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Modern Man

By Peter Rehard

Modern Man

Peter Rehard

Copyright Peter Rehard 2011

Smashwords edition

Chapter One

She wanted to know the same thing: why did I do it? I don't really know what she wanted me to say. I mean, what should I have said: I killed him on purpose? You really only do something like that for one reason. Okay, I know some people make mistakes; but I don't think that is a mistake. Some people just look so stupid that they can get away with it. I remember once there was this guy where I used to live, back down south.

Who was he? Well, I forget his name. Anyways, one night he got drunk. I don't mean he had a beer. This guy--he was young, my age--he got lubed up really good; I think he was on pills too. Well, some people say he was on pills and some people say he was stoned. This guy, he gets in his car, starts driving--I know. He starts driving, can't control the car a lick and ends up crashing into some little girl. He splatters this little girl, gets out of the car and says, “I didn't mean to do it.” Can you believe that? He didn't mean to.

That is the kind of guy that deserves to be in jail forever. Yeah, some might say it was one mistake, but what I know about people is that there is never just one mistake. I'm telling you, they make the same mistakes over and over again. Like I told this girl when it happened. “Do you think it was the first time he ever drove drunk?” Anyways, people do things and its on purpose. Mistakes are what people say, when something finally happens. She wanted to know why I did it. I just said, “I did it.”

Now, my lawyer, he said, “Don't tell her anything,” and I said, “That's going to be hard if I have to talk to her every day.” God, if you ever have to go to court or jail, pick out a lawyer for yourself, because once the state gets involved you end up getting real slimy characters--actually I guess they all are slimy. He didn't want me to say anything that would compromise the case. I understand that, but I would have come off looking like a complete idiot if I just sat their silently. He said, “Just sit there and don't give them anything to go on.”

“But,” I said, “they just want to know what kind of state I am in.” Nope, he didn't want me to tell her anything; but I told her what she wanted to hear and told my lawyer that I didn't say anything. So, yeah, before the trial started, my lawyer not so much, but the state, they wanted to decide if I was crazy. That's not how they said it, but I knew that's what they meant. I told my lawyer, “What can it hurt?” and he said, “Most people would rather be in jail than in a psychiatric hospital.”

I guess a lot of people get killed and commit murder, but to them, there was something different about me. They kept me segregated from everyone in a cell all the way at the end of the jail. When they brought me in the first time, all the lights were off and I couldn't see anything. Once inside there, all I saw was a brick wall outside the cell and bricks on the inside. Actually it was quiet and sort of nice. The bed was hard; I liked that. Having to use that toilet: no. They brought me food three times a day and I got to sleep all day. Really, it wasn't so bad.

People, I think, have a hard time with confinement. No freedom, no power to do anything. Me, well, I never took advantage of that before. It was actually quite nice to be there and not have to think about anything and decide anything. Twenty three and that was the first time in my life that I was relaxed. I ate the bad food and drank rusty water; slept all day and I didn't cough or miss cigarettes. The guard that brought me food, he was a real redneck though. He would say, “Here's your food, boy,” and kind of chuckle like I was being punished. “You're in for it now, boy,” he would say and I would ask why; he never answered.

They kept me in the cell and the only people I saw besides the guard was my lawyer, the state and her. The lawyer never really said anything. They have a way of arranging words to make nothing look like something. “We are filing papers to postpone the trial,” he told me one time. He said, “To get a more sympathetic judge.” You can only laugh at things like that. Why would I have got my hopes up then? I said, “Maybe this is what I want,” and he said, “Maybe you are crazy.” He was a nice enough guy. I don't hate lawyers.

The state, no, they didn't ask anything. It was almost just so that the prosecution could get a look at me. Her, oh, but her, that was something else. The guard, the redneck, he would open my door and say, “Stay there,” like I was ready to bolt for freedom. Yeah right. Then, each time, he would take out his little club; each time I would say, “You don't need that?” He'd chuckle, “Huh, don't I?” He would handcuff me, lead me out a side door and--light, blinding light in my face and before I knew what was what I was in a van and traveling.

Of course I knew where I was going, but I could see anything back there. I'm not stupid; but that whole thing was sort of confusing: going from darkness to light; my own thoughts back into the world. The ride wasn't that bad, but then when we got to her office, they had to open the back; lead me out like a bull-=all the people there would look at me. Okay, I don't get self conscious too often, but there, in that situation you couldn't blame me. People, each time they looked like animals: you know, something you are not familiar with; they would just look at me, the same way, with their mouths open.

But then, they brought me in, and up an elevator and passed a secretary. Why bother remembering the way and the floors and the door numbers. He brought me right up to her door passed the others waiting and it had her name written in bold black: Dr. So and So. She might get mad at me if I used her name. Psychiatrist. Before then I didn't know the difference; one of the first things I said to her--asked was, “What's the difference between a Psychiatrist and a Psychologist?” She was funny, she said, “You see a Psychiatrist when people think you are crazy.” I asked her, “When people think you are?” and she said, “Yeah, other people.”

There is something about women in suits for me. I don't know if that is some perverse Freudian, subconscious thought and I want to have sex with men, because I like the way suits look on women, but I like the way they look. It just looks professional and at the same time woman almost always look kind and soft. It's comforting. She wore her hair straight and parted on the left; it came over her forehead like a curved triangle and fell over her ears. Her face was-not slender and thin, but almost classical, the way they made the grail maiden look in all the King Arthur movies--or maybe I just pictured her that way.

She was well formed I guess, and I don't know if it was that I hadn't been with or seen a girl, close up for so long: a year, but to me she was angelic. He hair was brown, but more of a black and her eyes were brown and sort of black; her lips were wide and long and round. She fit together very well and her arms and legs had that womanly thinness that isn't sickly, but slender and her hips were larger than her waist and they bowled down to her knees and her breast were probably perky--I'm getting carried away; but you have to understand it's been a long time. She was beautiful. “You see me when society thinks you are crazy,” she said.

I liked her instantly. That is a good trick. If people like the looks of you and the sound of your voice, it doesn't really matter what you do. I know, that, well I think, that if I was paying her, out of my pocket, regardless of what we talked about, I would have been happy just to look at her, you know? Her office wasn't feminine at all though: mahogany, leather, dark seats and chairs and couches. She had some kind of ebony wood table. Behind her desk was a book shelf: filled. I was there a long time; I didn't see anything I would have ever read.

Curtains though. I know three things about women and their houses or offices. The three things women would do: put out flowers and candy; change the curtains. That might sound like I'm calling every women my grandma. That's not what I mean. Actually I think most women would change the wall colors if it wasn't always such a big hassle. What I mean is that women are for the most part kind and inviting; they say a lot about themselves in their surroundings. I felt like she was sort of held back, like she wanted to keep up a reputation or something. That office looked like a man's office and she was no man, I can tell you that.

She didn't even have candy out on the table. It says a lot. There weren't any pictures on her desk. She wasn't that old either, maybe four years older than me. That could be why: still had to earn respect. The first thing she really asked me was, “Why did you do it?” This was after she got my name, age, weight, etc; if I was on medication, drugs. The first thing she asked was why I did it and I said, “I just did it.”

I remember it, she was sitting in one of those tall backed chair with a notepad on her lap and a pen in her left hand; she was tapping it against her lip. She had her legs crossed and just looked at me. I was sitting on this couch, handcuffed like an animal, with the redneck outside in case I lost it. I felt pretty crummy. I mean, okay, I killed someone, but I'm not an animal. She said, “I know you did it, but I want to know why. What were the reasons?”

Well, then I felt all the indecisiveness in me saying, “Don't say anything-say it-no-yes-better to- better not to.” I ended up not saying anything and she moved on. She asked, “Was it a good thing or a bad thing to do?” Again, the choices piled up and I just shook my head like an idiot; she must have thought of me as one then. She kept asking questions like that: why, who, what, when, where, why, like she was a reporter. She repeated what the cops had found at the warehouse and all of that and read out my statement after. I just said, “I did it.”

She got frustrated. It was funny, all at once, she went from being real cold to angry. She sort of yelled, “Listen, what do you think I am trying to do. I am trying to help you.” Man, that hit me like a wall and I said, “I'm sorry, I just don't know what to say.” Pretty woman. She smiled and said, “Just tell me the truth.” She said, “I am your friend--as close to anything like a friend you have now.” I asked her, handcuffed, “What does it matter; what are you trying to do?” She said, “Just like I said, 'See if you are crazy or not.”

“What's better,” I asked her and she told me, “Now, in my opinion, if you were crazy. This is your first offense of any kind. Everyone that knows you speaks kindly of you. It seems, on paper, like you had one momentary lapse--” I cut her off and said, “I know what I did.” She said, with a snap, “Lapse! Of judgment. Now, the reason why this happened and the condition of your mind are of great pertinence: relevancy.”

“I know what it means,” I said, “but what would be the benefit of being a crazy murderer instead of a murderer.” I said it like a joke and it caught her off balance. “Death isn't funny,” she said. I rubbed my face on my shoulder and said, “Well, I think a lot of things are funny that people think are serious and a lot of things people think are funny, to be serious matters.” She asked me, “Like what?” and I said, “I don't know: how people live their lives, ethics, morality, virtue.”

“You killed your father,” she said. I told her, “I think I did the right thing.” Her voice heated up and she closed her mouth; the room got silent and I said, “I think I did the right thing.” She said, “Unfortunately, you don't get to decide what is right and wrong in the world.” I started to get a little irritated then and blurted back, “I'm not crazy.” She smiled and said, “Most crazy people say they aren't.”

I calmed down and took a breath. That day the handcuffs were really bothering me. I told her, “Catch twenty two.” She put down the pad of paper and asked, “What?” I said, “You're crazy if your say you are crazy; but a crazy person wouldn't know he was crazy.” She gave me a strange look and I said, “I can't win either way, but you know what, I am glad for what I did.” She asked me to explain and I said, “Forget it, I am glad and I don't regret it. I never felt better in my life.”

That was it that day. She asked me a bunch more questions that didn't really matter. I think it is probably some technique: get me comfortable with her. I already was though. I might have even been--no, that's just me being dumb. She didn't have to earn anything from me though. It wasn't that I didn't want to tell her, it was that I didn't exactly know how. Understand? The redneck took me back into the hall, past the secretary, down the elevator, outside and to the van, in the sun; passed everyone outside. The redneck kept one hand on my shoulder and one on his club.

I asked him that time, “Why, I'm not going to do anything?” He laughed, “Righty, boy.” The sun was up towards noon and it dulled in my eyes just before he pushed me into the back; I saw it for a second. They brought me back (I don't think the redneck drove; but I never saw the driver) and I was locked back up, fed, and I laid down: took a nap. I didn't sleep there, never for more than a few hours. I would sleep for a bit, wake up and just think of nothingness so that I wasn't sure if I was sleeping or not.

I was relaxed and calm. I guess, a person then would have had a lot of fears: what is going to happen; how long will I be in prison; what am I missing out on; what have I never done? I didn't feel that. I would lay on the cot and think, not of the past or the future; not really of anything. Just relaxed and took deep breaths. I figured, “It's all done and said.” You know, I could have lived alone in the wild. Funny. She was in my head though.

I can't say whether I fell asleep or just drifted off, but in the morning the redneck came and gave me a tray of breakfast and I asked his name. He said it was Joe; I didn't really have anything to say about it. I asked him if he could leave my handcuffs off when we got to her office. He said no. Now that I think of it, I can't really remember everything so well: going here and there and the words passed between us; I didn't care.

I sometimes now, not always, but sometimes think of that time and can't remember the small things. Yeah, I can remember just about every word (convenient that we're talking about it); but not what kind of food it was that I ate. Well, like I was working at, the next day, the day I asked Joe Rednecks name, we went back to her. Same way, all the way up to her office; when we got to the door with her name written in bold black, I asked, “Can't you take the cuffs off?”

“Yeah, right,” Joe said. I went in and he waited outside. I wondered what he thought about. Yeah, I know. I don't think it's a normal thing to think of, but look at it like this: I was in their getting my head examined by her and what was he doing? Sitting in an office, waiting, next to a bunch of other people that were there to get themselves looked at. When you went in, all the chairs were there in the lobby, lined up, magazines on the table to waste time; people sitting there, thinking of what? Probably what was wrong with them, but what did Joe think of? I know if I was in the lobby there I would start to think of what was wrong with me even if that wasn't the reason I was there.

That second day she wore a blue dress. I saw it and wasn't sure if it was her. I came in and she was looking out her window. The blinds: curtains were open and I couldn't see her face. Light surrounded her on all sides. She was looking out into the parking lot. I asked her, “What are you looking at?” as I entered. I should have knocked (handcuffs--Joe should have knocked instead of just opening the door). I surprised her and she said, “Oh,” and closed the shades quickly. That made me strain my neck out to see if there was anything out there.

She motioned at the seat: the couch and I leaned down awkwardly. I felt like a criminal in those cuffs. I sat with my shoulders bunched up; said, “You know, these are really uncomfortable.” She nodded and picked up a pad from her desk. She took a pen out of a drawer: a really cheap pen and the bottom was chewed. Okay, she sat down opposite to me. I asked her, since I was nervous, “Aren't you afraid to do this?”

“Do what?” she asked, looking up from the pad. “You know,” I said, “have to meet all these criminals every day.” She asked me, “Everyday?” I stuttered, “Oh, well, I assumed--” She interrupted, “Assumed what?” I said, “That, since you are with me, you do it all the time?” She shook her head; her lips moved a little and she said, “No, not hardly ever.” I said, “Well, why me?” I looked down at myself: my clothes were dirty. I wore the same junk that I was brought in with; I hadn't showered in days (days before everything). She didn't answer. All she said was, “Why not?”

I shrugged and she, sort of looked mad. I didn't know why and--you know, I heard some women like when you ask that; but I once heard a girl say that it makes a man look like a girl if he asks. I thought about that and instead of asking her, just kept my mouth shut. She said, “You're pretty young.” I shook my head, “No, not...” She smiled and said, “Younger than me.”

I said, “You don't look old at all,” and stuttered, “They don't let us shave.” She only nodded. After flipping over a couple of pages she asked, “Can I ask you a question?” I nodded and she said, “Tell me whether this situation--the person in this situation did the right, or wrong thing.” I said okay and she continued, “A man stole twenty dollars from his mother.” I said, “What did he steal it for?” She shook her head, “No, that is all you know, he stole it.” I sighed, “Well, I guess he was wrong.” She wrote something and asked, “A woman leaves her baby at home to go for a walk.” I said, “Well, is there anyone else home?”

“No,” she said, “no one is home.” I asked, “How long was she gone.” I saw that my questions were getting her frustrated and I said, “Wrong.” She looked up and I said, “Wrong.” She wrote something down again and asked, “Okay, a man's dog went to the bathroom inside, so he beat it.” I said, “Wrong.” She said, “A woman walks around naked outside,” and I said, “I guess that's wrong too.” She looked up and said, “No questions?” I shrugged, “No, seems wrong.” She kept writing.

“What's the point of this?” I asked. She sighed, “Just asking. One more question. What is the difference between right and wrong?” I thought about it and she kept writing, looking up. While I was thinking, I just looked up at her dark eyes. She asked again and I said, “That's a hard question.” I think then that she thought I was stupid, because she gave me a look like I was beneath her, like, 'I can't believe a person is dumb enough to say anything like that,' but, it's true. Good and bad aren't easy things to say outright.

I had spent a lot of time in my life thinking about the differences between good and bad; what they meant; what they were. Yeah, maybe I still couldn't say what each was, but I thought I knew the difference. All I said was it was a hard question. She was that kind of girl though. I said, “Don't look at me that way. It's a hard question.” She asked why and I said, “Because everyone has a different opinion of what is right and wrong, so depending on who you're talking to, the difference is only the people.” That made her think and I said, “So, what is right to me might be wrong to you; and the other way around.”

She thought and said, “Well, Willy, what is good and bad then?” I said, “Call me William, Willy makes me sound like a pig farmer.” She smiled and I said, “That's a hard question.” I thought about it, but didn't really know what to say. I said eventually, “That's hard to explain, why is it so important?” She told me it was just a question, but I think she was trying to understand something about me--I know it, what am I saying? She wanted to know if I could tell the difference between good and bad, but I didn't say anything about it to her.

I was standoffish and she was cold. “Why don't you tell me about your childhood?” she asked “I don't like thinking about it, I don't remember it,” I said. “That's not true,” she told me. I said, “How can you know?” and she bent down in her chair and looked at me; the area around her eyes grew dark and she said, “You don't have much time left: seven days they say. You need to help me help you.” I said, “How can you help me?” She leaned back in her chair and said, “To find the answers and the right place for you to be.” I said, “I'm going to prison.”

“I wouldn't want to be a disturbed person in prison or a normal person in a psychiatric ward,” she said. She told me that her word was going to help everyone figure out where I would be and how to go about the trial. She said that it could be good for me to learn about why I did what I did. I said, “I know exactly why I did it,” and she asked me to tell it, but I didn't want to. Then though, I felt bad. I guess she was just doing her job and I wasn't making it any easier.

I think it would have been better if she was old. I don't mean for her to be a hundred, just older; maybe a man. I didn't like telling someone I thought was beautiful: someone I liked, about my life. I never liked my life and I never did anything that was impressive. If she had been a fifty year old man: big gray eyebrows and wrinkles, balding with a fat nose and dry cracked lips, it would have been better. I mean, telling a person like her embarrassing things about yourself was about the worst thing I could imagine, because not only does she look at you different, you know, that she knows, something about you when you will never know anything about her to balance it out.

I didn't want to talk to her about my past. If someone said, 'Tell me about your past,' where do you even start? The beginning, the end, the middle, with the worst things, the best things? Should I tell it like a story or break it up? I was thinking about that and trying not to look at her eyes because they made my stomach jump. She said, “Just tell me whatever you are comfortable with, whatever you want.” But I was thinking about her and how to begin. Maybe I never did too much in life, but I had enough to say, I think.
She checked her watch: a thin gold one; I didn't look at it though. I watched her wrist and her mouth. I had probably only been there for ten minutes and the cuffs were killing me--who knows how long I was there for. They didn't tell me anything like that. I figured, 'Might as well say it,' you know? But I think it is hard to get a real good idea of a person from a few days. It's hard to talk about yourself and not look like you're conceited.

She was waiting, and I was looking at her and thinking and I sort of figured out everything I wanted to say. I'm not going to lie to you, there were somethings I didn't say: things you wouldn't say especially to a girl. Guys know what I mean. Since I hardly thought of the past it all came slow and seemed strange; but I had it all lined up and when she asked if I was going to speak, and looked up at me with her dark eyes, I said, “Yeah, I'll start from the beginning...”

I said, “I don't know how people normally do this--I don't like talking about the past or myself.” She nodded and I said, “I guess the first thing I remember was a dream.” She made a note and I went on, “A dream, and I don't know how old I was when I had it, but it was my first--is my first real memory. There is no shape or anything, no people, no place or time. I don't even see myself in it. All I see is this weird triangle-oval kind of shape: kind of like a stingray (but not) and it is flying through something really soft. That's it, and I feel like I'm trying to chew something, but it is just really soft and chewy and I can't. That's it. I never knew what it meant. Still don't.”

She looked up and said, “It could mean many different things. Tell me a little more if you want.” I thought and smiled and said, “You know, it's hard to say what is a real memory and what you just saw or heard.” She asked me what I meant and I said, “Well, when it's a memory, you know, it's yours and you put it in your head.” She looked at me like I was a little stupid and I said, “But, if someone shows you a picture, or tells you a story, then, somehow, your mind begins to pretend it happened.”

I watched her write and said, “Like my mom had this picture of me sitting at one of those tables kid eat on...what are they called? I forget.” She said, “High chairs,” and I went on, “Yeah, and I was sitting in one, and eating a huge spare rib, covered in barbeque sauce. This rib was bigger than my arm and I was gnawing on it. I couldn't have been older that one and a half. I was chewing on that rib, smiling, covered in sauce. Now, I don't remember that, but there is a place in my mind that tells me I do, as if I did, when all I ever did was see it in a picture.”

“Picture memory relation,” she said. “You see and you remember. Your mind works to create and organize and understand, what has happened, but does not have a place.” I said, “Yeah, that's what I am saying, but how easy would it be to have a bunch of memories that never happened; live your life around these things, that you don't actually know. I bet I have hundreds.” She made a note and said, “That is true. So, do you have any memories that are yours?”

Now, look, I really, really didn't want to talk to her, but like I said, I had to, so I did. I told her probably more about myself that anyone ever knew. I said, “When I think of that time in my life, I kind of feel like that was who I was.” She asked what time and I said, “When I was young, really young, four and five.” I said, “I looked better: blonde, bluer eyes, skinny, soft skin. I was always joking and laughing. I was carefree then, you know. After that time, I don't know who I turned into. I never thought about things then, but I was more like myself than ever.”

She nodded along, making her little secret comments and I said, “I only remember four or five things from that time that I think are worth mentioning. I could say the things that don't matter, I guess, like pretending crackers and cheese were a phone, my first Christmas, my first day of school. None of that mattered to me. I don't have a place for any of those things, I just know they happened.” She said, “That's fine, just tell me whatever you want,” and she looked at the window and the blinds.

The first memory I have, that I thought was worth remembering, was my first kiss. She asked me, “You had your first kiss when you were that young?” I said, “Well, it wasn't a make-out session: just a quick peck.” She said, “You must have been pretty sociable back then.” I thought, “Not sure, I suppose. I remember it: I lived in a trailer park and there were trailers, you know, on all sides and next door lived a girl. Her name was...oh, um, Stacy...no, Stephanie. Stephanie and I don't remember anything else about her, even though we were probably like best friends.

“She had a swing set outside her house and we were sitting on the back porch which was really just the concrete foundation. I don't remember what we said, but, I think it was probably like, 'Have you ever kissed a boy; no? I never kissed a girl. Want to try it?' I remember leaning in; she had her eyes closed, mine were open and I remember the smell of her breath: wet, like sweat, but not sour. We kissed and that was it.” She asked, “That was it?” and I said, “We looked at each other-you know, I don't think kids really think kissing is gross. It's probably just that the only knowledge they have of it is their parents and that is gross.”

I kept on talking, “They see their parents kiss, get sick of it and so they think it is gross and have to put on a show. I kissed her and we looked at each other. There was nothing sexual you know, it was just curiosity. Then, like we had parts in a play, we both stood up and said, 'Ew, gross, sick,' and ran off. I don't remember anything else about her though. Her mom's name sounded like money. That was my first kiss and it was years and years before I had another.”

She asked me to tell more and I said, “This was all when I was four or five; I don't know which. I remember one time, this might sound sick or weird, but I don't think so. I was walking through the hall and I heard my mom in the bathroom. She was taking a bath. The door was closed and all, but I felt the heat from the water coming from under the door. I don't know why, but I wanted to take a bath with her. I was just four or five. I knocked and went in and I could tell right away that she wanted to be alone. You know, to be a mom; at that time she had had my sister too. She needed time.

“I didn't understand that though. I asked, 'Can I take a bath with you?' She said no, but then said yes. The water was so, so hot: burnt me, and I couldn't stand it. I wanted to cry, but I didn't want to get up. I wanted to be with my mom. I forget how long I sat in the water with her. Maybe I felt left out. I remember that though. It's hard to imagine a person twenty or so years ago and figure how they are nothing like they used to be.”

She asked what that meant and I just moved past it to another memory. I said, “I ran away once. Even when you're that young you have things you like and want. That never changes, people are taught to want from birth. I like video games: Mario. I had the first Nintendo, but, at about four or five the super Nintendo came out and I wanted it. We didn't have enough money I guess. Well, some kid that lived maybe three streets above me, he had it. I don't know how I knew him. I couldn't tell you his name either. Even then I don't think I knew it.

“Something happened and I forget if I got mad at my mom, or I just said, 'I'm going to go play Super Nintendo,” but either way, I left my house without telling her and went to his. For about four hours I played and I was having a great time not thinking about anything. Well, I heard a knock on their front door. Trailers have thin metal door and screens and that's the kind of knock it was: stopped and diluted. I knew it was her and was scared.”

She listened and I said, “My mom came in and started yelling at me. I remember I pushed myself into a closet or behind a bed and hid from her, screaming that I hated her and that I didn't want to go back. I don't know why. She dragged me out and back to our house and threw me into my room; took my sister out of her crib. She said, 'Wait 'till your dad gets home.' I sat there for hours, afraid, in the dark; then I heard my dad's truck and him coming through the front door. I couldn't hear what my mom said to him, but I heard him say, 'What!' and laugh.

“He came in and said, 'You were bad today?' Then he spanked me. I don't think he hit me hard; I don't think he even wanted to spank me, but I cried and screamed because it was the first time it happened and I didn't understand what had happened.” While I talked, she sat in her chair that looked like it was left by some old shrink. In her dress...or maybe it was a skirt, she sat with her legs crossed in the double feminine way where the left foot wraps back around the right leg and hides behind the calf. She didn't comment, just asked me to go on and say more as she wrote on her little pad with her chewed pen.

I said, “That was almost it for that time of my life. I remember other things, in pieces, like I said: Christmases, swimming, learning to read. I remember this black lab and smelling its wet hair; people; playing tag; my uncle; a bell in my grandma's house that my head touched when someone held me by the door; her food; shows I liked; being a brat. I was a brat and complained and always had to have my way. That all changed though. I remember my sister and how much I hated and lover her at the same time, even though she never did anything wrong to me. I remember looking at her face from my bed when she was reaching her little hand to me from her crib.”

I said, “I remember pieces, but not much more. We moved after that fifth year, after my first year of kindergarten, but there is one more thing.” She asked me to tell it as she made a line, sort of drew it with finality on the paper though I couldn't see it. I said, “There were hundreds of trailers in the park and to the east of it all was a woods. I say it's a woods even though it was probably only an acre. When you are young, that is a forest. There were trees and dead leaves and no one was allowed there. That's all I remember about that, but for some reason I decided to go into it.

“I didn't want to go alone though, so, I woke up one day and put on my jeans and shirt and shoes; tied them and I think left without telling anyone. Trailer parks are not safe places. I started towards the woods but I didn't want to go alone. For some reason; I don't know how I knew the two kids or how I knew where they lived, but I went to their trailer. I knocked on the door and there was a grunt. A grunt and a voice that said, 'Open the door,' like there was something stuck in the throat.

“I opened the door and sitting on the coach was this giant woman. Maybe I was young and she looked bigger because of it, but I think the woman had a thyroid problem because she was covered in fat and just sprawled out on the couch like a whale. She had those breathing tubes on her nose too. I said, 'Is so and so here?' Who knows how I knew them. The mom moaned out, 'So and So, come here,' and I remember seeing the two oddest looking kids come around the corner of the living room. One of the kids was skinnier than me: skinny as a blade of grass and he had asthma problems (he carried an inhaler in his hands) and spoke with a whine and rasp.

“But the other one, his brother, was worse. He was fat and sort: really fat (I don't mean to be rude, but that's how I remember him) and he was sick too; carried around one of those oxygen tanks and just like his mom had the tubes hooked up to his nose. These were not the best kids to pick on a mission to explore the woods, but I picked them for some reason. We left and I didn't tell them where we were going. I just said, 'Follow me,' and I led them to the woods, as the short fat one pulled his air tank and the skinny one whined and struggled to breathe.

“We got to the woods and went in. I remember everything was dark. All things are dark in my memories. The trees were tall and shadowed the ground. I could see the sun and I might be tempted to think it was sunset. After a little walking, the three of us heard a growl. I remember looking up and seeing ahead of us a wolf: white and as tall as me standing on all fours. We were frozen. Was it a wolf; I don't know but it might as well have been because that's how it growled.

“The three of us just stood there and the wolf growled and took a step closer. We stood and it came closer: step and another step. Then it stopped, growled and jumped. Now, I turned and ran as fast as I could (I was fast). I didn't look back. I ran, and never stopped until I got home. I went in and said hi and nothing else. I never saw those two kids again, but now that I think back about it, it seems sort of funny. Worse, I mean, really mean. I ran and left the two behind: one couldn't run to save his life. I picture him breathing his inhaler, running from that wolf or dog; the fat one, him carrying his tank and chugging along. For all I know they could still be standing there afraid, twenty four years old; but I don't know why any of it happened. I know that I never thought about them again though and never really thought about them until now.”

She wrote something down and gave me a smile: half false and half true and her lips were a little wet. She was a beautiful woman. The shrink looked down at her watch and said, “Well, there is not much time left for today. Before you go, can you tell me a little about your mother?” I asked her what she wanted to know and she said, “Just whatever you want to say: what kind of person was she.”

I said, “It's hard to figure a person on a whole. I always believed you are what you are. Sometimes I hear people say, 'He was a good man, but a bad lover. She was a sweet woman, but a conniving girlfriend.' I never believed that was true. If you are a good person, really, you should be good in every other way. I don't think people can be truly good or truly bad anyways, but--so maybe a person can be sort of good and bad together in a lot of different ways. Maybe people are just people and that is what they are; how they act.”

She said, “Okay, well, just tell me a little about her.” I smiled and moved my hands in the cuffs. I said, “My mother, and maybe I'm biased because she was my mother, but she was a good woman.” She gave me a strange look and I said, “Yeah, she was about as good of a person I ever met. I know--I have heard a ton of catholic guys say, 'Oh, my mother is a saint,' but that was just because they had that special bond. I'm sure, half of the time, the mother wasn't considered a saint by some guy walking down the street you know?” She nodded and I kept saying, “My mother though, she was.”

I was babbling, “I don't say that just because she gave birth to me and took care of me and fed me. I say it because I never met a less selfish person in my life. My mother was as selfless as you can get.” She asked me how and I said, “I remember one time, when my mother and me and my brother and sisters were living in a motel--we had no where else to go. We were living in a motel and we had no money or food. I went for a walk and she ordered a pizza for everyone to eat: probably the last cash she had.

“I wasn't eating much and was too worried to really digest anything. I went for a walk and when I came back, she had this sad look on her face. I asked her, 'What's wrong?” and she said, “A young kid, he was digging in the trash over there.” I asked how old he was and she said he was twenty or so. She said, 'I felt so bad. He asked me if I had any food to give him. William, I gave him three slices of our pizza. I shouldn't have done it. Now we have less to eat, but he was starving.'

“That was the kind of woman my mother was, she would give away her last dollar; take the food from her children to help a person she didn't know. At the time, I was a bad person and I probably thought it was the wrong thing to do, like a lot of people would. That was the kind of person my mother was. She cared about everyone; would do anything to help anyone. She was a saint because she never did something to get something. She never wanted to do anything but help someone else. Most people are only in life for themselves and what they can get. My mom wasn't though.”

She was writing and I said, “She would cry when she saw a homeless person, but it wasn't because she felt bad about them. She didn't pity them and say, 'They have had such hard lives.' No, she cried, because she knew there was nothing she could do to help them. I never met a person less selfish than her. She told me once that she wanted to take us all to Africa and work for Green Peace. I thought she was losing her mind and maybe she was; but she was a person that would help someone else before she helped herself. That could have been her problem, but that isn't really a problem.

“You know, the world really beat her down. Not the world, but mankind. Mankind really beat her down and turned her into what she became. If she had a different life; had a different fate, I could imagine her as a nun, working in a small village, taking care of the children whether they were black or white; Asian or Latin. I just can imagine her in the habit, or linen clothes sitting with the kids on the dirt ground, talking to them, holding them; giving them hope.

“Maybe she would have been a princess: a great, kind, symbol. She used to be pretty too, before the world messed her. I don't like talking about this. She, my mother, was the greatest person I ever met and I have never met one better. I know that if I met her, on the street, I would think the same thing.”

Chapter Two

I told her that was the first part of my life. They took me back to the jail and Joe laughed at me while he put me into my cell. I'm glad that there was no one else in there. He said something to me like, “You're going to get it,” but I just told him to shut up in sort of a childish way. The same as the day before, I lied down and thought of her and ate the food they brought me without tasting it. I was beginning to miss music and cigarettes.

They brought me the next day to her for the third time. Third time and I guessed then four more days were left. I didn't think of the trial too much. I didn't understand how long you usually waited for a hearing; if I was going to be sentenced or tried or what the order was: I'm not a lawyer. I didn't bother finding out either. I didn't ask my lawyer any questions and he got short answers from me.

I saw her though on the third day and she wore a bluish suit and her hair was combed the same way; she had a new planner or address book on her desk: black leather. It didn't look like her's and so when Redneck Joe let me in and waved to her; when I saw it, I asked, “You must like leather.” I had a smile on my face and meant it only in joke, but she looked over at it and just shrugged. I wondered, after I sat down what she wore at home. You know, did she have pajamas with cartoon characters, or shorts or flannel or her father's old shirt?

I wanted to ask who she was trying to impress, but that would have been really rude. I hated the cuffs. It made me feel like such criminal; but I had no choice. She wrote something down and checked her book; took out the pad of paper she used for me and a bitten pen. It looked like she had some questions written down (I couldn't see) because she sort of pointed at the paper with her pen as if they were in bullets and rows. She said to me without really looking, or saying hello, “You said yesterday, 'It was the first part of my life.'” I said, “Yeah, hi, by the way.”

She looked up and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Hello,” she said, controlled. I told her, “Yeah, when I think of it, all that stuff yesterday was the first part of my life.” She asked, “Like a chapter?” I nodded and she said, “Like a book then. Is life like a book to you?” I asked, “With a beginning and end and parts?” She tilted her head and thought, “Perhaps, but I meant do you think life is all lined up and set?”

To me, I tell you, that was an interesting question. I had thought about it a lot. Now, I didn't have an answer that I could say was true, but I liked the thought. She asked that and I said, “Yeah, I do.” She wanted me to explain and I started to get ready to, but instead of wanting to look like a smart ass, I said, “It would take so long to explain it in details. I just think that people always do what they want to do and they do what they think they want and in situations they will always do the same thing. So, if a guy likes candy, he is going to eat candy, and unless he thinks into the future and sees in might rot his teeth he won't stop.”

She made a note and I said, “Like that guy that got killed over a coke.” She laughed and quickly covered her mouth. I said, “Ever hear about it?” When she said no, I started to tell her. “There was this guy,” I said, “and he went to a party. It was just a regular party: no beer or drugs. He went in, said hello to the guy that invited him and went to the cooler; it was in the center of the room apparently. Now, he opened the cooler moved away some ice and saw there were only two kinds of soda: sprite and coke. He liked coke and there were three there, so he took one.

“Little did this guy know, but two more people came and took the last two cokes. There was only sprite left then. So the party is going on and everyone is standing around, listening to music, talking; having a great time, when through the door comes this guy. Who knows his name, but he was messed up: drugs, probably drunk and unstable to begin with. A pure madman from what I heard. He walks into the party, passed the people and right to the cooler.”

She was listening along to what I said. “So,” I told her, “he opens the cooler and sees all the sprite: twenty or more since not too many people like sprite. This crazy guy looks around the room, sees the man with the coke and loses it. The guy with the coke looks over and sees the madman running at him with a knife. He screams, the madman is yelling, the people are freaking and wondering what is going on. Gash, gash, gash, the insane guy kills him and takes his coke. The guy died because he happened to have a coke in his hand.”

She doubted, “That's true?” I said, “I don't know, but the point is there.” She asked me, “Bad luck?” I shook my head and said sort of laughing, “No, it's that, the guy that died, of course would never have taken the coke if he knew someone was going to kill him over it; but since he didn't know, every time in that situation he would have taken the coke and ended up dead.” She said, “Oh,” and I said, “I think people can do whatever they want and have power over their fate, but they don't use it. Instead of thinking, they just do what they think they want and are really slaves in the end. But I'm not talking about soda, you know.”

She asked, “Do you have control over the things that happen in your life, or are just following what happens in the book?” She smiled at me and her words reminded me of something. I said, “Did you get that from the Myth of Er?” She didn't know what I was saying and I didn't want her to feel dumb since I knew something she didn't. I said, “It was this story, from Plato, and it was about the after life and how everyone, at some time gets their reward or punishment for life.” I said, “There is a part where the souls pick out their future lives and they get to read them like a book.”

“Like a book?” she asked. Her face made me smile. I said, “It's funny, because in the story, all the lives get set out in front of the souls: millions of them. There are really like an infinite amount so you could have any life you want. You have all the time to pick too, so you could go through each one until you find a perfect life. That is an option: a perfect life. What happened was, though, that a soul would start reading lives and when they came to one that looked good; seemed good, they would pick it right there and not look anymore or read on.

“So, a soul would come to a part in a life where they would become a great soldier for instance and would be given land and power and gold; people would honor them and statues would be built in their name. They would say, 'That's good,' and pick the life. Then, when their lives started and they got passed that part, if some bad thing would happen like they would get sick, or someone would die, or they would go into poverty, they would look up at the heavens and curse the stars saying, 'Oh, what ill fate.' It's funny because each soul picked their life; had choice and power over it. They lacked foresight I guess and that was what brought their pain: themselves.”

I was looking at her eyes and I said, “Kind of like life. I think people can make choices, but they don't look into the future, they don't read the book, you know?” She said, “So, is this the life you chose?” I said, “I guess so.” I had nothing else to say and she wrote in her pad. After a little while of me sitting on the chair, moving my hands back and forth she asked, “Tell me, what kind of person are you?”

I could only laugh. I said, “That is another hard question. You ask a lot of those.” I could tell that all my talking was bothering her, so instead of doing the right thing and just telling her what she wanted to hear, I kind of pushed her. I said, “What about you, what kind of person are you?” She said, “This isn't about me, William.” I lifted my eyes open and she put the pad down on her lap and sighed. She touched her face and said, exhaling, “I am twenty eight. I graduated from the University of Florida. I have been a psychologist for three years. I am not married. I have a ca--”

She stopped and looked at her hands. They were long and thin, but feminine and soft; her nails were chewed. I said, “It's hard.” I knew she wasn't going to tell me anything personal or like it. I figured no matter what things I said about myself, she wasn't going to open up. To me, it wasn't fair; but it wasn't the real world. In the real world people have to do a little give and take. I was just a prisoner and she was just some woman doing her job.

I said, “I never did anything worthwhile. I think I have, but never anything in the world like people do. I never traveled, or had great relationships. I'm kind of a dark person: was when I was younger.” I didn't want to say anymore. She asked again and I said, “Later on, after what I said earlier, for a bunch of different reasons I was depressed. Twelve or a little older. Thirteen I think I was. I remember sitting on my bed and I had a knife and I held it to my stomach.”

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