moms book club.

The women gathered around Mary Tristan's kitchen table. Each held a copy of their latest fictional conquest, Dance While They Watch, a stupid novel that should only be sold at grocery store checkouts, but which they purchased in bulk from Sam's Club because Sandy Robinson had a 10 percent off coupon. It was the sort of empty, garbage novel that people leave on airplanes, or in hostels.

"I just loved how the author really seemed to...connect...with her characters," swooned Dawn Blanchette, one of Mary's neighbors who just "could not wait to join this book club!" She was the sort of woman that wasn't used to waiting around for an invitation.

"I know," replied Mary. "So interesting how the author, what's her name..."

"Isabelle Lawrence," filled in Kit Jeffries, who everyone could tell would have preferred to read Katharine Graham's memoir Personal History, which told the real story of the first female publisher of the Washington Post. When she attempted to throw the book into the running, everyone said they just wanted to have something to escape to, so Kit dropped it, knowing they meant they didn't want to feel bad about not being more accomplished themselves.

"Right, yes," said Mary, "Isabelle just seemed to really be able to jump into the reality of the story." Kit thought it was weird that they now were calling the author by her first name as if she were there and part of their little club.

"I know," cooed Dawn. "It's so hard to believe that every writer, especially one like this, hasn't just lived the lives of her characters."

"I know," chimed in Mary again. "I wish I could live all of these crazy lives, but what can you do?"

Kit sat at the end of the table where Mary's husband normally sat at dinner. She looked up at Mary's remark and decided to rejoin the conversation. "You know, we can live crazy lives if we really want to."

"Please," giggled Dawn. "My idea of a crazy life is walking up the street to Mar's here holding a bottle of wine in a paper bag in one hand and this little ditty in the other," she said, pointing to Dance While They Watch.

"Well, what does the back of the book say?" asked Jane Levinson, veering back to the book. Jane, a beautiful brunette who lived in the next neighborhood over, was invited to the group after Mary's daughter Emily became fast friends with Krissy, Jane's daughter, during an after school year book meeting. She normally didn't read books like Dance While They Watch, but thought it might be a fun exercise in doing that which you don't want to do to fit in.

"Well," of course Dawn stepped in, having already flipped over the cover of the book. It was a taupe colored cover, the title printed in cursive burgundy, with a woman's body from the waste down, in a tango position, wrapped around a man's outstretched leg.

"It says, 'Isabelle Lawrence has been hailed by the Global World Book review as 'one of the world's most popular authors, with over 400 million copies of her novels sold. Her many international bestsellers include Night Crawls, Visions of Shelby, Under the Gate, Everybody's Guest, One Week Left to Live, Elephant No More, The Bells of Churches, Afternoon Magic, Royal Wigwam, Belly Up Veronica, Sitting Alone Thinking, and the popular trilogy A Father's Daughter, A Father's Wife, A Father's Adopted Granddaughter, and other highly acclaimed novels.'"

The five women each sipped from their wine glasses taking in just how many books Lawrence had penned. Even Kit was a little amazed at the sheer ability to write that many words, despite the clear formula Lawrence employed: wealthy female protagonist meets someone/anyone, there are notions of crime, suicide, jail and fraud — and drama ensues!

"Looks like we have some reading to do!" said Sandy. "Good thing they sell these at Sam's! I don't know what my husband would do if I bought all of these full price!"

"Mine would give me a stern talking to," said Dawn a little too seriously, but then laughing, mostly from the half bottle of wine she had somehow swallowed down over the last 20 minutes of chitchat.

"Hearing all those titles makes me want to write a book," said Kit, surprisingly self-conscious all of a sudden. "Of all the things that her characters do, you think she'd write a book about an author."

"Ugh, I hate that sort of self-involved stuff. That'd be like me writing a book about being a wife and mom and trying to pass it off as if it were something special," said Dawn.

"You don't think it's something special?" asked Mary, slightly miffed.

"No, it's not that," Dawn shot back softly, in that passive aggressive tone that makes being a suburban housewife worthy of the reality TV show franchise The Real Housewives of Fill-in-the-Blank-City.

"I think what Dawn's trying to say," poked in Jane, who had been mostly quiet, not knowing her place in the book club, as it was her first meeting, "She was trying to say that it's easy to make your life seem special on the page, but in reality everyones life is pretty..." 

"...boring," finished Kit. 

"Even if you are a wealthy writer or a lawyer or a trapeze artist or whatever," qualified Jane.

After a few more minutes of lightly discussing the book, which featured a scintillating scene where the protagonist, a buxom ballroom dancer from Asheville, North Carolina, runs away from home into the arms of her father's old business partner, and they begin to tango in the middle of the streets of North Carolina, the group's thoughts on Dance While They Watch fizzled. Everyone seemed to think that was a beautiful moment, except Kit who wondered at why Isabelle Lawrence didn't specify which city in all of the state they danced, let alone on which street.

"I think it's more metaphorical than that," reasoned Dawn with difficulty. Mary nodded her head in agreement.

"Sometimes you just dance through a whole state in a moment," added Mary.

"That's ridiculous," Kit responded.  

"Well, what I think is ridiculous is that this whole thing is gone," remarked Dawn, pointing to the empty bottle of Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio she'd drunk almost entirely alone.

After the women left Mary's home, she straightened her kitchen chair cushions, vacuumed the beige shag Pottery Barn rug in her front hall atrium, and took out the recycling. Her kids, Eric and Samantha came home later from a friends house and a soccer game respectively.

Mary asked them about their days, made them a dessert snack, which consisted of sliced up apples and caramel sauce. They said thank you, and left the table without clearing it. Neither of them asked how their mom's night was. 

Kit, Jane, Dawn and Sandy each had similar experiences once they too got home. Their next meeting is in a month. They're reading Captive and Captivate by Emily Daltessi.

they laughed easily.

The coffee mug Ben finished sipping from left a ring on Kate's refurbished wooden coffee table. She had sanded it herself and after two hours at Home Depot found the right color stain to match their Goodwill end table find.

"Come on, Ben," she said, exasperated.

Kate Sanders is sort of anal about using coasters. Ben obviously isn't. Ben, a just-a-friend friend, despite her roommate Tish's insistence that there was "something there," spent a lot of time at their house. He said it was because he could just chill without the continual buzz of gnats in his ear, apparently an ever present situation at his own apartment. Ben's roommate was a filthy guy he went to college with, but didn't know very well until they both ended up in Seattle three years after graduation from Denison University in Ohio.

His roommate's name is Arnold, but everyone calls him Arnie. It's not exactly a cool guy name, but Arnie was cool. That's the thing about a name, you sort of let it own you or you own it.

"I just am who I am," Arnie would say between flipping channels on his couch. Ben would look up from whatever it was he was doing, probably looking for a clean dish in the kitchen and say, "Yeah, but who are you talking to man?"

"You," Arnie responded from the couch, probably dusting off crumbs from the cookies his mom mailed for his birthday that afternoon.

These interactions were what Kate and Tish imagined when Ben wasn't at their apartment taking up space. It was a fun pastime for them, imaging the conversations between people they knew.

Kate met Ben a few months earlier at the coffee shop she inhabited on Saturdays. He'd noticed her when he was ordering, something about that curly blonde hair, kind of a  Shirley Temple look, he remembered thinking from time to time since they met. Kate had come up to the register three times asking if there were outlets, if she needed a key to the bathroom, what the Wifi password was, you name it. It didn't take Ben long to find her charming, and after her coming in about 10:30 in the morning three weeks in a row, ordering a hot chai tea, and holing up in an available corner at Espress Yourself, he introduced himself. It had taken Kate weeks to find a coffee shop she liked, and when she finally got over the name "Espress Yourself," she never went anywhere else. "It has the perfect blend of good drinks and available chairs."

"You know, they shoud really change the name of that place," Ben said to her from the couch. He was eating frozen grapes, not doing anything much.

"No," Kate responded, offering nothing else, going back to the book she had to read for her book club. The club had a dumb name, too: Literary Ladies. This name was harder for Kate to get over, but whatever. "What's in a name?" she eventually conceded.

"Oh, ok then, I'll just go on thinking something different then..." Ben saracastically responded, quietly drowning himself out, waiting for Kate to give him the response he believed his thought to have earned. Closing her book on page 134 with the wooden book mark she'd gotten on vacation in Thailand, and sitting up straight, she groaned and went into her logic.

"I thought the same thing for a while, but I think it keeps out pretentious douches who spend all day and order one thing."

"Like you?"

"Yes, essactly like me," Kate said, smiling. "Too many of us and it's not fun anymore."

They laughed. Kate could never understand what people meant when she'd hear or read the phrase "they laughed easily with one another" until she met Ben, this Ohio-born and bred guy. It was such a stupid idea to her. They laughed easily. Vomit. It was the sort of phrase you'd here at a eulogy or a wedding. But when she met Ben, it wasn't dumb. It was nice. To her, that phrase meant she didn't have to put up the facade of thinking something was funny or unfunny when she heard it. She could just react.

"Essactly," Ben said, chuckling. "That's funny, Kate."

"Thanks," Kate said, closing her book for good. "What are you doing for the rest of the day?"

"I don't know. I could work on this grant proposal that I should have finished at work Friday — or I could just sit here and watch you read while I think my thoughts or google babies eating lemons for the first time."

"Babies eating lemons?" shouted Tish from the kitchen. She was loading the dishwasher.

"Yeah," Ben shouted back. "It's the best."

"Well, whatever you do, do it well, sir," Kate said in her dad's military-man-voice. "But, I'm done with this for today. I can't concentrate when I have puns to think of."

"Hey guys," Tish said from the living room doorway, a bowl in her left hand, a towel in the other.

"Hey lady bit," Kate said turning around.

"What're you doing today?"

"Other than absolutely nothing?" said Ben.

"We're deciding whether or not productivity is worth it today," said Kate.

"It's not," said Ben. "But, we deal. It's Saturday."

Ben picked up his mug, stood over the coffee table and walked over to the kitchen doorway making Tish step into the living room. It was one of those swinging ones. Tish had it propped open with a door stop. The hinges weren't great because the owners of the house had painted over them so many times between different renters.

"Excuse me," Ben said to Tish.

"Well, I think I'm going to go ride bikes with some people, so if you want to come, you're welcome to." Tish was sitting on the end of the ottoman near the front door by all the shoes.

"That sounds fun," said Kate.

"I love kid things," said Ben from the sink.

"Ben does that sound fun? It sounds fun."

From the kitchen, "Yeah, that sounds fun. I just said that. I mean, does it sound as fun as babies eating lemons? No, but let's do it anyway."

The three then collected in the living room, each putting on their shoes: Ben, a pair of navy blue Vans, Tish, a pair of closed toed strappy sandals from Steve Madden, and Kate, a pair of orange Converse.

"Is it OK if I leave my backpack here?" asked Ben.

"Yeah. You'll probably want to come back here after anyway," said Tish, smiling at Kate.

Glaring at her and mouthing "Please," wondering why people always make things into stuff they aren't, Kate then opened the door, and grabbed her keys from the hook.

"Shall we?" Ben asked.

"We shall," Kate said.

"Indeed, sir," Tish grinned wryly.

And the three of them bowed and curtseyed to one another.

"We are so dumb," Kate said, giggling.

Then all three of them were laughing. Tish closed the house door, and then Kate locked it.

Open Your Eyes, 2007

“It's fine,” I yelled up the stairs. “Don’t worry about the converter. I don’t need it.”

She shouted to me as I opened the door to leave something about outlets and voltage.  That was one thing I would sometimes get impatient with, all the shouting, not even anger, just loud voices; I loved her, but there was simply no way.  Outside a jet black Buick honked notifying me of its presence.

“I have to go Katy.”

The creaking wood floors beneath her soft footsteps and the smell of her as she brushed up against me for one last embrace made me want to stay, but I couldn’t.  I just couldn’t.  Again I opened our front door, which now seems not mine at all, but hers, all hers.  We painted it the day we moved in.  She told me on our first date that her favorite color was red, but not just red.  She described it with her hands, brushing through the air of my imagination a violet-red-rouge color that at the time I never knew I would one day see.  We painted our front door a year into our relationship later.  She picked it out at Inman’s Paint on the corner of Ledge and Morningside just past Don’s Finest Foods downtown.  I remember her coming home with three large cans for about six square feet.  She always knew how to make me laugh, even if it was unintentional.

That was two years ago, and we were still in graduate school at Stanford.  She was there for a Masters in Art History and printmaking.  I was finishing graduate school and beginning the strenuous process of receiving a PhD in International studies.  We met at O’Keefe’s, a local bar rarely visited by the loads of undergrad students who frequented the downtown scene.

***

She tapped on my shoulder. 

“Do you have a cigarette?”

I turned around to find a short brunette woman smiling coyly.  The freckles across the bridge of her nose danced as she smiled at me.  At that moment all I wanted was a cigarette to give her — Parliaments, Virginia Slims, anything.

“Damn, I’m sorry, I don’t smoke,” I said.  Feeling like an idiot for listening to the Surgeon General, I leaned back around to pick up my Heineken.

“Great. I don’t either,” she said taking the seat to my right. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t because man, I hate it...Hi, I’m Katy.”

“I’m James,” I said extending my hand.

And that’s how we started.  Shortly after the pop quiz we left O’Keefe’s.  It was only about 7 p.m so we strolled about looking into boutique windows and speaking about ourselves, then I walked her home.  She gave me her number and we just sort of started being a ‘thing.’  At first she was pretty anti-titles, so I never called her my girlfriend and she never called me her boyfriend.  We just sort of, were.

***

I got into the car bound for the San Jose airport to make my 10:53 a.m. flight.  That’s one thing I never could quite understand, the way flight times are — never 11 a.m. or 6 p.m., simply 1:38 a.m.  Be there or be square.  I felt so old planning my flight, taking action in the decisions I know will affect me wherever I end up ten years from now.  It’s May, and I just graduated.  I’m now Dr. James Napier.  I wasn’t trained to clean wounds or heal the lame, I wasn’t taught to listen to the problems of others or use a stethoscope.  Being a doctor of International Studies, doesn’t seem like much of a doctor job.  My specialty’s in human rights, while I mostly deal in issues of human trafficking in third world countries from Bangladesh to Laos.  Straight out of the University of Chicago where I attended undergrad, I applied to work for the United States Peace Corps in Malaysia, but I pulled out after only six months on sight.  Since then I haven’t been able to sleep through the night.  

Even after I came back to the states and started with school again, I knew I couldn’t live as an academic forever, and Katy always knew I wasn’t planning on being stagnant in California forever.

“So where are you off to?” asked the driver.

“Going to Cambodia.”  Hearing myself say it made the tiniest hairs prick up on the nape of my neck.  I was surprised that my hands weren’t shaking, but as I repositioned myself in the back of the car I rubbed my clammy palms against the soft black leather seat.

The driver’s eyes darted back at me in the rearview mirror as I said it. “Off getting yourself a tan?” he asked.

I cracked a smile and said, “I can get a tan here. No, I’ll be going there to research human trafficking.”

“Oh,” he said. That was it.  

“Have you heard of what’s going on over in East Asia at all?”

He seemed to be concentrating on the road as I tried to pry my way into his mind.  Holding the wheel with two hands he slid in and out of lanes passing the green exit signs with caution as not to miss the terminal.

“I’m sorry, what was that, sir?”

His voice seemed tired, slightly distressed and very uninterested.  Glancing out the window I starred up at the clear skies and then down at the shadows of palm trees gliding along the pavement.

“Oh, it was nothing.”

***

When I got to Cambodia it was 96 degrees and the locals were getting ready for the autumnal floods headed their way over the next few weeks.  I was stationed in the country’s capital to do most of my research through one of the NGOs I randomly picked after scanning through the list the previous spring.  I chose the Cambodian Human Rights and Development Association and when I told one of my professors of my decision to work there he told me it was the leading organization in the fight against Cambodian human trafficking.

The airport was a sea of colors and languages and music and animals.  I had never seen anything like it.  I got off the plane headed for the baggage claim along with the hundreds of other foreigners streaming into Cambodia’s singular international airport.  “Sir, sir, sir, sir!”  Those were the first attempted English words I heard people shout at me as I picked up my luggage in Phnom Penh International Airport.  I suppose my dehydrated, pallid face nearly pristine white to them gave me away as an outsider.  My pathetic attempt to disguise myself rather as an experienced traveler was clearly a failure upon arrival as my camping-styled Mountain Hardware hiking bag’s front pocket exploded with about twenty Ralph Lauren Polo socks.  Immediately I was taken up by the flood of invitations from Cambodian’s to ‘come with them’ and ended up getting a ride to a hotel around the corner from my new place of business by way of a kind gentleman named Prahsuit.  He seemed to know English well and after speaking with him for a few minutes I had found out about nearly his entire family and learned of how he had been learning English for the last fifteen years driving tourists here and there.

“Where you from?” inquired Prahsuit.

I hadn’t been expecting much conversation initially, but I answered plainly, “The United States.”

He laughed showing his rotted out gums reminding me that I hadn’t gone to the dentist myself in close to a year.  

“I know you from U.S.A., but where you from?” he continued.  “I know people who live there.”

Of course he knows people who live there. Of course, already I was the American guilty of underestimating the rest of the world.

“I’m from Michigan.  It’s close to Canada.”

“Canada?  Oh, Canada.  Not French.”

It struck me as odd that he seemed to know a little about French colonization in the Western hemisphere.  Taking out a reporter notebook I bought at Walgreen’s a few days before I wrote down the remark and placed a large star beside it.  Below it I wrote to buy an international cell phone, but in the mean time to call Katy using the hotel line.

***

“James Napier?”

A loud receptionist at the head of the waiting room finally called my name.  She said it like it was doubtful if I would actually be there or not—like they didn’t have faith that a real down on the farm Michigan boy couldn’t possibly find himself at the other side of the globe.  Maybe it was just my insecurities shouting into my psyche.

“Yes, yes, that’s me.”

She nodded her head, which carried with it a code of ‘come with me.’  I followed the tiny woman to a small, vacant room with two chairs, one desk reminiscent of post-Soviet Union classrooms, and a small window that had large steel beams cross over it.

“Your advisor will be with you in a moment.”  She left me in the room where I made myself comfortable sitting in one of the chairs.  The linoleum floors and cement block walls reminded me of my first dormitory at UC.  There were traces of foot prints and dust bunnies everywhere.  Before I could speculate more Dr. Marvin Shuckhorn preceded into what I learned was his office.

“Hello,” he said extending his large callused hand.  “So how are things so far?  You’ve been here, what, a few days?  Have you met your colleagues?  How are they?  Do you guys get along?  Are you all here for the same purpose?”

After his machinegun shoot-off of questions I was finally able to answer.

“Things so far are, well, for sure they’re different.”

“Well of course they’re different,” he said with a Santa Claus-like twinkle in his eye.  “You know it’s not USA college life out there, is it?”  He trailed off laughing at his own ‘dad joke.’

“Yeah, it’s no USA,” I said skeptically.  “Anyway, I’ve met a few people.  I noticed that this is much more of an international workplace than I had expected.  I was sort of thinking I’d be the only American in a predominantly Cambodian office.  It’s interesting for sure.”

“So you think the ‘melting pot,’ if you will, works here?  Good, I’m glad.  You know, we were a bit worried that a multinational group would lose sight of the human rights for Cambodians would be a problem.”

“No, no, it’s good.”

“Good.  Yeah, I guess it does work.  Yeah, because, hey, we’re all people here.  We all need rights, and have them, innately, that is. Hmm, so who do you have a connection with in the group so far?”

“Oh, well, I met a French woman named Marion Clair.  She’s from the town in France my sister studied in.”

“Yeah, Marion, she’s a good girl.  Very smart.  Interested in reporting human rights issues, I hear.  Good girl, yeah.  Very pretty, too, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Oh, yeah, well, she’s fine, but I have a girl at home, so,” I said.  Then trying to change the subject, I added, “So yeah, the other members are great so far too.  I met a Belgian some other Americans and a few Spaniards—yeah, we all live in the same housing complex up the road.”

“Right, ok,” he said.  Getting down to the real meat of the meeting, he said, “Now, let me see here...”

Adjusting his bifocals so they’d sit on the brim of his large nose rather than the tip where they continually fell, he said, “So, I see you’re a doctor?”

“Yeah, but not in the way you might think.  I’m a researcher.  I study human development and specialize in the human trafficking that has become a phenomenon over the past few decades.”

At this he gave me a half smile and said sarcastically one word, “Phenomenon?”

I had heard all the arguments before regarding the time period before, but I was prepared for Shuckhorn’s undoubtedly longwinded explanation of the time frame.

“Phenomenon?” he repeated.  “Let me tell you something, human trafficking is anything but a phenomenon. It’s a damn catastrophe.  I tell you, if people think major environmental disasters are a problem, think about the estimated 600,000 to 820,000 men, women, and children that are trafficked across international borders each year.  I mean, Jesus.”

At that he placed both hands on his brows.  His brown eyes darted from side to side as he meticulously calculated the amount of human suffering that must occur each day in this godforsaken world we live in.

“We live in a world where crafty businessmen think it’s their birthright to suppress the suppressible, stomp on the weak and sell the ones left over.”

As he said this I starred up from my hands which I had been cracking rapidly during his much deserved soliloquy.

“You want to see your life here researching ‘phenomenal issues’ matter?” he asked in a tone more like a statement.  “Then don’t go on telling people things that are just plain false.”

For a while we both were quiet.  I was back in my place as a subordinate to a much higher ruling party than I and was ready to receive information about my time constraints, financial measures and permanent living assessment.

“Now, you’re here to get your assignment and to explain your proposed research inquiry.  At the end of your session here you will turn in a short report regarding your position on the issue of human trafficking in Eastern Asia, in specific regard to Cambodia.”

He stopped to breathe.

“Is this clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered.  “It’s clear.”

“So, go ahead.  Explain briefly your reasons in working for the CHRD.”

I was taken off-guard.  I hadn’t realized until that very moment why I had decided CHRD, why I had decided on human rights.  I couldn’t remember for the life of me why I was there, why I felt like I needed to make a difference, why my life could impact the lives of others.  For a while, probably a few seconds that felt like a few hours we both sat in silence.  Dr. Shuckhorn’s clothing smelled unwashed and faintly of river water and sweat.  His odor made it difficult to concentrate.  Perspiration pockets built up beneath my armpits and a single bead floated down my spine dipping into the small of my back.

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “You want me to explain right now my position on trafficking in brief and give a smaller version of my research topic?”

Shifting in his seat leaning toward the open window, he said, “Yeah, if you can.  If you aren’t prepared or need a few minutes, that’s fine.”

“No, no, that’s alright.  I can explain it now,” I said.  Then it came to me.  All my ideas surged out in one big splat of an idea.  “Ok, so the United Nations has in the past put sanctions on Cambodia after various other nations have left their footprint in the Cambodian sands — well, the UN ruled under transitional authority from ’89 to ’93, but they left the country to the restored monarchy in ’94.  That said, serious sex trafficking was witnessed and reported increases after peacekeeping forces moved in and after they left.  I plan to explore the link between these peacekeeping forces like the UN and NATO and increased amount of sexual human trafficking in Cambodia, while also using countries like Bosnia and Kosovo as other examples.”

I came out like tidal wave of well-researched thoughts.

“What do you think?” I asked Shuckhorn.

“Sounds like you have a good head on your shoulders, and hopefully you’ll uncover something those other payroll researchers haven’t yet.”

With that he stood up to shake my hand and bring me out of the office.  Walking at his heels I noticed his balding blonde and grey swirl of hair on the top of his head and the sun marks like wrinkles and sunspots popped up at me.  I suppose that’s what one would look like if they lived her for the rest of their days.

“You’ll need to set up an appointment for every third of the month to check up with research and theories.  Let yourself out.  It’s been nice meeting you.”

“Yeah, you too,” I said. “Thanks for the input on ideas.  I’ll see you in a month.”

By then he was practically at the end of the hallway, but then turned around slightly to add in another tidbit of wisdom.

“Don’t forget what I said about phenomenon.”

***

I had been researching on the local trade culture regarding the deals involving slave trades or similar trades like sex trades and favors for about a month already.  So far it didn’t seem anything out of the normal in regard to the nature of selling humans for financial gains.  The UN had pulled out of the country just over a decade before and the bulk of my studies dealt with the overwhelming aftermath of their lack of paying attention, while they were in country, to the underground thriving industry of the sale of men, women and children.  According to past statements they said the ‘phenomenon’ of human trafficking in Cambodia is relatively new, although globally it has been a problem for centuries upon centuries.  The issue has come to light as a problem in the ‘90s, but very little knowledge of why it is occurring there or who is participating is known.

After reading up on the sexual exploitation of mainly women and children who live in the country region of Cambodia and their recruitment into this line of work under the guise of factory jobs I couldn’t look out my window without feeling like all of these people were victims.  Even the victimizers have their reasons for exploiting others.  It’s a cycle of country self-destruction forming from the alarming amount of poverty.  For days at a time I couldn’t read anything on the issue without throwing up in sheer disgust and pain for the abused.

***

“There’s no way I can get into the field work part of the job and have it count as ‘research’ Shuckhorn?  You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I was pissed.  After two months in country and after having read every article, book, seen every amount of video coverage and scoured the Internet for anything else I missed, the last thing I had to complete was to see it with my own eyes.

“I’m sorry James.  It’s just not part of why you’re here.”

“Not part of why I am here?  Not part of why I am here?” I was shouting now and couldn’t for the life of me come to terms with the amount of my very heart and soul I had placed in my work.

“I need to see it Marvin.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He left the sterile office from our first meeting and returned fifteen minutes later with a consent form and a visiting journalist named Brimt from Laos.

“This is Brimt, he needs someone to bring him up to speed in mini detail on the topic,” said Huckshorn, sighing in relief that I was no longer going to be at his heals begging for an opportunity to see the story I’ve been reading about before my eyes.

A week later I had filled in Bremt, no gaps without a line to fill it in.  He was just as passionate about it as I was, but perhaps less, as I did have a much stronger foothold in the topic.  We were set to leave for Battambang where sex trafficking has been known to occur and appear on and around the streets frequently.

***

“When are you going to be home James?” asked Katy.  Her connection was going in and out.  All week I had trouble getting a hold of her.  She was either working or our time zones were off or the phone simply wasn’t working.

“Home?” I said. “Yeah, home, I should be home within the next month or so, hun.  There are just a lot of new things happening every day.”

I sounded like one of those workaholic fathers that never got the chance to make it to one of their son’s soccer games.  I never meant to become that guy, but while big things are going on its easy to loose sight of certain things, no matter how important what a person may be doing at the time.

“You’re not sure then?” she said.  “Well, if you aren’t sure then I can’t figure out when to book your flight for and I don’t know if I should get you a ticket to Chicago to visit my parents over Christmas because if you do come then we have to go to Michigan because it’s your year.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m sorry Kate.  The line’s getting fuzzy and I can’t understand everything you say.  I’m getting about every third word or so.”

“O-K-well-never-mind-then,” she said slowly.  “I-will-just-get-the-tickets-late-then-if-that-is-O-K-with-you.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine. I gotta go now Kate,” I said.  “I, I gotta go.  I love you.”

“I love you too,” she answered back. “Bye.”

***

Bremt and I boarded a bus bound for Battambang the following morning.  He was to pose as a possible costumer at a local restaurant who was also looking for other types of appetite-feeding activities.  I was his uninterested friend who was married with four children, just in case anyone asked.

“Hello, do you speak English?” I asked a waitress at the front of Angkor, a well-known eatery in the middle of the city.  We would have stayed in the capital, but while I hadn’t been to every place in town, the identities of most of the employees working against trafficking are known among sellers, so we had to go outside the walls into more rural parts then into other slightly larger locations.

Entering into the restaurant was almost surreal.  One moment we were offered a place to sit and offered beverages.  As a side course the restaurant manager offered Bremt and I an added pamphlet.

“This is only for special costumers,” he said.  “Special price, just for you.”

I looked at the paper written in poor English with little consideration as to punctuation, spelling or grammar, but these were the least of my worries.  I handed the paper to Bremt.  Then I proceeded to take my camera out and take a picture with the manager, smiling and posing as though we were interested participants.

“I bring you out three ladies, and you chose,” he said.

“Oh, oh, no, no, I am not interested,” I said, “but my friend here is.”

I pointed to Bremt, who was holding the pamphlet with an eager facial expression.

“Oh, ok, I bring them out for him.”

Ten minutes later a procession of three girls, eight, twelve and fourteen years old wearing thrice recycled clothing from when I was a boy came out of the back food preparation area.

Bremt and I looked at the faces of these three children.  I took a picture of the girls without the knowledge of the manager so later someone would come back for them.  Walking out of the restaurant completely famished and aching all over in pain and  distress I got back on the bus to Phnom Penh with Bremt.  Their faces were etched in my mind, and the last thing I wanted to do after I saw their faces was leave.  I wanted to punch out the manager and raid the place in search of the multiple victims.

***

“No honey, I won’t be back for Christmas...Hello?  Shit.”

Standing in the middle of Phnom Penh in a bad excuse for a telephone booth almost two months after I left California, one month over due to return home, I realized that I simply couldn’t leave yet.  Katy and I just had our first trans-country fight.  I skulked back to where other researchers and volunteers of the foundation were standing waiting for me so we could get back to the office.

“Are you alright?” asked Marion.  “You look really upset.  I can tell, because you have those concerned eyes.  I haven’t seen them since the first day you got here.”

Opening my now quite worn Marmot backpack I grabbed one of the granola bars my mom had mailed to me earlier last week.  Food like that here was a precious commodity, but in reality I actually didn’t mind chomping on curry at every meal, or trying new things when the option arose.

“Things are fine,” I said. “— No, they’re really fine — they’re fine.”

I tried to convince myself of this as I crouched down balancing on the balls of my feet, but I kept thinking of those children in Battambang.  I rubbed the sweat beads gathering on my dusty forehead dripping down the sides of my bearded cheeks.  After I broke my razor during the orientation days I skipped shaving entirely and instead favored a pair of Crayola scissors for mere trims.

“No, it’s just, my girlfriend.  She’s there, and I’m here, and we’re not together.  And, god I just don’t know.”  I could have gone on and on like that forever.  There seemed to be no way out of this perpetual letting down process I was doing to her, myself, my colleagues and to the victims of these violations of human rights.

She bent down next to me and placed her hand on the soft spot of my back in between my shoulder blades and rubbed her hand around like a mother after a bad day.

“I’m sure everything will work out the way it’s supposed to.”

I looked to my left and caught a glimpse of sunlight coming through the splits between her straight honey-colored hair.  All I could think was that she didn’t know how hard this was.

“Don’t give me that, you don’t know what I’m even talking about,” I said standing up leaving her on the dusty side walk.

I had met Marion on my first day of orientation at the foundation.  Her French accent stuck out amid the numerous American’s, along with a few international citizens of humanity.  I had studied in France for a semester during my sophomore year of college because I was originally an International Studies and French double, but mid-way through college I switched from French to Human Relations.  Marion and I hit it off right away.  She had been working there for close to six months at the time and had already invested herself in the people and culture much more than I could have thought possible.

I could hear the racing footsteps behind me as Marion came nearer. “You know, just because you think you know everything about me and why I’m here and who I am, doesn’t mean that you actually do.”  She was out of breath and annoyed by the time I slowed down to hear her out.

“I may not know your relationship with this girl and what exactly you hoped to accomplish in a few months in one of the poorest countries in our world today, but you know what, fine,” she said, gaining momentum. “You’re an arrogant ass —”

Before she could go on and on and on, I said, “Perhaps, I don’t want to tell you everything or whatever, but you can’t just go giving advice without knowing something.  What do you know anyway?  We’re here in this country and it seems like no one cares and nothing is getting done and people are still being treated like cattle, and my girlfriend a million miles away is upset that I can’t foresee myself coming home for Christmas —”

She stopped to look at me again.  “I’m sorry,” she said.

“I just, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.  I just never thought she could be so selfish.”

Marion stood up from where she was sitting and turned toward me.

“She isn’t being selfish James.  She’s being, I don't know, a person on the other side of the world who just, just...she doesn’t know.  That’s the fault of the rest of the world, and you’re assuming she has seen everything you’ve seen over the past weeks.  You’re assuming she knows what its like to see thousands of women per day be scooped up from the streets and thrown into a situation where they’re forced to have sex or die.”

She sat back onto the curb outside a local pop shop.  Clasping her hands together and placing them on her knee caps she starred back up at me.  “She just doesn’t know James, and communication is key.  That’s why my concentration is journalism and human rights, how to get the word out in an affective manner.  People get desensitized.  They can’t help it.  If you’re not faced with it every day in a real way, then there’s nothing you can do but guard yourself against feeling.”

Putting my arms through the backpack straps I sat down next to her and didn’t say anything. Everything she was saying made so much sense.  We sat and looked out onto the street before us bustling with farmer produce, animals, juxtaposed with the honking of several Honda’s in a long polluting procession of vehicles.

“God, the third world,” I said, half-thinking to myself.

vultures.

Her name was Vanessa, and she doesn’t want me anymore. Had she ever? Every day after us I ask this question. Her hair was more blonde than strawberry; her face was pale, and she was everything. I miss her.

We were happy. It was like a disease, and it engulfed her. She had eaten us up every day for six years and now she was through — through gorging herself on our feelings, and our passion, and our sick, obsessive “us.” She didn’t want to have me anymore.

People don’t do this. They don’t talk about relationships like an insufferable meal. Even the best thing isn’t something you want every single moment of every single day. You need variety, and she stopped fighting it; she stopped fighting that urge to eat shitty take-out. 

David was shitty take-out. And she knew it. She knew it, I knew it, and she didn’t care. Because, that’s how we are. That’s how every fucking person is. If it wasn’t her, it would have been me. The truth is, it could have so easily been me eating shitty take-out. But because of how timing works, I get the benefit of being the one left. Whatever benefit that is.

I read a passage recently in one of those self-help books that really only helped the person who wrote it feel better when they were down. My mom sent it to me after she found out about David and Vanessa. Vanessa had been the one to tell her. That’s the fucking balls of it. That gaul. The fucking nerve. I had successfully avoided the preying eyes of my mother from two-thousand miles away during the first weeks of our split. My mother, a subtle vulture, who just can’t stop herself from snapping at my dying body in the middle of the Mojave. 

The passage said this…it said: Most people who don’t look life squarely in the eye want to avoid what’s making them unhappy.

Vanessa was unhappy, until she wasn’t — until she looked me in the eyes.

She was a mouth, and I was the lukewarm taste that that mouth couldn’t help but spit out the window from the apartment we used to share.

I live here now. Alone. And it’s ok. She left mostly everything, so now I have a floral bedspread I don’t want, a key holder sign that signifies that I’m “home” in cursive, her contact case, and a million other pieces of her. I don't wear contacts. 

Her soft ruby lips, flakey from being in the sun too long, the freckles that dusted across her collarbone, the delicacy of her fingers brushing along the ridge of my brows moments after an uncontrollable desire to press everything about ourselves together. She would kiss me, and every few minutes, she would separate our faces, look at me, like she was trying to memorize me, and then just as I was ready to kiss her again, she would breathe me in, wrecking me for anyone else. I couldn't believe she was mine. 

And I should have known. 

Why? 

I don’t know.

waiting.

A slate grey SUV pulls up to 513 Francis Court. A beagle named Gary hears it first. He jumps onto the faded grapefruit colored couch, his front paws overhanging the back of the sofa as his nose smooshes against the front room window.

The SUV, an Audi Q7, honks its horn. Its driver continues to sit behind the wheel waiting for the pending passenger.

Caroline Robertson is 15 years old. She's going on her first date, her first "hang out" with Graham Treehouse. She's in her bedroom, and she just changed out of and into another top for the fourth time. She hears the car horn.

"Shitshitshit."

She throws on a lilac tank-top over her cream colored bandeau bra. It will have to do. Truth be told, all of her shirts look good on her. She's 5'5, has sun-washed brown blonde hair and an athletic butt. For 15, she's the whole package: girl next door meets teenage, scratch that, all male fantasy.

Caroline grabs her bag, a Marc Jacobs satchel she purchased last month after saving for what seemed like forever, and throws mascara, her wallet and some Neutrogena Rose tinted lip balm inside.

The SUV honks again, and Graham rolls down the window. The Ralph Lauren Polo Black cologne he snagged from his older brother Daniel permeates the air as it escapes the car. He looks nice in the clothes his mother had gotten him at the beginning of the school year: a white button up collared shirt, seersucker blue and white striped shorts, dark brown Sperry's and the braided rope bracelet he had gotten on vacation in Florida when he visited his Grandma Sue last year.

Gary the beagle is still looking at the car from his front room post. His collar tinkles as he releases his nose from the glass, turning his head upon hearing Caroline rush down the stairs and past him.

"Bye buddy," she says, opening then closing the door behind her.

Her mother is in the kitchen talking on the phone, sitting on a floral cushion atop her desk chair facing her built-in desk. It's covered in school papers, bills, junk mail and a hand-painted coffee mug from that morning. Caroline painted it for her at one of those paint parties girls have for their birthdays. Flowers that look like they're from a 1970s pattern and the word Love cover the cup. Mrs. Robertson twirls the phone cord in her hand, hears Caroline open the door, bid adieu to the dog and the door latching shut.

"Hold on," Mrs. Robertson, Diane actually, says to her friend Ginny. Ginny muffles, "Ok," into the receiver.

Diane gets up, puts the phone to the right of its holder, and walks briskly to the door past Gary. She opens it, a thick white painted oak with a brass handle from Restoration Hardware.

"Caroline," she says to the driveway.

The SUV is at the end of block by now. Graham is looking at Caroline from his peripheral vision. Caroline is smiling, her head is turned slightly facing the right window. It's rolled down. Graham's scent is everywhere, and she likes it. Her left hand is placed precariously on the edge of her seat just in case he wants to hold it. He might, but not yet.

Gary is in the doorway, which Diane left open. Diane has begun picking the small weeds between the bricks of her driveway. She forgot about Ginny on the phone. Ginny hangs up her end of the call.

And they all wait for one another.

with you.

"I can't believe how empty your house is."

"Believe it, Serge."

"I don't want to," he said. "If I believe it then it's real, and then you're —"

Serge cut himself off, and the six-foot frame lanky before her turned away.

"—then I'm gone?" Hannah offered. She was wearing a pair of jean shorts and an oversize grey t-shirt she'd stolen from an ex-boyfriend. It was hot in her apartment, but they had already removed her window unit.

"Yeah," Serge said.

Repeating him, "Yeah."

"I'm going to miss you." Serge was still faced away from her. He was fiddling with her curtain. It was one of the only things left in her bedroom. This curtain and a slew of dust bunnies where her bed used to be were the only markers she'd been there at all. Hannah was thinking of just leaving the curtain there, but when she remembered how much it had cost her at World Market, she decided on keeping it.

"I know," Hannah said. Her face was soft and warm, the kind of face that a child has but is supposed to lose when they grow up, but hers stayed the same — big eyes and round cheeks, and just one freckle left of center on her nose.

Hannah wanted to say she would miss him too, but she didn't want to give him the wrong impression, which is to say, she didn't want him to think that this was the time for him to profess his love for her. It was too obvious, how much Serge loved her. And Hannah had known for a long time. She had known and she had let him sit with it because she cared about him, but not in that way and couldn't help that she was the only person who could make his unrequited love requited, but she couldn't actually. We all think how simple it would be if love was returned when it was offered. It's not fair, though, life.

You love who you love, Hannah would catch herself thinking after spending the day with Serge. Then she would text back and forth with whoever guy of the week she crushed on at the moment. And of course, those texts would go no where, and she would be alone, and Serge would be there, until one day he wouldn't be, because eventually we have to leave those sorts of situations. You settle so that your heart stops aching. You settle because you think it's the only escape from the continual brokenness that's yours until it's not. But, you always know you're settling, and the ache dulls, but it doesn't stop existing. It's just a soft stab...a shard of glass from a broken vase that shattered months earlier.

 "I know, too," said Serge. He wanted to say he knew she wanted to love him. But needs, wants, desires, unrequited, some things just are those and nothing more.

Serge looked at her; he wanted to grab her hand, wanted to hold it, wanted for his to be the hand she wanted to hold. He wished he was wearing his shoes, but he wasn't, and he suddenly felt like he shouldn't be there anymore. It would be awkward though, to just say he had to go and then have to spend a few minutes locating his shoes and then putting them on. He couldn't just up and leave.

 "Can you help me with this?" Hannah had broken eye contact with Serge. It was all too much. She was pointing to the curtain. It was white, and the bottom of the fabric had what looked like a summer grassy motif printed on it. It looked like an afterthought, and every time Serge had seen it in the past he thought that.

Serge turned to face her again, resigned to his shoeless feet.

"You're sure you want to bring it with you?"

"No," she said, brushing a loose hair from her eyes, a motion that undid Serge. Four feet apart might as well have been a world away, and they both knew it.

There was too long of a silence.

"It's better than nothing," she said.

Serge moved to the right of the window and began loosening the rod.

"You're right."

Unlikely Acquaintances Who Become Friends.

There are thirty-seven cars on her street right now. She knows because she counted them. Earlier, Joanie (don't ask, she hates her name) went for a run...what was going to be a run, and instead, she got sidetracked into a conversation with her neighbor Manuel (that's pronounced Man-Well, not Man-You-Uhl, like she originally thought). They are in their building's downstairs lobby. He's sitting on one of the Pier1 Imports chairs that no one sits in normally.

"Hello pretty neighbor," says Manuel getting up to greet her. This is how Manuel speaks to all of his female building-mates. Just your typical overly friendly 65 plus Latino neighbor.

"Hi," Joanie says. "So good to see you." They hug, and Manuel gives her a small kiss on her cheek, very close to her right eye. Joanie tags on that last bit because Manuel's face is so expectant, his cracked corn cob smile visible behind dry lips.

"We are good today," he says hoping she's with him in his we-ness. She is. Manuel reminds her of her church growing up. There was an usher at Christ the King who was, well, too excited to lead people to their seats. He would say, "Today is the day, is the day, the day for you to sit...!" and he would guide them down the center aisle to whichever pew looked most empty, and shake everyones hands proclaiming the peace of the Lord be with them. She can't remember his name now. It's not really important, either.

"I'm just on my way out, Manuel," she says still smiling. Joanie is wearing bright violet running shorts with a zebra stripe down each side, Nike stitched onto the right, and a black dry-fit tank claiming: Strength. The green iPod nano currently playing her Top Tracks playlist is clipped to her arm. It will inevitably get annoying, as it will certainly hit the inside of her bicep. Eventually Joanie will elect to hold it.

"Oh, yes, yes. I see," Manuel says, adjusting his short-sleeved button up that is indeed buttoned up all the way. "I would fall down." He laughs at this sentiment.

Joanie smiles. "Me too," she admits, a girlish giggle cropping up.

Joanie hadn't gone for a run in over a month. The last time she did she was not three blocks from her apartment when she just face-planted, licking the pavement. As far as she could tell, no one had seen her Total Life Fail Moment, but in reality, someone did see and periodically when that someone is doing dishes and annoyed at her husband, she thinks of that girl who tripped and fell and smiles, laughing to herself. Her husband asks, "What's that about?" assuming she's laughing at him, because everyone assumes they're being laughed at when they're the only other person in the room, but she wasn't. She was laughing at the girl who fell, Joanie. Joanie doesn't know she exists, so the woman is no one important, thus she has no name.

Manuel shares his smile with her again. "Please, please, go on."

"Oh, thank you," Joanie says, turning her music down finally. "Are you going to be OK today?"

"Yes, I'm waiting for my daughter to come get me." He looks anxious.

"That's great. Are you getting lunch together?"

"Yes." He pauses, and Joanie starts to turn her iPod back on, but then, "She's looking at my apartment."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"Is she helping you with something?"

"I'm going to go move in with her."

The unlikely acquaintances who became friends both look sad.

Finally, "When?" asks Joanie.

"This weekend."

"So soon?"

"Yes."

There's another long pause. Manuel's gaze is affixed to his friend, and then he hears a car pull up.

"Is she here?"

"Yes, this is her. Arabelle."

"Beautiful name."

"It is."

"Well, I guess, I'll —" Joanie cuts herself off. She didn't expect to be so sad. Manuel's her kind neighbor, but just a neighbor. A friend, who's about her own father's age. And Arabelle is about her age, maybe a little older. "I'll get going on this run. You let me know when you leave, though."

"Ok," says Manuel. He grins, waves at his daughter. She gets out of her turquoise RAV4, "Hi dad!"

Joanie waves, then turns to go, beginning her brisk run. A Ryan Adams song begins to play.

"Hello Gracie you're a good little girl. It's a beautiful world, oh when you're out in it. Last time I saw you playing in the yard, you were running with children and the old people were smiling..."

Fake Barking

"Can you believe we've known each other for more than a decade?"

Caitlin looks up from her book, muffles, "Yeah, weird," brushing off Liv, and goes back to A Moveable Feast.

"I mean, like, it's crazy that I remember that far back. Like, sometimes I can't even remember something that happened last week, but then at the same time I can remember when we used to have swim practice at Lake Bluff pool and your mom would pick me up, and I'd always forget my towel, and—"

"Yeah, it's nuts, Liv."

Liv gets up from the kitchen bar stool she'd been sitting on. "Anyway, I just thought it was weird," she says defensively.

She closes the IKEA catalog she'd absently been flipping through, then she adjusts her sweatshirt, which had gotten bunchy from sitting.

Caitlin's eyes follow her. Liv's doing that thing where she wants to talk, and Caitlin's doing that thing where she doesn't want to talk. It has nothing to do with the other, just on different wavelengths this morning. It's Saturday.

"Sorry, Liv," Caitlin says. "I'm—"

But before she's done, Liv cuts in, "It's fine. I'm just being dumb."

"You're not. I'm just tired." She thinks to herself, it's 10am, and says, "Well, that's not an excuse—"

"Except that it is."

"Right."

"Right," says Liv.

"I don't want to fight with you, Liv."

Caitlin gets up from the couch. It's a New England red, the kind that mens J. Crew shorts are colored to look like, almost like they're covered in dust.

"Do you remember that guy in the car yesterday?" Caitlin asks.

Stopping in the space between her bedroom and the hallway, "When we were walking?" Liv asks.

"Yeah."

"I remember." She was neither smiling nor frowning, but her face was mute because she didn't know where this was going.

"And he was yelling so much, so loudly and we could hear it all."

"Yeah."

There was a guy who was driving a silver Lexus SUV down Windsor. There was a passenger in the seat next to him. The girls couldn't tell if the passenger was a man or a woman, and frankly it didn't matter. Not because the person looked like either, the SUV driver was going too fast, and it was an odd angle, even when he had to stop at the red light. The driver was yelling so loudly. He was yelling about how much he loved the person sitting in the passenger seat. He was yelling, and he was exasperated, and it was hard to understand because Caitlin and Liv hadn't ever felt that kind of 'frustrating, over the top, I can't deal with you because I love you too much kind of love.' The couple was fighting because they couldn't spend as much time together as they wanted to, the very best kind of terrible fight, because it means they care, and they want to continue to care, and it's hard. It's the hardest kind of fight.

"No one should fight like that," Caitlin says. "That was the kind of fight, if you're going to have it, that you shouldn't have while operating heavy machinery." She was laughing now.

"It was funny," Liv agreed. They thought it was funny because they couldn't identify with it, not really. Their reaction was inappropriate for the situation, like laughing at a funeral, or something less trite.

"God, that uninhibited rage," Caitlin giggled. "Maybe rage isn't even it."

"Yeah, maybe it's more like unwarranted frustration."

Mock holding an invisible badge, Caitlin uses her policeman voice, "I have a Warrant For My Frustration."

"Officer, please, come on, you know me," Liv plays along.

"Like that time my mom was so mad at us for both forgetting towels at swim practice, and we just were so soaking wet and sat in the backseat and we looked like wet puppies."

"And she was like, 'Girls, I just got this.'"

"And, we were like, just, like barking?!"

"Arf! Arf!"

"Arf!"

And the two spiraled into a bark session.

He wasn't wondering.

Reindeer boxer shorts rest limply on Conor Buckley's desk chair. It's June, so this is to be expected. The idea that someone would purchase underwear only for a particular season or holiday is ridiculous. He's had to explain this to a variety of overnight guests. He would be better served to use his breath on perhaps explaining why being such a slob helps him focus on his work. However, Conor can't actually do that. He can't do that because he has had "Art Block" for a week, and always does when his life's a mess.

Conor started off college as an English major, hence the borrowing and re-appropriating of the term "Blank Block." Conor would sooner say he had "Sex Block" when he inevitably failed at showing the ladies why he was an OK choice for the night (feel free to substitute: week or month, nothing more than that, obviously), than to admit that he's not always the most suave.

He's not-not suave. He's just, a — a guy — a guy in his twenties. And, he's figuring it out, just like the  rest of them...the guys, the rest of the guys in their twenties. Obviously he's excepting those who got tricked into a young-just-out-of-college-marriage. Everyone has a pair of friends like that, or rather, has a friend who has a wife or husband that you've had to become friends with because apparently they're going to be around for the long haul, probably longer than you in the end.

Conor's apartment definitely looks as though someone lives there, but not as though he plans on living there for longer than three months. Nothing hangs on the walls, but there are framed posters of Fight Club and Warrior leaning on them. The idea was there, it's the execution that's a consistent fail.

"Hey dude," Conor says to Patrick, his roommate, who's sitting on the couch Patrick's mom purchased for the apartment eight months ago. She came to visit from New Hampshire, had nowhere to sit when she "popped by" to say hello, so went to Pottery Barn and "made it right."

"Hey," Patrick returns. "How was yesterday?"

Yesterday? Patrick was referring to their mid-week debauchery. Conor had recently been let go from his job at some call center downtown, so decided to blow a hundred bucks like he had it.

"Fine — Jenn was there." Of course she was.

"Yeah, I saw her."

"Yeah."

Conor walks over to the pantry, opens it, looks into it for a bit, then closes it taking nothing out.

"She was with Katie," Conor continues. Jenn and Conor had never dated. They'd always teetered on the line. Sure, they'd made out. Sure, Conor had invited her over to his house after parties. Sure, they've seen each other naked. But, dated? No. "It's everything but the label," she had said when she explained why she couldn't do it anymore. "It's not the label, Conor, it's the lack of one."

It's not as though Conor thought he blew it with Jenn. By his calculation, he'd been the one rejected.

Flash to last night:
"Hey, there," Jen said, but, really it was more like a shout, from down the bar.

"Hey, hey," Conor said, smiling. "How've you been?"

Conor crossed over to where she was.

"I'm good. I'm fine. Katie's here."

"Yeah, I know. I saw her from the balcony."

"How mysterious..."

When Jenn smiles, she shows all of her teeth. She smiles, and she laughs. And it makes the people around her do the same. Conor never understood the phrase laughter's contagious until he met Jenn.

"So mysterious."

"How've you been?"

"Pretty good. Just working." Conor paused remembering he'd been let go. "I mean, I'm looking for work right now. Feels like a job. But I'm painting, and stuff. So..."

"Tell me about it."

"I just did." The two laughed.

"Funny. Anyway, I should get back —"

"Of course. Good to see you."  Jenn turned to go, then spun back around quickly. Conor was still looking in her direction.

"I'm here with someone."

She said it like he was wondering. But he wasn't wondering. And that's what's made the moment so awkward.

"That's great," Conor said, then smiled out of the side of his mouth.

They looked at each other, said goodbye again, and Conor proceeded to spend money like he had it.

"Anyway, she looked good," Conor said.

"Not a surprise, man."

Conor walks back into his room, closes the door, collects last night's clothes from the floor, then puts them on his bed. He picks up his jeans, examines them, smells them, then slides them on. He does the same with a green-grey t-shirt, then sits down at his desk, looks at his sketch pad, his reindeer boxers still on the seat-back.

Bird.

There's a bird outside the one window in this Brooklyn apartment. Specifically, it's a pigeon. And specifically, it's Prospect Heights, on the very Northwest tip of the park — Prospect Park, if you can believe it.

Anyway, there's this bird that sits outside her window ruining the only thing that's beautiful about her converted two-bedroom — which was essentially a one-bedroom split in half by a partition. It's the kind of partition that separates large classrooms into smaller classrooms. That taupe plastic...thing.

"Her" is Kat Muller. She's thirty. She has a roommate. She has brown hair. It's wavy, but she wants it to be curly. She curls her hair with a large barrel curler from ConAir. She hates that movie. She wishes she didn't waste energy on hate, but she does. She says ones thing, and then normally attaches a qualifying "but." Everyone knows what she's thinking because her face doesn't hide like Mona Lisa's. If she knew I wrote that just then, she'd make a "You're retarded face." She wishes I would say "stupid," but, I didn't and I don't because, frankly, I don't give a shit.

"I" am her roommate, Emily. What a simple name? I put a question mark at the end of that, then I deleted it, put a period and then went back to a question mark. I used the word "what," which should denote that I asked a question. "Should." I love the conditional. I have brown hair too and a soft chin. Boo! Soft chins suck no matter how old you are, but they just keep getting softer with age and fat.

We have lived together since 2007. It's 2014. That's a lot of years. If we were different genders we could apply for Common-law marriage...or be considered for it. I don't really know how that works. I don't even know if marriage equality exists in New York. I like to think that I would know if I lived in, like, Chelsea.

Anyway, that bird. Ugh. That stupid bird. That retarded bird. It comes by every day, and I have never seen it fly. It must though. It walks over from the neighbors every day. It doesn't start the day at our place, or end it there. It's as if it is going to our house for "work." It's there 9am-5pm, and then the F train steams by, and it's out of here. Gone...to be seen from again. Tomorrow at 9am. It's never been late, which to me, is hilarious. If it were, I would expect a verbal apology with words and apologetic hand gestures.

I've named him Bird. Sometimes less is more. My mother says things like that to me. I imagine her needle-pointing onto shitty pillows when we talk on the phone. I'm from Michigan: the birthplace of crappy pillows and the best trees. Whenever I'm home in Michigan I feel naked. I'm convinced it's the crispness of the air. It cuts straight through clothing, no matter the amount of hipster layering I attempt.

It's not really fair that the only window we have goes straight into Kat's section of the apartment, which is just barely a step-up from a cardboard box. It's better in the winter, but not in the summer. "It's" meaning the apartment. In the summer it's a boiling cesspool of my and Kat's sweat. I mean, no it's not an underground garden unit, which basically is just asking for a rat to be your unofficial nonpaying roommate — but it's not a far cry. The first time we had an issue with the apartment, I cried. I never thought of myself as a crier, or an emotional person, but when it happened, it was so disproportional that I came to the conclusion that I am an emotional person, I just don't know when's an appropriate time to let it out, so I hit this tipping point, and then I was toast. Burnt toast that's no good.

I'm looking at Bird right now, and I'm wondering where he calls home. I'm wondering who's waiting for him to get back at 5:30pm. I'm not wondering how long his commute is. Everywhere in New York is a half hour. Or should be. Whatever comes first.

Maybe I'll move back to Michigan. There's birds in Michigan.

settled

Two nights ago I couldn't sleep. After returning late from an improv show at iO I was stuck thinking and rethinking about everything that had happened before, during, and after the show. Since I'm moving to Los Angeles in about a month all I've done lately is reflect on my years in Chicago. I had a few things to do on my checklist before I could leave here. I've done them all, and now I'm more than ready. But it's been all the things and people between those bullet points that have made Chicago everything. I landed here by default, but I chose to stay for as long as I have because I loved it.

All night Monday I was up going through drawers in my bedroom, clearing out what I assumed would be junk, but what I found instead was treasure. I found countless notes, cards and keepsakes from nights out. These were things I knew I would want to look at again before I boxed them in an old shoebox. I know myself well enough to know that these are the things I'll want to look back at when feeling low, maybe in LA, maybe wherever I go after that.

One of my favorite little things I found was a piece of white computer paper that I had written some thoughts on one night while at my parents house. There were existential questions like, "Why are we here?" and hopefully non-predictive statements such as, "Eventually, I will be broke," accompanied by an arrow pointing to the name: Peter Francis Geracy, Illinois' premier bankruptcy attorney. I can't decide if I meant PFG will say this or if he's whom I should call about going broke in the future. Both seem like viable options. But, what I liked most about this note I'd unintentionally written to myself was this poem:

They never loved you
I never loved you
I loved you, but I didn't
I did as much as I could

-and I was timid.
I was nervous. and I acted like we were new. and then it was old.
we were old. and we weren't supposed to be together
-and now I'm scared that I'll be alone and you were it.
and now I'm alone, but I never settled
Is that better?

-I wasted your time.
-I wasted your time.

It was followed with this:

If I were me right now I'd run. I'd be fine, until right before. My heart would race like crazy and I'd convince myself it wasn't nerves -- until I'd realize that would mean I'd have a heart condition. I have it all prepared. I have it played out in my mind. Why does my body convince itself it's not ready. Not prepared. No one else up here is really all that special. Every day I think -- I could do that. But here I am failing at the one thing I want. It'd be sort of funny to want to be a banker. And every time you count money you can't count because money made you so nervous. Living in general would be difficult. Money is such a big part of life. It really is.

There's this constant push to be moving forward, and I love that push. I love that drive, that fire, to pursue life fully despite nerves, despite fear, despite obstacles. It's a funny thing to never feel settled, and perhaps it's less in the destination, but more in the people where you're settled. Once you find your people, that's where the comfort is. So for me, I'm settled in Chicago. I'm settled in Iowa. I'm settled in the U.P. I'm settled in Lake Forest. I'm settled in San Francisco. I'm settled in Los Angeles. I'm settled all over because everyone I love is out there pursuing their lives, as I am.

So no, I did not waste anyone's time and no one wasted mine.

Summer in the city

It's 4:00 a.m. and so incredibly hot. You know, that sticky kind of heat that not even the best fan can break up. She's been moving from her bedroom to the living to the bedroom and back again, a short respite in a cool shower, and then snap to a few hours later. It's time to start the day. So says the sun.

It's 6:37 a.m. and already she's tired of this day. There are dishes in the sink, collecting quickly, gnats finding a home where they previously didn't exist. An empty bottle of Palmolive sits on the edge of her grubby sink. A grim scene if any parent were to walk in unexpectedly.

"Oh, Kimberly May, this is just--" and her mother would cut herself off, because she knew her dismay said more than any more words could. Ah, tone of voice. The careful decision to use her daughter's first and middle names. Disappointment, a feeling Kim knows well.

About a month earlier, it was probably 11:54 p.m. on a week night, Kim had called it quits with a guy she barely could say she was seeing casually. Or, put another way, if someone had given her a plus one to a wedding she would think about inviting this guy, but wouldn't because in the end the relationship had no legs to stand on. She tried not to be so cynical at the start of it, but that's hard, so with each passing day her defeatism grew into an inevitability, well, a defeat.

So, now it's noon on a Saturday. The week ended as quickly as it began. Thankfully so. She woke up late, having been out til the wee hours working the night before. She woke up alone, sticky in the summer heat. There's no room for anyone in this home, void of an air-conditioner, anyway. Sweat. Solo. Summer.

"Summer in the city, I'm so lonely lonely lonely I've been hallucinating you, babe, at the backs of other women And I tap on their shoulder and they turn around smiling But there's no recognition in their eyes " -Regina Spektor, Summer in the City