like that? Could he be sued for a lot of money or sent to jail for a very long time? He marveled how split-second occurrences could be irreversible in life and spread out as far as the future could see. He shuddered, “My god, I practically killed an old lady by not paying attention…rushing to get to school like I did! Now I’m in deep, deep shit…” Marveling at his own stupidity and realizing his conscience wouldn’t let go of that for a long while.

His phone rang, “Hey, man, you alright? How the hell are you? I thought dey was gonna hang you, man! Can’t believe it—an old lady—shit! That’s crazy! What were you thinking, dude?” Alex was a fast talker who said too many things or asked many questions in single rapid bursts. It usually annoyed Paul to no end but now the pace of it was distracting and invigorating, drawing him out of himself.

“I’m fine, but I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. It sucked a lot.”

“Dude, what did she look like after you hit her? Was she all fucked up or what? Was it super gross?”

Alex’s “way” with words (or lack thereof) and bluntness of speech always surprised Paul and made him laugh; the casual way he’d say the crudest of things as if it were completely natural to do so. It was “guyishly” outrageous in his opinion he guessed. With his slick and casual manner about everything, Alex was entertaining in a constantly funny and embarrassing way: on the topics of women, grades, drinking and now…personal tragedy.

“She didn’t look good, Alex…might die, though I pray she doesn’t or they’ll throw me in prison.”

“The right place for you, I’ve always said that! It’s where you belong. You ruffian!” with obvious humor that wasn’t entirely well-received on Paul’s part.

Paul laughed out loud without fully knowing whether it was strictly from discomfort and embarrassment on his part. His friend’s cockiness always made him feel awkward and the only way he knew how to respond was by laughing emphatically. He often thought about hanging up on Alex when he acted this way at inopportune moments—pretending there was a bad connection or something—but, so far, never dared it. He knew he’d catch hell at some point in the future for it. He imagined Alex’s face, the strong jaw, the wavy and too long Zeppelin hair, athletic frame, the mocking smile with the permanent sneer and asked himself (again) why he remained friends with such a person.

“You too!” Paul replied in his usual appeasing tone.

“Good thing she was just an old lady with one foot in the grave. No one’ll care much about her…” Alex—the worldly-wise twenty-two year old party animal—assured him.

Masters frowned; that was too much but he chuckled anyway to keep his old friend happy. “What’s wrong with you exactly? I can’t believe you’d say that about an old lady…I don’t know about you, sometimes…you’re an idiot!”

“I don’t know either…,” was the giggling and unconcerned response, “…so what’d she look like? Bloody and gross? Wooooooooah, lighten up there, buddy! Just trying to cheer you up!” Alex had a way of always interpreting his actions in a selfless way as he spoke profanely about serious matters in their lives…but, again, he was a “friend”. “It’s not your fault there’s too many old fossils on the road!” he added.

“Alright, but it was probably my fault, I wasn’t paying attention at the time.”

“Yeah? That’s nothing new!” Alex laughed at him; giving him a verbal nudge. “You never pay attention to anything in normal life! Certainly not in class!” Paul didn’t react for several seconds making Alex burst out laughing. Paul chuckled along halfheartedly while hoping to get rid of Alex as quickly as possible because this particular interaction was just getting annoying. He actually felt a vague sense of hate growing in his gut toward his friend. Meanwhile, the idea he’d entertained in the past about cutting off all relations with his “old pal” was becoming harder and harder to keep in the back of his mind.

Alex was a friend but way too many times Paul was forced to ask himself what sort of privileges that title afforded. “You’re right, I don’t do that most of the time but I definitely should’ve on this occasion!” And to feed his friend’s overactive imagination he went into greater detail, “Her head flopped over in a really grotesque way like her neck was broken or something and her dress was absolutely covered in blood. It was super, super gross, man!” Hoping to evoke a serious and sincere reaction in his friend.

“Indeed! Indeed! You’re a one-man wrecking crew, dude! It must’ve been an effin’ hideous sight though! Too bad you didn’t have your camera with you…,” he chuckled and verbally nudged him again, “…but, seriously, I hope you don’t get in trouble over this—be a major inconvenience to visit you in jail.”

“They wouldn’t let you out if you visited jail! They’d know a future felon when they saw one!” Paul saw an opportunity to go on the offensive banter-wise. “Anyway, who’d want you to come? You’d only depress me further. I don’t like seeing your ugly mug now….I sure as hell wouldn’t want to then. The only bright spot about going to jail would be getting a vacation from your sorry ass…,” placing the last nail in Alex’s wise ass coffin.

“Well, I’m glad that’s all settled and there’s a silver lining to it all,” both laughing and basking in each other’s cleverness. “Well, let me know what happens as it happens, will you bud? Keep me posted. Talk to you later…,” hanging up abruptly on Paul. He finished his drink and vacated the bright yellow and plastic-coated table, preparing to walk the mile-and-a-half home. First thing he needed was to secure some new wheels but how was he going to do that? Borrow his mom’s car? Rent one? He certainly didn’t want to have to walk everywhere from now on, that was too embarrassing.

At home he switched on the TV and grabbed a beer to take his mind off things for awhile; ten minutes later falling asleep on the sofa and not waking til one of those chatty and giggly variety shows invaded his mental space. The ones that seem to pop up all over TV stations like rabid weeds in a cornfield. He lifted his head and rubbed the side of his face, squinting at the source of his distress: a group of sideshow freaks keeping up a feverishly yapping pace to avoid being exposed for what they were—jackasses and circus performers—bread and circuses to be exact. At least that’s how it seemed before full-blown conscious awareness, cultural customs and socialization set in. He grabbed the remote and switched it off; turning on the radio instead. He was in luck! His go-to music station was playing a great song by Defcon One about killing your lover when she tried to leave you for someone else—so cool! At first he got excited remembering how he loved the unique guitar bits and the singer’s powerful and alluring voice. He even returned to the living room with the coffee pot still in hand to turn it up. Then images of the old lady drifted into his thoughts without warning, his hand still on the knob…he stopped…could this be a bad omen? Listening to a song about death and destruction now? Wasn’t it tempting fate a bit to be too casual about such matters when he himself might be guilty of them?

The line…, “She caused me pain, now it’s her turn to feel the same—BITCH!” rang in his head as the old lady’s battered and bruised face mingled with the singer’s voice in a sickening way; blood on that old lacy print dress of hers (imagining himself as the killer with knife standing over her). He switched the radio off and let his hand remain on the dial for a few seconds—thinking, exhaling and loo King out the bay window with heavy eyes.

He went into the kitchen to finish making his coffee—extra strong ‘cause he needed it he told himself. Then switching on the TV and checking his phone messages, his “on-again-off-again” girlfriend Sandy had called and said to call her as soon as possible—it was apparently on-again from the fullness of her tone. Ahhhhhhh….his queen was there to comfort him in his time of need! He should be so unlucky! First reaction was to call her right away and obtain some comfort from the cool waters of her sympathy and varying levels of soothing, tender care. But something made him stop: was that a fair description of his “love”? She was after all “on-again-off-again” by his own description of her; and why was he wasting his time with her if that were the case? Especially if she couldn’t offer any real female consolation at times like this. Oh, Lord! Is life truly meaningless (he asked Zeus in the clouds)? Too many questions for the time being; too much thought, just call the bimbo back already.

“Hello?” said a charming (and strangely purring) voice over the phone; thrilling him and making him nervous at the same time, “Paul?”

“Hey baby…how are you? I’m out—I’m free!”

“Yes, I know…,” she said too casually for his own taste; damping his enthusiasm. “What happened?”

“Oh! It was crazy…thought they were going to put me away for good, honey. Treated me like a friggin’ criminal and everything…”

“Poor thing,” she said in her best “princess-sympathizing-with-the-unfortunates-in-the-kingdom” manner, “What about the woman you got in the accident with? What happened to her?”

“I was gonna call the hospital later to see how she’s doing but I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. A lot depends on that…whether she makes it or not…,” gloomily.

“What in god’s name did it look like when they took her away?”

“Awful! Absolutely like nothing like you’ve ever seen before—hope I never have to see it again either—grossest thing imaginable…”

“Crazy! Sorry to hear that, Paul…,” coming off sincere for a change; her fortress of majesty penetrated if only for the moment, “…are you very upset over this?”

“I’ll be okay when I find out she’s still alive…I mean even if she’s just paralyzed or something, could be rough going for awhile in legal terms…”

“Could they lock you up for something like that? I mean after all,

she’s old and probably senile or something like that, isn’t she?” said in unwavering support of her man of the moment.

“I suppose that might be true, though I don’t think all of ‘em are senile per se…,” thinking of his own grandmother; and uncertain about taking full comfort in Sandy’s dubious “support” or the implications of what she was saying. “What are you doing now?” he asked.

“Nothing, just eating a snack and fixing my hair…you wanna get together later?”

“Certainly!” said Paul a little too eagerly; he was always too eager with her and sensed it might become a problem later in their relationship. “What’cha have in mind, babe…?” cringing and thinking he sounded as if he were trying too hard to be slick (relieved he couldn’t be seen).

“Hmmm…..I don’t know—haven’t made up my mind yet. Can I call ya later?”

He felt a sudden need to take charge in the relationship and show some backbone for a change or risk losing her respect—and perhaps even a little of his own—sensing he was being taken too lightly. “Is there some reason you can’t make up your mind now? What about dinner tonight?”

“OK,” she sighed in feigned reluctance, “Where to…?” realizing he was being played to get the best deal. Now he had to come up with an impressive offer to lure the princess out from behind her boudoir. It bothered him, at times, being set-up this way by her as well as some of their mutual friends (if they were friends at all). He felt like he wanted to explode at them sometimes but hadn’t done it yet.

“I don’t know, some place not overly expensive, this thing’s bound to set us back a bit—we had to hire a lawyer,” throwing himself on her mercy at this point.

“Well, you can’t expect me to go through all the trouble of making myself up if it isn’t worth my time, dear…,” she protested gently but firmly; making it seem self-evident. “You understand how I feel…I hope that doesn’t sound uncaring or selfish!” With Paul thinking, ‘No, it sounds like “the usual” where you’re concerned.’

“Of course, I want you to be happy above all else,” he groaned softly (“and not too demandingly,” to himself), “Where would you like to go?”

“Hmmmm….there’s a thought…,” she said as if taking it under serious consideration and becoming a child of wonder on cue. “What about the new restaurant on Juniper Street? The Italian place—you know the one!” with admirable enthusiasm under trying circumstances.

Yeah, I know the one, I’ve passed it once or twice,” casually; thinking only about how expensive it looked from the outside. “OK, what time?”

“7:30? Sound good? You can pick me up here.”

“Uh…honey pie, I just cracked up my car, remember?….but if you don’t mind I can drop by and pick you up on my skateboard…”

“Oh, you’re so funny…,” she giggled like a pre-teen, “…that’s what I love about you. So, I guess I’ll have to go pick you up around 8:00 then? Sound good?” Then she had a thought (a rare one): “What are you going to do in the future about getting around?”

“I don’t know, I thought I’d just rely on you for a while, depends on whether my mom lets me use hers or not. If she doesn’t I suppose I’ll get a rental car or something and try to make the insurance company pay for it…”

“Will they if the accident’s your fault? I’m assuming because they arrested you, uh…”

“And you’re right…the cops seem to think I caused it and I hope the insurance company will pay for it. I know they’re gonna raise my rates to the moon!”

“Of course they will—they always do—I hate insurance companies!”

“My mom and dad’ll give me the bawling out of my life, too. Can’t wait for that one! It’s no secret how careless I am. “Same old Paul…,” they’ll say, “…he’s done it again! That stupid kid!”

“They’re always so hard on you…though my parents are just as bad in a different way. All parents are that way to a certain extent or they wouldn’t be real parents I guess.”

“Either they’re too hard on me or I’m just an incredible screw-up—one or the other or both—the jury’s still out on that. But I’ll work it out in some way, I always do…,” said in order to end the conversation quickly (he hated long phone conversations especially with Sandy who could, without warning, enter into a sudden and never-ending ramble).

“8:00 then?”

“Alright, so what should I wear tonight on this special occasion?” she asked before he could escape; making him cringe as he thought he was free from further interrogation. He always hated that question—placed in an uncomfortable position and subject to harsh criticism if the answer were judged to be inadequate. She looked good in anything according to him but he couldn’t say that to her. Sandy was a knockout!

Yes, and he was lucky to have her—others reminded him of it on a daily basis usually with a nudge and wink—his friends, who also asked embarrassing questions in private (usually drunk and lacking any verbal filter) about how she was in the sack or what she looked like without any clothes on. He reflected on this along with their whirlwind six-month relationship which, at first, was wonderful: they were in love, blindly, stupidly and completely. They went everywhere and saw everything together—it didn’t matter what—and lost themselves in each other’s steamy, dreamy companionship. Everyday was fresh and exciting and full of possibilities. Then all of a sudden (and without warning) life became rigid and routine. Everything changed. They felt compelled to play roles in what was popularly termed, “commitment”; in part due to socially suggestive influences and messages interpreted independently and without collaboration (perhaps part of the problem) in society’s gender expectations. She began to view him as an entirely different person: a stranger who needed to change his behavior in every conceivable way to fit her image of a boyfriend. Dress differently to be acceptable to girls on the street and random restaurant hostesses. Meanwhile, he started to view her as elusive, distant, brooding at times…spacey, demanding and withdrawn. Defensive and critical, too. Sometimes she peered at him sideways, strangely and suspiciously, or stared at him out of the corner of her eye, making him uncomfortable.

They also began arguing much more than before, certainly more than in the first few months which stressed Paul to no end. He sensed their relationship was on the rocks but feared bringing up the subject because it might precipitate a break-up. In any case, he better say something quickly now:

“Everything looks good on you…,” he assured her, settling on the safe bet. To which she instantly replied (patronizingly), “Oh, I don’t know why I put up with you, you’re no help at all!” He noted her gentle chiding of him had become more frequent too—and more needling of his personality; something he couldn’t defend himself against without appearing overly sensitive or “emotionally unavailable”.

“Well, I don’t wanna tell you what to wear, hon…you know I don’t know anything about women’s clothes…,” he whined to his own surprise; hoping to appear lenient and liberal and realizing his status as a boyfriend was at stake over a damn fashion choice!

“You have so little good taste…,” she sighed all too dramatically for his money (an indictment Paul was distinctly proud of), “…pick you up later…caveman…,” she bristled unseriously.

“Sure thing, princess…,” doing his best Bogart. He laid the phone down and tried consciously not to explore the implications of their most recent conversation. Having a vague sense of too many doors opening up in his mind and pondering where they might lead if he allowed himself to be carried away on that train of thought. He had a sudden terror of the unknown and, being young and concerned in pleasure for its own sake, refused to take the initiative to find out what that meant. His mother came home an hour later and caught him sitting on the sofa in the same position waiting to be picked up. Before he noticed her, she had the chance to examine her troublesome offspring without his awareness and caught a glimpse of a boy who was certain to be a continued source of pain in her life. The dead giveaway was his supreme contentment at the entertainment value offered by a snickering and tittering teenage video/ variety show.

“So, I see you’re out…” with a cold and scrutinizing eye cast distastefully over her shoulder—carrying a couple bags and dropping them on the counter with a thud. “What’ve you been doing all day?”

“Nothing…just thinking…I’m still in shock.”

She emptied the bags into the cupboards with incredible difficulty as he inquired with hope, “Got any cookies for me?”

“No, I forgot…,” she said without turning around and revealing a look of immense sorrow on her face. “I had more important things on my mind like what happened to you…”

“Yeah, I know…,” he said shamefully, “…I was about to call the hospital to see how the old woman was doing but I was concerned how I might look, how to go about it, and what to say. I figured it might be better to wait…”

“Afraid you might make things worse?”

This forced him to reflect on what he’d done along with a lot of other things that led up to it, “You know me too well. I’m sure that sounds irresponsible to you…” glaring at the TV as if it were the source of his problem or salvation.

“Well maybe you can do that tomorrow. In fact, you should do it—first thing!—your future depends on what happens to that old woman. Let’s hope you haven’t killed her for god’s sake—what were you thinking by the way?” unable to contain a fit of sobbing on the counter in fear and frustration (her feelings had become rapidly shifting of late). A couple of food items fell on the floor with a jarring crash.

“Damn it!” covering her mouth.

“Mom, lemme help you…,” running over and kneeling down to pick the things up for her, ”…I know how idiotic I am at times and how much pain I’ve caused you—stupid, that’s what I am…hopeless…”

She gazed back at him with nothing but hope, “I love you no matter what you do or what happens to you…,” touching his face tenderly while he was up close, “…I just wish my faith wasn’t tested so often. I’m not a young woman anymore, you know, this stuff takes its toll on me. Grow up—please!—for everyone’s sake—including your own. OK, I’ve said my peace…now, tell me what happened…”

“Nothing out of the ordinary as far as my life goes Mom…,” with his back turned to her while placing a bunch of cans on the shelves with effort, “…rushing to get to class on time and not paying attention to oncoming traffic as I should’ve been. I’d be the first to admit it, otherwise it wouldn’t have happened.”

“Well, obviously it did. Unfortunately it might turn out to be a mistake that you’ll have to pay for ten times over my son—the fatal flaw that unravels the entire machinery if you will…,” recalling and paraphrasing a quote from somewhere. “You’ll smarten up one of these days I hope.”

“I’m so impatient I simply can’t control my erratic impulses at times…they’re always going in opposite directions at once! I’m totally scatterbrained and because of it I didn’t see her,” with his chin nearly on the floor by now.

“Well, maybe it wasn’t entirely your fault—I mean the only reason they arrested you is because she got injured more than you did, right? Might be a case of both parties being at fault at the same time. The only thing to do now is think positively about it when you’re uncertain of the outcome. Naturally they had to haul you in, in case she died or became crippled or something like that. They couldn’t have you skipping town to avoid prosecution if it came to that. It’s just too bad you’re stuck in this situation on this, such an otherwise uneventful day…”

“No shit!—sorry—how do I get out of it? I could be in for some deep shit!”

“Well, that may not be up to you,” she suggested.

“What do you mean?”

“The old lady, remember? Your future depends on whether she survives or not. If something happens to her, well…it could be an enormous tragedy for all of us.”

He couldn’t say anything as a series of undesirable thoughts ran riot through his head. “I’m definitely gonna call tomorrow and find out whether she’s OK to see when and if I can start breathing again…feel like I’m suffocating in a noose.”

“I know and I’m sorry. You must feel awful about this but I’m glad you’re going to see her…,” as if she’d been waiting to hear that. “You know we’ll get through this as we always do, as we’ve gotten through everything else…” (alluding to the problems they’d gone through in the past with poor grades and frequent fighting at school—a pregnant girlfriend complete with a lot of shabby, gut-wrenching scenes over that—along with the occasional foray into drugs and alcohol and consequent brushes with the law. Some “brushes” being more like backbreaking massages from Sumo wrestlers than others. This latest, however, was the worst).

“I don’t know how you put up with me sometimes, mom,” he said hugging and kissing her tearfully. “I’m such a bad son…a complete disappointment to you.”

“No…,” becoming defiant (and mad) all of a sudden, “…you’re a tortured and sensitive spirit squirming within the confines of a cold and merciless world—that’s all! It’s all a terrible dilemma for your generation to face and especially for someone like you. I get it!”

“Well, mom, I wouldn’t place all the blame on my generation or even me for that matter—what do you mean by all that?—I’ve certainly done enough to bury myself three times over in this life, you know that…,” feeling even more ashamed when she felt the need to make excuses for him.

She didn’t respond right away…then, “Ultimately, if you learn from this experience we’ll call it a deal, aw’right?—I still love you and I know your father does in spite of the way he acts sometimes—”

He gazed at her lovingly and longingly as she kissed him. “I know he’s been hard on you, but that’s the way he is, the way a lot of men are toward their sons…,” she explained solidly. “I sincerely hope you don’t become like him someday…” with an oddly worried smile.

“That isn’t very high praise of dad’s virtues,” he laughed.

“Maybe not, but he’s still your father…try not to forget that.”

“Have you told him about the accident?”

“He’s not happy as you might imagine…wants to send you off to a military school or force you into the army somehow. You know how he is. He was furious!” displaying a resigned little twist of her mouth.

“God! He’s so old-fashioned…,” Paul laughed nervously, “…as long as he doesn’t kick me out of the house—which I know he wants to do!”

“I’ll talk to him to try to get him to ease up on you as much as I can but I can’t guarantee anything. Are you going out tonight?”

“Yes.”

“With her?”

“Yes, mom—with her!—why do you always talk about Sandy like she’s some kind of disease or something? You know how much I care about her and it seems like you’ve made no attempt to like her or even get to know her…,” marveling at being placed in the position of defending someone who, only hours ago, he entertained similar doubts about.

“I know her well enough, her kind I guess you could say, and I think I’ve made it plain enough how I feel about her. Let’s leave it at that for now…”

“As long as you don’t say anything mean to her when she comes over tonight…”

“She’s coming here?” unable to stop herself before the outburst came right out.

“Mom, that’s exactly what I’m talking about!”

“I won’t say anything…have I ever said anything mean to her before?”

“No! Thank god! And I’d like it to keep it that way if you don’t mind—we have enough problems without anything else adding to them. I just wish you’d try to get along with her is all.”

“I have a feeling that’s just the beginning of your problems where she’s concerned,” very cynically. “If you want my opinion she’s gonna break your heart into a thousand pieces. She’s just playing with you like she plays with everyone—with all men—she doesn’t care a wick about you or anyone else…”

“How do you like that? My mother, the clairvoyant! Maybe we should break out the Tarot cards and find out what else is in my predetermined future according to the stars!…you ought to take this show on the road—really—or at least around the tearful circus of “mea culpa” New Age shows like “Umprah” gracing our TV screens these days! What gets me most is my own mother doesn’t think I’m good enough to date a beautiful woman!”

“Oh, you’re always so dramatic! A princess is what she is I tell you—,” she scoffed, “—and a parasite, not a girl, loo King for a free ride in life. She’ll get it too at anyone and everyone’s expense! But it won’t be what she expects because nothing comes without a price and she’s too young to understand that. She’ll do her best to avoid the pitfalls or, at least, she thinks she’ll be able to. I’m a woman and I know her kind all too well because the same types have existed in every generation, believe me, and nothing changes down through the years. Certainly not the universal and eternal aspects of human behavior. I can already envision her as a bitter old woman who’s been burned too many times from an overwhelming desire to get everything in life for free…”

Fortunately…,” he protested blindly, “…she’s not yet old or bitter and I still think you’re wrong!” with too much acrimony in his voice. She gazed into his eyes long and searchingly: for understanding, recognition, strength of will perhaps, but saw only one thing: wishful thinking. “Hope springs eternal,” she reminded herself; realizing her son was in too deep and doomed to suffer this time…that much was “written in the stars”. However, romantic heartbreak wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to him she reasoned.

“You can think whatever you want but I still say she’s gonna break your heart someday. Of course, I hope it doesn’t happen but that’s how I envision things playing out for you two…”

“I still say you don’t know her and you haven’t even attempted to do so; though I certainly appreciate where you’re coming from. I’m not blind to her faults, she’s flighty and unpredictable, irresponsible and shallow, but that’s part of her character, her charm, her style to me now…” said as if still trying to convince himself.

“Some charm and personality…,” his mother said with a faint hissing sound, “…and that’s exactly what I’m afraid of—her charm! Good for charming the pants off a beggar or a wise man out of his wits!” He gaped at her speechless a moment, realizing she was right (and relentless!); wanting to offer some sort of resistance to change the reality of the situation or at least win the argument, but failing miserably on both counts.

“Then for my own sake I hope you’re wrong because I’m crazy about this stupid girl in ways I don’t fully understand and in spite of the fact I don’t like or respect her all the time…”

“I guess that’s another problem your generation has to face

with so many shallow, narcissistic people in it…,” she explained with a certainty Paul didn’t fully grasp the significance of, “…I mean even the way you described her to me says it all, doesn’t it? Hey, listen, I don’t mean to upset you in any way, you’ll be alright no matter what happens…” squeezing his shoulder and embracing him. “Don’t want to give you the impression you won’t. Believe me…,” kissing his forehead and loo King into his eyes sympathetically. She was tempted to impart the added wisdom that girls of Sandy’s sort tended to exploit their beauty and sex appeal to get what they want from men while leaving them high and dry in the end, or broke, bitter and unhappy with life, but thought it best to wait on that one.

At dinner with Sandy that night, his mother’s warnings returned with a vengeance and began playing over and over in his head like a tasteful video montage. He was unable to prevent the loop tape from whispering subversive messages to his brain. In fact, the persistent buzz kept going through dinner allowing him to drift away from Sandy’s endless banter and into deep self-reflection unnoticed. It was too much of a strain listening to her without some sort of “firewall” protecting his brain anyway…and she could keep it up all night! He was equally dumbfounded by all the things men go through in order to satisfy their carnal urges. I mean did he really need this mindless chatterbox in his life to feel joy?

A brief example of what Paul had been listening to over the past few hours could be found in the whiney, “Can you believe what she said to me?” (to which he correctly assumed she expected no answer) and “Oh my god, I honestly don’t know what’s wrong with her! She’s such a bitch and her new boyfriend is such a jerk that it makes me wonder what she’s thinking sometimes (Paul meanwhile was wondering what Sandy was thinking if anything at all)…have they gone insane or is it just me? They need a reality check if you ask me!” said with all the acute and naive certainty of early 20s armchair psychotherapy. Occasionally an odd (and unsuspecting) male became the subject of her surgical dissections of life and catty misadventures, in which everything was placed into classes and categories of understanding that hovered around the central importance of proper social manners and letting people know precisely where “they” and “you” stood on all the crucial matters of life. She then proceeded to explain—expecting sympathy of course—that her classes were suffering at school because of an unfortunate conflict with her various social activities; said in the same breath, mind you, as everything else without segue or her loyal listener getting a word in edgewise.

“Stop drinking!” he suggested plainly and without thinking about what he was saying. She responded by loo King at him as if she didn’t know who he was.

“Huh? What did you say? Stop drinking? What would be the fun in that?”

“Well, maybe it wouldn’t be fun exactly but it might mean you wouldn’t be having so much trouble at school or be caught up in an endless cycle of running around trying to have a good time and never having one…and you might not look so burned out like you do now or be complaining about it either. Maybe you simply need to change your definition of fun…,” it came out like a busted dam. She squinted at him through dark and probing eyes, making him uneasy and sensing he was treading on shaky ground with her. The danger, from his perspective, was of being classified as a man who was “no fun” in her frequent description of the type (and which he’d heard about on so many occasions) that characterized the utter villainy of all her former boyfriends. They’d all committed the unpardonable sin while having been in her good graces and in good standing with her (the swine!). The implication of it all being he should avoid this fate at all costs (it was, after all, a not-so-subtle warning) as he felt himself getting close to that point now. She laughed smugly and knowingly, “Don’t be ridiculous, what would I do on the weekends if I didn’t party like a rock star? Besides I love to drink, it makes me feel good and nobody gets hurt!”

“Except you!” he challenged her. “Oh, Sandy, when are you ever gonna grow up?” realizing the irony of what he was now saying after his mom had essentially just said the same to him.

“Never—if I can avoid it!—I swear sometimes, Paul, you remind me of my father,” giggling like he was the silliest thing possible; then smiling in a way that was truly mocking. “So, tell me about your first experience in jail! Was it as bad as people say?” shifting seamlessly into her best gossip girl mode.

“Lemme tell ya, you’ll find out soon enough if you keep drinking and driving the way you do. It’s pretty bad!”

“So, tell me, what did it look like?”

“Forget what it looked like…what did it feel and smell like? Piss and shit is what—grime, stench and filth!—and it looked even worse than that.” Then after some consideration about whether to bring it up or not, admitted, “Some pretty seedy people in there, too, beyond anything you can freakin’ imagine!”

“Keep your voice down and watch your language please dear, remember where we are,” clearing her throat and glancing around in worry.

“The lawyer says I’ve got a good chance as long as nothing happens to her and he can present the possibility that it was at least partly her fault.”

“Was it?” completely unaware of the impact on him.

“Well, that’s a matter of opinion I suppose. Everything’s relative when all’s said and done, isn’t it, depending on who you ask?” he replied too quickly; and the issue of lying to protect himself sprung up again—even against his own girlfriend.

She glanced at him with a curious look (something in his voice made her do it). “That sounds funny coming from you. I mean logically speaking you’re probably correct but…” pausing mid-sentence with a rapidly emerging understanding of the situation.

“Of course I’m not suggesting it couldn’t have been partly my fault…”

“Of course not…,” staring straight into his eyes now, “…not the way you drive,” kidding him while at the same time oblivious to the effect it was having on him. His feelings were less important than her own and she believed it all quite natural that her needs and whims should be of primary concern in their relationship (the princess’s prerogative so to speak).

“You know, sometimes I think you say things just to irritate me…or you simply don’t care how it affects me.”

“Lighten up—it was only a joke, and you’re impossible to deal with sometimes!” laughing even even harder.

“Some joke—I mean it’s only my future you’re talking about!”

“Yeah, but somehow you’ll get out of it just like you get out of everything else in life with that innocent guy charm of yours,” she smiled and winked at him with a certain odd complicity that made him uneasy; implying he (or anyone else) wasn’t as innocent as they let on. “You’ve got a good lawyer so why don’t you just sit back and let him do his job? No one cares about an old lady in the end. You’ll see…,” she seemed so sure which was even more appalling.

“Why does everybody keep saying that?—she’s just an old lady! she’s just an old lady!”—she’s a goddamned human being for chrissakes—can’t you get that through your head? Does a person suddenly become less of a person when they get old?” said so loud the other guests were beginning to stare.

“The real question is why do you care so much about her? You might get in trouble because of her and even thrown in jail…I’d despise someone with that much power over me…” Shushing him and loo King around with a displeased gaze at the public outburst.

“Why? Just because you’ve been pitted against someone by unforeseen circumstances? That sounds pretty selfish if you ask me, but the thing that makes me the sickest about the whole thing is coming that close to killing another human being—anyone for that matter—merely because of my own negligence and stupidity, because you don’t really know how that feels unless it’s happened to you personally,” hastening to add: “That’s a huge weight on a person’s shoulders!” dropping his gaze on the plate in front of him a moment and thinking, perversely, it looked just like that.

“Well, you just need to be strong, that’s all…life is filled with tragic events. I’ve been through some of my own in fact, hasn’t everyone?” she explained in a way that wasn’t convincing and too dismissive of the point. “You can’t let it affect you, that’s all…,” in a strange dreamy way, “…that’s the secret.” It came across like a philosophy she’d read once in a popular woman’s magazine.

“Yeah, but if everyone stopped caring about everyone else what kind of world would that be to live? A nightmare dystopia? Be a dangerous place for everyone, wouldn’t it be?”

“Relax. You’re being too dramatic again, Paul! You need to be more open to other people’s views is all I’m saying. Don’t get upset!”

Then she latched onto another course of inquiry: “What did she look like, by the way?”

“Blood all over her face, her eyes, her neck, and her old white stocking legs. All over one of those old people flowery print dresses your grandmother probably used to wear…” grinding his teeth a bit.

“Sounds almost silly the way you describe it….,” she giggled.

“It wasn’t—and I’m still not laughing now—was like killing your grandmother or something and it nearly made me wretch at the scene.”

“Oh, I don’t understand you sometimes, Paul…why you’re so worried about an old lady who’s probably got one foot in the grave anyway, hasn’t she? It’s not like she’s one of our generation with all the latest enlightened ideas about things.”

“Our generation? That’s just ignorant—what are you saying? The closer you get to death the less you matter in the world? Old people are just worthless? Would you want to be responsible for your own grandmother’s death? She’s still a human being—isn’t she?—just like you or anyone else’s family. Whether she’s old or not is irrelevant. Don’t you have any compassion for anyone? The poor, the weak, the sick, the unfortunat