Conversation

"Conversation, n: A fair for the display of the minor mental

commodities,

each exhibitor being too intent upon the arrangement of

his own wares to observe those of his neighbor."~ Ambrose Bierce

John scanned the row of coffee brewers on the counter in front of him, watching brown liquid slowly drip from the nozzles. “Excuse me, could I just get a cup of black coffee?”

The helper, an employee of some sorts, dressed in a coffee smeared smock glared from beneath her blond curls. “Now, what size did you say, did you say a size?” asked the girl beneath the curls.

“I think a medium will suit me fine,” answered John with a tilted smile.

Curls scowled, “Sir, we don’t have mediums. You can have a tall, grande or venti.”

John scratched the side of his head, “I suppose I will have a tall then.”

“A tall is the equivalent of a small, just so you are clear,” said Curls.

“I’m afraid I’m not clear. Doesn’t Grande mean large?” asked John.

Curls maintained her scowl, letting her eyebrows fall animatedly, “Perhaps it technically means that but we don’t like to use small, medium and large because it’s boring. And why don’t you try our Joya Del Dia Blend, which is inviting, with delicate flavors and a soft cocoa finish, or perhaps a frozen mocha with mint, blended to perfection in our industrial blenders with quarter inch blades. Black coffee is boring, sir.”

“I’ll have a grande coffee, black,” said John.

“We appear to be out of that at the moment, just have a seat and I’ll bring it to you when it’s done,” said Curls.

John draped his jacket over a chair and slouched onto the worn seat as to imitate his jackets relaxed state. He waited, trying to listen to how Paul McCartney was trying to add an eighth day to the week, but the blur of conversation and beans being ground into fine powder shrouded the music. He heard conversations, broken fragments, pieces of separate puzzles being jammed together faultily.

“Politics. Republicans are going to hell. Seperation of church and state. War. Peace. Democrats. Vote next year. Habeus Corpus.” An older man beside a decorative lamp pointed his stubby finger at a slim man with a scarf neatly tied around his neck. The scarf was pulled tight; the man was ready to be strung up at a moments notice. He wasn’t paying the older man any attention.

“Boyfriend. Men are pigs. Bitches. Mascara and lipstick. Margaritas and frozen coffee drinks. Short sex and long sex. Party.” Motley young women were crammed around a table with Betty Boop cutouts laminated on the surface. They jammed their straws into the melted slosh of their drinks, holding the tops of the lids to avoid the sweaty sides of the cups.

“God is love. There is no God. God is dead. God is here and God is there if he cares. Believe. Don’t

make me. Sin.” The unblemished hand of a man in a dark suit jacket rested on a book with golden pages. His

tie, puffed out near his chest contained

fictional, slanting blue lines. A young man underneath curled, blond hair sulked while attempting to get a word in, but mostly unable to speak. The man in the suit pointed condemning pointer fingers at the end of each sentence. The boy sulked silently.

“Shit. Fuck. Ass-hole and damn bitches. Slut. Bastard. Cock. Obscenities and mother fuckers. Damn all to hell.” Two guys named Lance or Rocky or Tyler stood in line laughing between short, illiterate sentences. They careened from the line in bouts of hysterics, bumping into shy waitresses and causing the stained coffee cups she held to wobble in her hands.

        “May I move, may I move said he / is it love said she) / if you're willing said he /
but you're killing said she.”  A man droned into a microphone of which was placed on a mic stand that grew out
of a small wooden stage floor.  Tie-dye shirts crowded around him and swayed.  Someone yelled something
about E.E. being a genius.  

“Family. Job is boring, always tired. Baby cries a lot, but still cute I suppose. Husband is fine. House is fine. Dog is fine. Car is fine. Backyard is fine. I’m fine.” Ladies with multiple chins and half personalities sat straight backed in a booth beneath a modern painting of a small red square on a white canvas. Tea bags rested beneath the ladies tea cups, small drips of unused tea making brown puddles on the table. Both women sipped tea, both talking to themselves, together.

John watched as Curls approached him with a smile and a cup. “Here you go sir, one mocha mint to go.”

In Line for the End of the World

“Many will say to Me on that day, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in Your name, and in Your name cast out demons, and in Your name perform many miracles?’ And then I will declare to them, ‘I never knew you.’” ----Matthew 7: 21-23

“Hello, Mr. Gray.”

“Yes, hello. I assume that you are St. Peter,” said Mr. Gray

“Hardly my dear sir, I am simply your guide. You will meet Peter at the end of your journey, hopefully in good spirits.”

Mr. Gray nodded and glanced past the robed figure, whose words were being uttered from a black hole beneath a hood, to the white sky that surrounded them both. It was as if they were standing in the white glare of a window; a complete world enveloped by snowdrifts that stood so high that they blotted out the sky.

“Is this heaven?” asked Mr. Gray tentatively.

“No Mr. Gray, but fortunately for you it is not hell either,” said the robed figure.

Mr. Gray wrung his hands together nervously and let his eyelids droop, which caused his eyes to form slim, slits of vision against the bright blankness around him, “It’s Reverend Gray, and I don’t believe in Hell so it comes as no surprise that I am not there. May I ask who you are? Some sort of guardian angel. I watched It’s A Wonderful Life every Christmas and Clarence never impressed me, couldn’t blame George for not believing, can you?”

“Yes, I can blame him. And I am not your guardian angel, my name is Dante and I am the guide to your place in line, the line at the end of the world.”

Reverend Gray rested his hand snuggly against his eyebrow to better view Dante, who seemed a living shadow, a black silhouette against the whitewashed sky behind him. “Oh, a line you say. From my time on earth I didn’t think there would be a line for heaven.”

Dante turned his back and nearly disappeared from sight as he stood sideways, “I didn’t say it was a long line, Reverend.”

Dante stood with his arms crossed; arms that were lost in the ill-fitting sleeves of a Monk like habit that he wore, making it appear as if he had only one over-sized arm resting contentedly on his stomach. Reverend Gray stood beside the now mute Dante, his thoughts shrouded by uncertainty and cognizant of nothing but the few minute movements of his guide. The hood of Dante’s robe would stir for a moment, a moment in which Reverend Gray would let his eyebrows rise in anticipation only to find that Dante had done nothing.

“Rest for awhile, we have a long walk ahead and the other member of our party should be soon to arrive,” said Dante, still facing away from Reverend Gray. Reverend Gray obliged, letting his knees creak out of their locked positions and kneeling slowly to the ground, a white ground to match the blank sky. Or perhaps all was ground or all was sky? His head ached. With his crouched view of the world Reverend Gray could see a black dot in the distance, a hazy utopian mirage against the white sands of a desert.

“Excuse me, but I believe there is someone in the distance, is that the member we are waiting for?” asked Reverend Gray.

“Today is here so we can wait for tomorrow, Reverend. That dot is the line that we will soon be seeking.”

Reverend Gray eased both of his hands to his forehead, squinting into the whiteness for the black dot, “All I can see is white. I don’t know where the sky and ground begin and end. Where is heaven? Where are the gates, Dante? John could see the illustrious city of glass in the book of Revelations where he said ‘a door opened in the sky.’”

““Heaven wheels above you, displaying to you her eternal glories, and still your eyes are on the ground. In due time Reverend, I believe I see our other member,” said Dante.

“No trumpets, what a shame.” A plump figure appeared in front of Dante, clad in a purple and red robe signifying his royalty, along with an ornate crown with eight points perched precariously on his bulge like head. Reverend Gray watched as the man swirled his robe with a certain sinuosity reminiscent of an overweight, slightly dysfunctional superhero.

“You there, in the black robe, fetch me something to ride on. The normality of my welcome is hardly acceptable and I expect you or whoever is running this organization to compensate by means of my living quarters,” said the robed man.

Dante remained stolid, speaking evenly, “Everyone is greeted the same Henry, you shouldn’t expect anything lavish.” Henry let the fat of his cheeks droop into a frown and removed a gold scepter, encrusted with multi-colored jewels from his belt, like an aristocrat’s sword. “You see this, every jewel is a woman,” Henry spun the scepter slowly in his hand, letting Dante and Reverend Gray observe the numerous stones, packed like sardines onto the gold finish. “I don’t know about the two of you, standing here in your drab clothes and frowning too much, but I intend on adding to this scepter, for what kind of a heaven lacks women.”

Reverend Gray retorted, somewhat sheepishly, “Sir, pardon me for my rudeness and I may be wrong in my assumptions but it appears as if you have not studied the scriptures thoroughly so it is not your place to say what heaven will consist of.”

Henry spun his scepter with surprising limberness through the fingers on his right hand and pointed it curtly at Reverend Gray, “And you appear a man that doesn’t know what he wants heaven to be. You don’t dream enough, I can tell.” Henry sheathed his scepter and averted his attention to Dante who had begun walking toward the black dot in the distance. “Excuse me, where are you going and who are you? When do we get to the concubines?” Henry squinted at Reverend Gray for answer.

“He told me he was the guide, a guide to the line. He said his name is Dante,” said Reverend Gray.

Henry sauntered forward, his stubby legs tensing with every step, “I’ll wait here for my ride, for I am certain that guide is going to fetch me my transportation and perhaps a few offertory nymphs. You can follow him if you wish; I grant you permission of leave, as is my right as king.”

Reverend Gray turned and ran after Dante, who was slowly gliding into the distance. The closer he came he could more easily discern Dante muttering, “In the middle of the road of my life I awoke in the dark wood where the true way was wholly lost.”

Reverend Gray put his hands on his knees, gripping firmly, trying to coerce his lungs into opening wider than they were able. Short breaths. Quick breaths. Air whistling through the tiny gaps in his teeth. Swift gusts went in and out of his lungs, leaving him speechless at the side of Dante who stood underneath a splintering wooden sign and next to a man who was as splintered as the sign. Rough patches of grisly hair grew on the man’s face in blotch like patterns. The man’s hat was haggard by weather and time, smooth with consistency and age. He leaned against the sign, or perhaps it was the sign doing the leaning, but the two leaned together. Reverend Gray read the sign: “I took the one less traveled by and that has made all the difference.”

The man spoke, with a frostiness that chilled Reverend Gray at first, “Reverend, do you believe that you traveled in life in a manner befitting of reward?”

Reverend Gray could not see the man’s eyes, for they were hidden by the brim of his cap, but he could feel them watching his heart discern. “I believe so sir, I took notice of the good teacher Jesus, teaching that the world would be a better place with more good men like Jesus. My congregation consisted of thousands. I brought the word to them every week, faithfully, teaching them to better themselves.”

“And who of these thousands repented, who became followers,” asked the man.

“Numerous people tithed and became involved in ministries, serving the misfortunate. I did not focus on words but actions, because I believe that God requires us to live well and serve others and as it says in James, ‘What good is it, my brothers, if a man claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save him?’” Reverend Gray wrung his hands together as the man continued to lean silently. Reverend Gray let his gaze waver in the direction of Dante who stood uselessly to the side of the situation.

“Do you believe in God, Reverend?” asked the frosty voiced man.

“Being a Reverend I would hope so. Although, I don’t like to discount other religions; all good roads lead to Rome after all,” said Reverend Gray happily.

“Enter by the narrow gate; for wide is the gate and broad is the way that leads to destruction, and there are many who go in by it.
Because narrow is the gate and difficult is the way which leads to life, and there are few who find it,” said the man beneath the sign.

Reverend Gray felt fear, not fear of death or fear of life but fear of incorrectness, the fear of realizing ignorance. Dante let the silence die, “We must move along to the line Reverend, quickly please.”

The line came to a point in the distance, a point in eternity or forever or somewhere around there, just round up. Reverend Gray stood beside Dante who was standing at the end of the line, right behind a stout man with a blue baseball cap hugging his broad head.

“My place in line is last? It seems a waste of time for you to guide me to such an obvious terminus,” said Reverend Gray while massaging his legs.

The rounded fellow with the baseball cap interjected sporadically, “Do you have anything to eat, either of you. This line isn’t moving at all and…I…heaven seems far off…and I can’t wait until heaven to get something to eat.” The number 3 on the front of the man’s jersey jiggled and bounced as he talked, causing the lines on the shirt to wiggle to life.

“Babe, you will have to be patient. Man cannot live on bread alone,” said Dante.

The Babe snorted indignantly, “Who said anything about bread man, I need some meat, red…meat, or a candy bar…with nuts and crunch.”

Dante ignored The Babe and turned to Reverend Gray who was still watching the lines on The Babe’s jersey jounce and jangle. “Reverend, we must find your place in line, for everyone has a predisposed place in line, and yours is not at the end. Let us proceed.”

“Don’t you boys go forgetting about me. Tell St. Paul to send some food to the back, tell em the Babe requested it. The line inched forward.

Dante glided alongside the line, quietly searching for a gap, a gap in the row of man and woman that was reserved for one particular being, and only that one man could fill the space. Reverend Gray shuffled along behind him, staying close enough to not lose sight of Dante but far enough that he could observe the line. They passed by life, passed by Romeo and Juliet who were refusing to hold hands, passed by an unmoving Jack Kerouac, passed by a smiling Quasimodo, passed by Yogi Berra who was yelling at everyone to take the fork in the road when they came upon it. They passed by Oprah, John F. Kennedy, Sylvia Plath with her head in the oven, a sullen Robert E. Lee, Jimi Hendrix, Salvador Dali painting elephants on the ground, Greg Brady, 2-Pac with a bullet in his head, Scrooge, an orating Cicero, Elvis, Pilgrim, a self-loathing Kurt Cobain and even the Queen of Hearts with her flamingo croquet mallet. Reverend Gray remained mute with awe, gazing at those who were tattooed into the history of the world, and here they were at the end, waiting in line with everyone else, alone.

“Why are these people waiting in line still, why do I get to go before them? The first shall be last and the last shall be first, am I not correct,” asked Reverend Gray shakily, his voice cracking at the end of the questions. Dante continued to move forward, answering without turning, “The Lord’s ways are not ours Reverend, I thought you of all people would know that. The only men who enjoy the idea of the last being first are the last.” Dante stopped suddenly, pivoting quickly, his hooded face now casting a shadow on the Reverend, “You don’t appear a man who has ever been last Reverend. How many people did you say were in your congregation?

Reverend Gray swallowed, sending his Adams apple into spasms, “Around, um, 5,000 every week give or take.”

“Were you paid Reverend?” asked Dante.

“Yes, of course, a man cannot live on bread alone, as you said.”

Dante leaned back, “Yes, I did say that. Let’s move on.”

As Dante turned and began his usual swift movements across the blank ground, a man stumbled out from the middle of the line, a top hat angled slightly on his head, and a price tag sticking out of the brim reading 10/6. The man turned quickly to Reverend Gray, “Why is a raven like a writing desk?” asked the man in the top hat and a suit unbefitting to his shape, it sagged off his limbs.

Reverend Gray thought for a moment, his clouded brain trying to untangle the inexplicability of the question and the man’s sudden appearance. “I don’t know, seems like a silly thing to ask,” said Reverend Gray.

The man frowned, surprise misting over his features, “Yes, I suppose it is, but that is not the correct answer.”

“Is there an answer,” asked Reverend Gray.

“Of course dear sir, questions always have answers. The answer is there is a B in both and an N in neither.” The man froze as a pallid hand rested on his shoulder.

“Mr. Dodgson, please return to your place in line,” said Dante, without moving his hand.

“My name is not Dodgson, its Carroll, don’t call me Dodgson,” said the small man. Dante lifted his hand and watched Dodgson and Carroll sulk back to his spot in line, between Herman Melville and Captain Ahab. The line moved.

The walking continued, Dante blazing a trail through open air while Reverend Gray pondered the strange encounter with Dodgson and Carroll. Questions always have answers, a strange thing to say. The Reverend passed by Seneca, who was berating the Scarecrow.

“A brain is all there is, without the brain there is no life.”

The Scarecrow whimpered, “I can still feel, is that nothing?”

“Yes, that is nothing. You are living in nothingness,” said Seneca.

Reverend Gray hardly heard them, still thinking about the man with the frosty voice, and the man asking the strange riddle.

“Is living well enough, Dante?”

Dante continued to walk, “If you believe there is no hell, what is the point in living well, Reverend?”

“In order to gain heavenly rewards, and do God’s work,” answered Reverend Gray.

A man with poison hemlock around his neck stepped out from the line, cutting off Reverend Gray’s forward progress in movement and thought.

“If death were escape from everything, it would be great boon to the wicked…but now that the soul appears immortal, there is no escape from evil,” said the hemlock man.

Reverend Gray pushed past him, running to catch up with Dante, who did not stop to listen to the hemlock man. The line crept.

“Welcome to your place in line Reverend,” said Dante.

There were gates, gates that spread out for miles putting the white sky behind bars. Picket white gates, first snowball white, Emily Dickinson white, blank pages white. Reverend Gray understood now why he could not see them, only the golden edges differentiated the gates from the white sky behind them.

“I’m second in line, how can that be. I don’t believe I’m ready to go in quite yet,” said Reverend Gray, wringing his hands together, the sweat making them slide.

“I have done what I need to do Reverend, may the Lord make his face to smile upon you and give you peace.” Dante glided quickly away, back to the beginning of the end of the world, where he stood, awaiting lost souls.

Reverend Gray stood in his place, staring at the white ground, staring at himself reflected in purity. The line moved at the single, jarring toll of a bell as the man in front of him who wore black makeup that streaked his face like mascara tears and a large python around his neck approached the gate. An old man sat behind a lectern, containing a large book with crusty, yellowing pages. The old man licked his thumb and pushed his slim spectacles up on the brim of his nose, where they balanced indecisively. After a few moments, the old man handed a card to the man with the snake. The man read the card, just loud enough for Reverend Gray to over hear: “Mr. Cooper, Welcome to the end of the world. Well done, my good and faithful servant.”

Reverend Gray strained his eyes against the blinding white backdrop of sky. A man with a stringy gray beard and renegade hairs sticking out haphazardly from his eyebrows blocked his view.

“Excuse me sir, but I was watching something,” said Reverend Gray, somewhat irritated. The man ignored his tone and handed him a book with an old man standing up in a boat, his old back bent at the same angle as his old fishing pole with a giant Marlin jumping out of the water. The fish and the man both had mustaches crudely drawn overtop their faces. Reverend Gray read the title, “The Old Man and the Sea.” He had read it. He opened the title page, where words were scribbled carelessly, “The old man is an old man, and the fish is a fish. Thanks for the Pulitzer Prize, I used the money for a better shotgun, insincerely, Ernest Hemingway.”

Reverend Gray dropped the book, and watched Hemingway hand books to everyone in line; he pulled a wagon full of them, a red wagon of Old Man and the Seas.

A bell tolled for Reverend Gray. He approached the lectern, wringing his hands and then wiping the sweat on his pants.

“Are you…St. Peter?” asked Reverend Gray, almost too quietly to hear.

The man licked his thumb and stared up at Reverend Gray. Blue shards of sky floated behind the thin spectacles, overcast by bushy, gray cloud eyebrows. “I am Reverend Gray, here is your card.” St. Peter handed Reverend Gray his card and rang the bell.

Reverend Gray squinted at the card, squinted hard to see the letters written, the letters that were bouncing from his nervous shaking. He read, "Welcome to the end of the world Reverend Gray. I never knew you."

It's Life, and Life Only

“If my thought dreams could be seen

They’d probably put my head in a guillotine

But it’s alright, Ma, it’s life, and life only.”

Bob Dylan

“Dead is a term for the living, ask any corpse.” Doctor Loveseller strode down the narrow halls with his back to his interns, who were scribbling hurriedly in their yellow legal pads. He talked to the sterilized air in front of him; air that grew staler the farther he walked. The more corners he turned the more white washed walls appeared before him where the neon lights clung and created a bluish tint of color around him. Words came out. They died in front of him. But his interns continued to scratch out notes, so he continued to talk.

“Why do we need a term for the dead? Because we are pathetic beings, to simple minded to even comprehend the nature of that which we are labeling.” Dr. Loveseller paused in his speech, and grappled with a pen that had sprung loose from the pocket protector of his lab coat. “Death is not something the living can ever grasp and yet we are directly linked to it, obsessed with a thing that we cannot control. Perhaps this lack of control, and this lack of knowledge, is what stimulate such an avid fascination, but it is hard to tell.”

The scratching continued the sound sifted through the grey tufts of age inside Dr. Lovesellers ears. He continued.

“I don’t believe the dead have a term for us. This is a non-symmetrical fascination, where the dead, or the dead corpses as I refer to them, have no say and are apathetic toward us and we, the living corpses have too much to say and are overly enthusiastic.” He clipped the pen back to his pocket. His pocket was safe again.

The scratching stopped and so did Dr. Loveseller. He turned to see his interns pressed against the glass of the nursery, pushing their cheeks into flattened distortions, like kids choosing toys from a toy store window. Dr. Loveseller cleared his throat and strode toward them, looking at their legal pads that were hanging by their sides.

“Excuse me everyone, I don’t believe this is our stopping point,” said Dr. Loveseller. “Actually, this could not be more opposite. You are seeing life at its most innocent beginnings, and I will show you life at its most insincere end.”

His interns sulked for a moment, slowly pealing their faces from the now fogged glass. Dr. Loveseller eyed the babies behind it, bound in pink and blue blankets, according to their sex. He watched as they lay in their beds, opening and closing the minute fingers that protruded from their bulging hands. What they grasped for he did not know, but one baby sat at the far left of the front row of cribs. His white blanket popped, distinguishing him from the rest, and a tag hung from his toe that held what Dr. Loveseller assumed was only a last name: Alexander.

“Why does that Alexander kid have a white blanket? Is he something special? A governmental experiment gone wrong?” asked intern number nine.

Dr. Lovesellers gaze did not waver from the child as he answered, “Government gone wrong is a redundant phrase number nine. Let’s get moving; the dead wait for no man.”

The door of the morgue was heavy and securely locked, a door meant for maximum security prisons or an ammunitions depot. It was an anchor to hold the dead in place, and it scared Dr. Loveseller. He had janitors keys, keys that had no room to slide on the oversized key ring and keys that stuck together leaving Dr. Loveseller to fumble outside of doors for considerable amounts of time. The key to the impregnable door slipped out of his hand as he attempted to stick it into the keyhole. He chattered.

“Don’t know why we need such a big door for such…accommodating guests.” No scratching followed this statement.

The door responded to Dr. Lovesellers incessant turns, inching open to reveal nothing but black.

“Is there any way to skip this part of the internship? I think we should practice on each other, not on real bodies,” said intern number 10. His cheeks reddened and his lips attempted to run away from the red as they formed a frown.

Dr. Loveseller reached his arm into the morgue where it was sliced off at the elbow by the darkness. “Intern number 10, I don’t much care what you think, but if it would bring you some grotesque form of pleasure to carve up one of your peers stomachs to exam their digested food from yesterdays lunch, please do so. Let’s take a vote for who wishes to be dead corpse number one.” Dr. Loveseller animatedly searched the room for a hand, holding his own mottled hand to his forehead, scanning the horizon for volunteers. Intern 10’s peers all scribbled in their legal pads, ignoring him. Dr. Loveseller wondered what they could possibly be writing. Note to self, don’t be an idiot.

Dull blue lights illuminated the stairwell of the morgue, and Dr. Loveseller led his 15 interns down the metal staircase to the center of the room. He stood by a sleek, gleaming table. It exuded the aura of coldness, the medicinal frigidity of a doctor’s stethoscope before he has warmed it up by means of a good-natured huff. Dr. Lovegood felt the chilliness as he stood with his back to his interns, looking at his dulled features in the polished metal. He looked older. The table had absorbed the death seeping from the dead corpses it usually held, and Dr. Loveseller could see that death distorting his face. His interns stared at their surroundings, moving their heads on a swivel while maintaining a grip on their pens, in case Dr. Loveseller began talking. They were statues in a graveyard, observant statues.

Dr. Loveseller lifted his eyes and began talking again, “I’m going to move to our first specimen and if I can exhort you to feel one way, if I can convince you to adopt one way of thought, it would be that of indifference. Remember, these are not people. They are not the woman in the grocery store with the kids that keep grabbing at the candy. They are not the kindly old lady at the supermarket who can always spot you a few cents if you are short. These are anatomical, corporal carcasses, void of feeling. Now, let us begin.” Dr. Loveseller moved mechanically to his right where he opened the first freezer door. It hissed and let some cold air leak from the insides; the frozen breaths of the corpses spilled into the room.

“This is Mr.,” Dr. Loveseller bent to see the tag hanging from the toe, “Alexander, who wants a shot at him?”

“Ponce, I swear if you don’t get a doctor in here in the next few seconds, I will show you the pain of childbirth after we get home.” Ponce swallowed, sending his Adams apple into spasms of fear.

“Ok, I’m off to get a doctor. Right now, going to find one. You want a soda while I’m out, root beer maybe?” Ponce’s wife screamed at him, no coherent words, just a wail that made the old man in the bed next to her roll over on his side and turn Maury up to 38 on the television in the corner. Ponce bolted, leaving the hinged doors swinging behind him. He assumed that scream was a no on the root beer. White coats fluttered around him, extracting pens from their lab coats and handing files to industrious secretaries who leaned their phones against their shoulders and shot courtesy smiles at any doctor who approached them. Ponce approached a doctor who was peeling off a pair of slimy rubber gloves and muttering over his shoulder to a nurse who scribbled on a notepad.

“Chum, what sort of name is that for a child. What if he isn’t very nice? His whole life will be dictated by irony. To be honest I’m not sure what people are thinking Nurse Andrews. Hell, I wouldn’t name my dog chum.”

“Excuse me doc, I need your help, my wife is having a baby see…”

The Doctor interrupted, “Sir, are you Bugs Bunny?”

“No, I don’t believe so doc. That’s a silly thing to ask I think.”

“I just wanted to make sure, because if you call me doc one more time I will be forced to deduce that you are indeed Bugs Bunny and will therefore defer you to a veterinarian.” The Doctor threw his greasy gloves into a garbage can and crossed his arms. Ponce stared at him, his brain slowly deciding where the conversation could go.

“I’m sorry, Doctor…” Ponce squinted at the doctors name badge, “Leslie?” He looked up to see that Doctor Leslie’s face had twisted at the pronunciation of his name.

“Yes, Leslie. I’m aware it is not a male name, but my mother was hoping for a girl. Show me where you wife is.” Ponce led Doctor Leslie to his room, where his wife was sweating and cursing, which was dovetailed nicely by the incessant beeps of censoring being emitted from the TV in the corner, where Maury was still attempting to console an outraged teenager.

“Hello Mrs. Alexander, I’m Doctor Leslie. I can see that you are having contractions here, so I think we should get this started.” Mrs. Alexander gave a huff of agreement and immediately returned to pursing her lips and dropping her eyebrows in pain.

“Honey, I’m right here if you need me,” said Ponce from across the room. Mrs. Alexander waved him away, her face grew pale and the sweat beads clung to her pallid skin just above her eyebrows. Ponce watched as his wife’s arms flailed about, causing the lines on the monitor above her bed to mimic her arms movements as they moved erratically up and down, the beeps of the machines making the air of the room nervous.

“Mr. Alexander, I’m afraid you need to wait on the other side of this curtain. You don’t appear a man that has a strong stomach. Don’t worry, everything will be fine.” Dr. Leslie slid the curtain shut, and Ponce found himself at the foot of the old mans bed, leaning on the end of the mattress, watching Maury.

“Having a baby, hey boy?” The old man had flipped over on his back with surprising agility, muting the TV in the same motion.

Ponce hesitated and then replied, “Yes, in a few minutes. I’m not sure what it will be though.”

“Most likely a damn baby I would say, boy. Unless you been getting into some wild stuff. You into that wild stuff, boy?

“No, nothing like that. I just meant that I didn’t know if the baby would be a boy or a girl. I’m not into anything weird,” said Ponce.

The old mans bushy eyebrows crawled into an arc over his sharp eyes. “I’m not going to congratulate you boy, cause I learned something about life after I had my kids; he who isn’t busy being born, is busy dying. And that’s the God’s honest truth.” The old man rolled onto his side and unmuted the television. Ponce turned to the TV and let his mind mull over the last statement. He was busy dying?

“Mr. Alexander, could I see you in the hall please?” Doctor Leslie had stuck his head from the other side of the curtain. Ponce’s thoughts remained with the old man, but he reluctantly rose and followed the Doctor outside.

“We managed to deliver your baby Mr. Alexander, a healthy boy.”

“That’s great, that is exactly what my wife wanted. It’s always better for me if she gets what she wants.”

Doctor Leslie forced a smile, “Yes, well, unfortunately you r wife did not survive the delivery. She was too weak. There was nothing we could do. I’m sorry Mr. Alexander.”

“Now as you can see, interns, Mr. Alexander’s neck was broken in several places just a matter of hours ago. The police squad believes it to be suicide and by the breaks in the spine I would have to agree with them. Good for us though, this way you can work with some fresh meat. Nothing like fresh meat.” Dr. Loveseller’s interns chuckled and scribbled in their legal pads.

“Interns one through five stay with this body, sharpen you r scalpels, I’m going to show the remaining interns their body.” Dr. Loveseller walked a few yards to the next freezer, which he opened in the same fashion as before, letting the cold puffs of smoke envelop his interns.

“This is Robert Lee, an interesting case. This piece of scum shot an old lady at the grocery store and then shot himself. You can see the bullet entry on his forehead. Cowardly, just cowardly. I never thought that operating a morgue would bring such satisfaction, but carving up dirt like this is almost like a duty I do to society, an act of heroism even.” Interns six through ten nodded while scribbling in their legal pads.

The beeps filled the store and became branded in the minds of the workers as the day slowly progressed. They were somewhat comforting, the beeps, like a steady beep of a healthy patients heart monitor in the hospital. Lee put a hand through the hair on the side of his head, his line empty of customers and the top of his head empty of hair. He cherished the few hairs that hung wistfully on the sides of his head like NASCAR fans watching the bare track of his scalp from the stands. The clock on the wall had its hands stuck on 4:28, but Lee looked at his wristwatch where the hands were gratifyingly more accommodating with a time of 4:31. Lee damned the consequences and flicked his lines light out; number four was closed for 15 minutes, get over it people.

Lee strolled over to the machine to clock out, wringing his hands in anticipation and momentarily forgetting how to clock out.

“Anxious to get your hands on them scratch off’s Lee? I won me fifty bucks yesterday and that was with the Bingo card, using no Bonus squares mind you.” Lee’s fellow employee Randall said with a somewhat appropriated sense of accomplishment.

“Well I’ll be damned,” said Lee. “No bonuses you say, and Bingo is a tough one. I’m gonna get me a stack of Jackpots today, I got the apartment rent due this month.” Randall laughed but Lee slunk away, ashamed of the correctness of his last statement. Randall yelled after him, “Don’t think you can do what’s never been done Lee, you can’t.”

Lee fed numerous one and five dollar bills into the instant lotto machine next to the sliding doors of the store. He looked at the sign that set atop the machine: Play the Lotto; You’re Guaranteed to Have Fun. Lee sniffed, and bent down to pick up his ten cards from the slot.

Lee ventured out to his car and left the door ajar while he scratched off his tickets with an expert’s exactitude, only blowing the remaining debris off the card once he had seen if he had won. Each card revealed no major prizes, a measly one dollar winner and a free card prize, nothing to pay his rent. He threw the majority of the cards onto the floor, which already contained stacks of scratch-offs and lottery tickets, with numbers circled and hi-lighted. Lee attempted to close the door of his car several times before finally getting the warped metal to click. Piece of junk, too bad he would soon have to live out of it.

People were hurriedly running out of the store, Lee couldn’t get anyone to stop and tell him what the rush was all about. It was early, too early, so the only people shopping were elderly ladies and business men picking up a paper. Lee walked through the sliding doors and saw a masked man with a pistol standing by the Lotto machine. His heart skipped, he clasped his two winning lottery tickets and crept toward what he assumed to be a robber. Things seemed to happen, not in slow motion but in regular time, where Lee was someone other than himself, a better man perhaps. He kicked the back of the robber’s legs and punched the back of his head, which sent the robber to his knees quickly. Lee grabbed the dropped pistol and pointed it at another robber who was holding Janice, the older lady who ran register number one in the mornings, in a choke hold with a gun pressed to the back of her head.

“Let her go please, I don’t want to shoot anyone,” Lee said, the gun shaking in his hands. The robber shot the old lady in the back and shot Lee in the leg. Lee dropped, holding his leg, pain filling his mind and ears. The store now empty of customers, the robber had no problem dragging Lee over to the dead cashier. The masked robber put Lee’s hand to the trigger of the pistol, the barrel pressed snugly against his own forehead, and with the help of the robber Lee ended his own life. The Lotto tickets lay next to Lee, never to be cashed.

“Interns, prepare your knives. Let’s see what these carcasses have to show us about anatomy. Maybe you will actually learn something valuable.” Dr. Loveseller clanged two lustrous knives together as he finished talking. “Carve these bastards up.”