Authenticity

It was a terribly gray sky, though the rain wouldn't fall.  He sat with eyes sharply peering at the peak of a neighboring house, yet if he was asked what he was looking at he'd have no idea.  He had no idea. 

The funky bass line roars and her voice rips the sky wide open, at least inside his mind.  There is a synthesizer that breaks up the sounds of traditional instruments while fitting so effortlessly that without knowing better you'd believe it was being keyed the way a piano would.  Jazz drums is always his favorite to listen to.

It was all fitting perfectly for his day.  Solitude, contemplating life's trials and temptations, gray skies darkening everything around, and music that felt as though it was just as much a part of the scenery as the clouds in the sky.

Of course, this says nothing to what he was seeing while staring at the roof top.  He was seeing his former life fading from present day into the past.  His best friend died a few short days ago from a drug overdose, yet he was entirely oblivious of his friend's habit.

He is reminded of some quote he heard many years ago - one he cannot fully remember - that states something about never truly knowing someone until they are under extreme suffering.  It never made much sense to him at the time as he simply believed he could know someone with relative ease, but now thinking about his friend he understood that he never saw him suffering.

He tries to summon memories of his friend suffering.  Memories clear from distant fogs in which he would get drunk with his friend over some girl or the loss of a job - that time he had to sell his favorite guitar to make rent that month.  There was a feeling, at the time, that this was suffering, but it wasn't.  It was the evasion of suffering and he only now has he begun to understand.

A tear creeps out of the corner of his eye as he begins to think back on all the little signs of heroin usage.  The lame duck excuses of being too busy to reply to a text message after days.  The memory of how often his friend had been sick within the recent months.

More than those memories and the feeling of stupidity crawling around in his mind, he found a great sadness in how he would never be able to laugh at some stupid shit a customer said, or share this great jazz he was listening to now with his friend. 

This is life, though, and he knows that no matter how he feels that he will have to get up tomorrow and pretend everything is alright with everyone he interacts with.  The only break he will get from pretending is the point in time he is at the funeral services, but even that will feel so impersonal as everyone else there will be feeding off of the emotions of one another.  Aunts and uncles will be crying immensely even though they hadn't seen him in years and people who only knew him in passing will be talking about how great of a person he was, how terribly he will be missed.

He begins to acknowledge that life is just one big swath of falsehood.  A display of what humanity is supposed to look like - a heroin addict near killing himself playing it off as though he is just a little sick, people mourning the loss of a life they knew nothing about, and even his job of interacting with people with a fake smile to sell whatever shit he was pushing onto the people.  It is all fake.

Could authenticity exist at all in a society that rewards the inauthentic far more?  The creeping thought of this was increasingly spreading throughout his mind.

He then remembered his friend, the moment in time the two met.  They sat on the back steps of a house, party in full force inside, and discussed just how fake everyone inside the party was.  How everyone was showing off in order to one-up one another or just to get laid, how it wasn't either one of their scenes. 

They both went back to an apartment - he couldn't remember if it was his or his friends - and listened to albums all night long, critiquing the guitar playing, the drums, the vocals, and how well it all pieced together.  He remembered how authentic they were with one another about it all, unashamed to hate a song or band the other loved.  It was the start of an authentic friendship.  It was the start of an authentic friendship, and now he had a greater appreciation for that than ever before.

-Dustin S. Stover

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Knock

It started out as a humbling drive into the sunset but emotions grew, and before he knew it he was well above the speed limit.  In a world of automated cars, people who find simplicity by having the technology do all their work for them, and priorities have shifted to pleasure long ago it becomes an act of rebellion to be perceptive.  That is where the hero, or villain, of this story will reside.

His car is of a vintage nature, a time when there was a such thing as a driver and a driver utilized three pedals and a stick between the seats to control the speed and acceleration of the vehicle.  It was small, only having two seats as opposed to the modern cars with cabins of bed-like seats, and was built with the intention of putting a smile on the driver's face.  Now only a few would know how to turn a steering wheel as anything more than a novelty.

While cleaning out his great grandmother's home, years ago, he came across a collection of books.  He didn't even know what they were - it had been decades since the last one had been printed and now people just listened to books selected for them by the state based on their age, gender, and racial background.

Among the books were the likes of Nietzsche, Sartre, and Camus.  His grandfather, still remembering the old ways of reading, taught him the words within the book and talked to him about their meanings.  While this behavior was not strictly forbidden by the state, it had been almost exclusively pushed out of societal norms. 

Now our hero has found himself at odds with society.  Upon re-reading The Stranger by Albert Camus he began to see himself in the character - not so much the kind of person who could kill a person and then show no remorse for it, but a person who perceived the world through a detached emotion.  Another thing he began to notice was that everyone around him held no distinct emotion to their experience, no unique experiences.

His car, which had been handed down to him from his father whom got it from his father whom got it from his father, was weaving between the automated machinery.  Each vehicle altering it's speed automatically to allow him easier access - a design feature programmed by the early programmers of automated cars to ensure those who still enjoyed driving wouldn't be held up while they were breaking various laws.  It was also a way for the state to monitor people who drove themselves - see too many cars in a location altering their speed and you know you have someone driving themselves.

His wife, whom he shared conversation with before this drive, had proclaimed him mentally unsuitable for children due to his perception of the world.  To him, this was not only an insult but an absurdity.  He knew the people of the world were lost.  They are lifeless, thoughtless, selfless shells of the humanity that had existed for hundreds or thousands of years. 

He remembered when he first read Camus' classic, how it made him feel when he read about that fateful gun shot and ultimate murder.  He felt conflicted.  He knew it was wrong for that gun to be fired, he knew it was wrong to murder someone, but what else could he have done in the situation?  It was the first time our villain of this story realized that people could have choices, and from that point forth he begun being paralyzed by choices.  He didn't want to same soup for dinner than his wife cooked night after night.  That old car that had been passed down between the generations suddenly looked like a viable means to get from point A to point B, at least if he could learn how to drive it - so he did.

He saw the different races of people, whom he had never really had any real interaction with before since they were forced to go to school together, take the same jobs as one another, and eat the same foods as one another - all dictated by the state, of course, because the state believed it knew what would suit everyone best.  Suddenly, however, he wanted to try the other ethnicities foods.  What about that round thing that was shared amongst an entire family?  What about that steaming hunk of meat that would be sliced into several slices, each going to the children, mother and father?  He didn't even have names for these things as the only thing he had to eat was soup - night after night, with the same ingredients. 

The conversations he had with his wife about other ethnicities, trying different foods, and how odd it was that these people did not share things with one another is what led her to believe him unfit for children.  In his society, little did he know, it was always the wife's job to report abnormalities within the household to the state. 

In his rear-view mirror he saw flashing lights coming towards him fast, but he had no idea what this represented.  All he knew is that each of the other cars on the road were moving to the side and stopping, automatically, while his car kept right on moving.

At one point, he stood at the door of another family of different ethnic background, but he couldn't bring himself to knock.  He just wanted to ask them a few questions about their lives.  He had heard once, in passing, that every ethnicity spoke a different language.  He just stood at the door, he never knocked, and they never knew.

There was a loud THUNK into the back of the car.  A moment later the engine died, along with all the lights, and the fuzzy sound coming out of the radio.  The flashing lights came up on him fast, it was several cars, and surrounded him on every side.  Guns pointing directly at him.

"Your wife has told us how you think, what you feel.  You aren't allowed to think.  You aren't allowed to feel."

His final thought was about standing at that door - how he should have knocked.

-Dustin S. Stover

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A Mildly Depressing Chapter with Little Purpose

A handful of people sit, by pure coincidence really, while a jazz band plays covers of music spanning nearly a century. The band alters the songs drastically to fit their jazz style, but the lyrics remained the same as those ultimately influential tunes.

The small crowd, mostly of an ethnic majority, parades themselves in fancy clothes as though it is a fancy night, though they don't do a tremendous amount to support the band or the establishment. One couple buys a drink, splits it between the two of them. Another patron doesn't even turn from the bar to acknowledge the band's hard work.

A group of friends, though, found themselves here by chance and begin to thoroughly enjoy the music.

The awkward silence after the first song suspends in the dimly lit air as though it would last forever, but then the pianist announces the next song and continues anyway.

The audience hasn't a clue that this fateful night was not supposed to have a band – this was a special event that had as much publicity as the homeless person sleeping on a park bench not even a mile away.

The song's original context of a few minutes extends well beyond ten in this format and contorts in such a way as to not even be recognizable if it were not for the lyrical content, which only interjects itself at random points.

The group of friends are really enjoying themselves as one of them turns to another to announce that jazz is their favorite type of music to see live – the way the band members converse with one another using their instruments as though speaking their own distinct language no one else understands and taking the conversation in seemingly random ways has always appealed to him.

The audience finally claps as the song ends, all it took was that one person to start it all. The pianist announces the next song, a cover of a famous Beatles song.

The couple sharing the drink looks at one another in disengagement. The man at the bar still hasn't peered up from the drink in front of him, now on his third or fourth. The group of friends seem to to be the only ones engaged in the music at all.

The song ends with the group of friends peering around to one another, presumably waiting for someone to give acknowledgment of how good the band played their cover song. The acknowledgment never came.

Etta James was next on the list of covers. They really did it good justice, even though the voice was nowhere close. The guy at the bar turned around, even forgetting about his drink for a minute or two. The group of friends bobbed back and forth to the rhythm of the music. The couple, one of which had slipped outside to smoke on his cigarette, had abruptly put it out and slip back inside the door and enjoy the pleasantry. The woman declines another drink as she refuses to take her eyes off the band.

A group of college age kids walk by, peaking through the windows as they giggle to themselves about how few people are being entertained. A snide joke is made about how the business is such shit that it will be closed soon.

The patrons, nor the band, hear any of it. Their entertainment trumps what they would consider the ignorance of youth.

Etta James' song ends and a round of applause loud enough to be three or four times as many people as there were bursts out as the closing line ends.

The music continues while each of the patrons leave. The man at the bar walks out slowly and unnoticed. Next the couple of single drink smokers, not even remotely caring if they are noticed. Finally, all that remains is the small group of friends, two of which want to stay but know they can't. They leave, begrudgingly. The bland finishes their last song a few minutes after the group leaves with no one remaining to applaud their work.

-Dustin S. Stover

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The Perplexing Condition of the Youth and the Elderly

A child, young enough to be a great grand daughter to the old man, tells him a story about how a chicken makes a “po” sound. The old man sits confused as this is the most perplexing thing he has heard. “No, child, chickens make a 'cluck' noise.”

Noticeably upset, the child gets louder, as though the loudness will make the old man change his perception. It doesn't. The old man, worn from old age yet still defiantly stubborn, refuses to raise his voice as much as he refuses to change his mind.

The argument continues on like this for quite some time – the child now red in the face and flustered as she continues to convince the old man as to how wrong he is. The old man, having lived a great deal longer than the child, also knows her to be wrong, but as he tries to explain to the child that it is simply a matter of geographical understanding that has led each of them to the different perspectives the child interrupts with the explanation of just how wrong he is.

The old man attempts to change the subject now. Perhaps music would be a more appropriate topic, he thinks. Of course, the child has opposition to this as well. See, she is hip on all the modern music and the old man, well, his prime was decades ago. He couldn't possibly understand what constitutes as musical today.

He tries to explain to her how sounds have textures, how they create emotion with the various depths in which the instruments get played, yet modern music has little of this. Timbre, he calls it while describing what it is. Of course, the youth don't care. They know what sounds pleasant to their ears without the critiquing aspect. In a way, the old man is jealous at the simplicity of the little girl's life, yet he knows that eventually she is going to have to grow up and face the harshness of reality. Teaching her depth about the pleasurable things in life is just his way of trying to prepare her for the world to come - to look at things from a deeper perspective without suffering consequences in the process.

Then the child plays the old man a song – some new song that has a diabolically simple bass line with a few blip noises to hold time. She dances like a mad man as the old man sits back wondering what it is she is dancing to. It makes no sense to him as there is no rhythm to dance to, but he lets it happen anyway. He has gotten to that point where he understands resistance is futile and trying to understand her is worthless. Being perplexed stays, though.

He has to ask anyway, “what do you like about this music?” The old man asks in a very sincere, non-offensive way.

“I just like it. I don't have to know why,” the girl answers quickly.

The admiration of the simplicity fades into an annoyance, yet remains enough for him to still wish he could be so simple.

That, however, is when politics enters into his mind. Remembering the past, having watched so much happen that has led to the point they are at today – socially, economically, politically. The simplicity in ignorance is what has led to such a catastrophic state. The unemployment numbers may be down, but the average income is extraordinarily low compared to the cost of living. Slavery may have ended, but it has arguably changed to prison labor instead. Political parties work their damnedest to divide a country while neither side is working to benefit the society as a whole. This is the world this girl will have to face and the old man fears that if she can't even understand that her admiration for the song is nothing more than because of how familiar it is then how will she ever have enough comprehension to know that every action is equal parts good and bad – how will she know that the politicians she votes for, if she even votes, are going to use her lack of understanding to ensure they get her support?

The old man has lived too long, he feels, as he sees now that he is alone in paying attention. The rest of the world is like this small child – trying desperately hard to enjoy things as superficially as possible, and finding hope in the promises of those who would manipulate them for their own personal gains and the gains of those they support.

Teaching someone of any age to care is difficult, but a child? That is downright impossible when they feel they know better. Of course, the old man knows he can't live forever. He just wishes better for the future.

-Dustin S. Stover

White Light, Blinding Room

The light is piercing, almost painful.  A solid white room with the brightest sunlight I could imagine pouring in from above as though someone placed the sun directly outside the clear glass surrounds me.  Painted on the walls, with invisible ink, are all the mistakes I've made in my life.

The room is so blinding that I can't find the door.  I can open my eyes only with the smallest of cracks.  I'd hoped that my eyes would have adjusted by now - has it been days?  Months?  Years?  A lifetime?  It definitely feels like a lifetime.

The brightness may as well be a thousand tons of weigh pressing down on me.  Still, I find myself pawing at the walls in an attempt to find the door.  All I feel, however, is the texture of the painted mistakes slightly raised off the walls of this deadly white.

I feel like giving up, but I'm so lost within in this room that even if I had the capability of doing so I wouldn't be able to see my way to doing it.  This is why the light is so much more dangerous than the dark.  At least when you're in the dark you can use a flashlight if you'd like, or just stay peacefully blissful.

Still, the textures, as uncomfortable as they feel, give me understanding.  Understanding of how I got here, how I trapped myself here in this never ending cycle of blinding pressurized existence.

Strangely, though, the room is absent of heat.  It is freezing, the way the air feels in the dead of winter, open field, and snow littering the landscape as though it is all that has ever existed.  I, however, am not cold.  It is just a feeling of brisk, frigid cold air surrounding me as these mistakes are my main companion.

I suppose that since my choices have always been that of my own, I only have myself to blame.  Still, it feels like a strange sort of relief to curse something else even though it is only a momentary relief as I release that I, in fact, am still the reason I'm here.

It is better to keep my eyes closed; however, that is too simple.  I have to keep them open, hoping I can see the painted mistakes and have them point me to something I've not yet seen.  The cracks in my eye lids opened as little as possible, but it is still hopeless.  Just white.  My hands are the only vision I have.

Crawling on the floor just renders more risen painted lines, but it still feels absolutely hopeless in deciphering anything.  It would be easier to give up searching.  I just... can't.

Sometimes I wish I could just go back into the dark like everyone else, but if I can just survive this experience then perhaps I will have knowledge coming out the other end that surpasses what I could imagine.

Simply have to keep hope alive long enough to find out.

-Dustin S. Stover

Money is Survival

As though it wasn't enough, we have an entire society that worships money and all means to obtain it.  Now, there's the pitch.  The game is all the ways in which humanity cons itself to obtain it.

Why, though?  This question is equally damning for morality as it is a perplexing philosophical meandering into what happens to humanity once it's need for survival is replaced with the fruits of their labor with an idealistic piece of paper or an account controlled with a piece of plastic.

When I was a wee little tyke, elementary school is the earliest I can remember being taught this, I was told humanity needed three fundamental things to survive.  Now, even at the time I found one of them to be a rather arbitrary survival trait that was more dependent upon where the human was existing than anything else; however, those three items of necessity were food, clothing, and shelter.  For the sake of simplicity we will assume water falls under the food category.

I imagine, and research agrees, that before mass civilization existed those fundamental things were provided for in the small tribes, lacking in currency of any sort and essentially, if trading did exist, was done in a means that traded goods and items as opposed to using currency.

Currency changed that, of course.  No longer did someone have to give up their supplies or goods in order to gain someone else's.  Currency became a tool to enrich lives.

Again, for the sake of simplicity, I will leave out thievery and other nefarious means of accumulating currency and focus on the positive side of currency.

Tactically, this worked well because if two neighboring tribes or cities wanted to trade in this manner, it broadened everyone's lives with things they were not otherwise experiencing.

Now let me attempt to bridge this gap.  When times became hard and a farmer's crops didn't render enough food, currency alleviated that by ensuring that food could still be had.  Likewise if farm animals began dying off from some disease.  Currency then doubled as a tool for survival.

Now, in today's society, currency, or money, is our means of survival.  We don't have the land to grow crops on to eat, and even if we do most of us wouldn't know the first thing about growing our own food (or have the time).  Money is the requirement to put food on the table.  Without money we become homeless, we don't have shelter or clothing.  Essentially, those three necessities are now reduced to one singular necessity - money.

So what happens if one has to live off of such a small amount of money that they can barely afford those necessities?  Well, the easiest thing to do is attach a desire to wanting more of that money because, at that point, more money equals more survival, or, at the very least, better survival.

That leads us to our modern day.  Over 40% of the population in the USA can't afford the basic necessities.  Forty percent of the population in this country is struggling to survive. Forty. Fucking. Percent.

It is actually closer to 43%. (a quick google search will fill in the rest of that information for you).

If that many Americans are struggling to survive, imagine how many of those are wishing for more money.  If that is what they wish for, it is only natural for it to turn into a worship.  Afterall, the whole premise of things being worshiped is the wish for something else - in religions case, for a better world in the form of an afterlife.  People worship celebrities because people wish they were said celebrity.  Worshipping money is, like the other forms, an extreme form of desire.

The worshipping of money, though, is also what has created the idolizing of figures like Donald Trump, who exudes the image of wealth in everything he does - or at least attempts to.  That is also where the big con comes in.  Official record now states that he has told over 5,000 falsehoods and untruths since he became sitting president.  That isn't even in two years.

Better yet, a look into his history will show you how often he has conned people our of their money - a fake university, convincing city government to give him a substantial tax break for something he never returned on, all the way down to paying a company to make over an ice skating rink and then take all the credit - this being after he guaranteed they'd get their due respect.

And why has he done all this?  I can't imagine to answer the full depth of that question, but one very obvious and equally prominent answer is money.  Except, he doesn't need all of his to survive.

Of course, the average person isn't a con artist - they just want to survive.

-Dustin S. Stover

Humanitarians

We approached the big, brooding building.  It struck me the way an old plantation owner's house would strike a former slave, and perhaps that was the point.  No one buys a house like this without the intention of proving to those who gaze upon it that they are more important than everyone else around.

The giant white rectangle stretched three stories high and what felt like half a mile from one end to the other.    I'm not sure what I've done in my life to be affiliated with such people, but I find myself to be quite uncomfortable now.

The things we do for love, knowing it's futility and inevitable decline into the mundane, should always be a perplexing notion.  Here I am, though, walking towards the big double door entrance into a former slave owner's home.  A representation of every founding principle of a country that claims to have been for freedom.

The woman who answers the door, of course the mother of my fiancee, looks the part - a home maker wife of wealthy proportions with the most important decision of the day being what she will have sitting on the table when her all too wealthy husband gets home from fucking his mistress after a long day at work.  Or, perhaps, just the mistress's apartment he pays for.

Jamie never told me that this was the type of house she grew up in and, perhaps, that is why it bothers me so much now.  We met at a distribution of wealth protest on Wall Street.  Her and her well worn clothes and good weed, we spoke of how fucked up society was.  I was raised on the opposite side of the spectrum - getting a job at fifteen to help pay for rent and food for my siblings and mom, as her job didn't pay enough to support the rest of us.

That was years ago, though, and since then we've established a good routine of responsible adulting along with a healthy coping mechanism of occasional sex and limited communication, the way that married couples find themselves.

"Well good evening, Jamie.  I'm so glad you kids could make it for the weekend."  Jamie's mom gives her a hug and just peers at me while her head is behind Jamie's.

"It is good to see you, too, Mrs. Andrews."  Even the name sounds like she'd own slaves if she could.

The first thing I notice as we are walking through the massive, open entryway that stretches clear to the roof - balconies lining both sides with pillars supporting it all - is that there are women cleaning things.  Their french maid outfits look just innocent enough to be sexually submissive, but being fit upon black women seems quite an odd thing.  It isn't often, after all, that one sees African American women wearing french maid outfits in porn and where else does one see french maid outfits in today's society?

The deeper into this house I get, the more I feel like I am taking a trip back in time.

Jamie's attitude and demeanor instantly change with the scene.  Her flowing dress and unkempt hair now looking even more out of place on her body than I feel inside this building. 

One of the maids is sheltered off in one of the corners - a baby bump forming a relatively noticeable in the black and white dress she is wearing.  At least she isn't beaten for getting pregnant.

"Ah, kids.  Welcome, welcome.  Make yourselves at home.  I won't be long."  Jamie's dad, Roger, sits inside an office adorned by two big wooden framed glass doors, one of which is opened allowing the odor of cigar smoke to pour out of the room and into my nostrils.  Roger sits on a luxurious leather swiveling chair with a phone in his hand - an old phone that is still connected by chord to a box with physical numerical keys, hold and forward buttons.  I have no idea where he would forward a call to.

"The old fuck won't even know what hits him!" Roger's voice is boisterous and full of bravado, which leads directly into a cackling laughter before he says his good byes and hangs up the phone.

Out back there is a porch with an overhang and spacious seating.  It overlooks the yard which, in the distance, features a massive pond that is almost big enough to name.

"Do you have any new work coming in, poppa?"  Jamie says with a polite and subordinate tone.

"Oh, my little girl.  Don't you worry about me.  You know I'm always on top of the world."

"Oh, your dad, Jamie.  Never one to be humble, you know."

It is like I am sitting in some parallel dimension .

"Of course I have more work coming in!  The work comes to me!" 

The lemonade on the table seems more interesting than where this conversation is heading.

"What do you do for a living, sir?"

"Sir!  That's it, my boy.  I am a sir!"  Roger cackles with his boisterous laughter.  "I make deals, my boy.  I make deals happen.  What are your plans?"

"Me?  I was planning on starting a non-profit to help at risk children get off the streets and establish a new life."  Roger's boisterous laugh is more prevalent than the times before.

"Oh to be a youth again!  Wild dreams, wild dreams.  Let me tell you something, son.  You can't help other people.  You've only got to help yourself."

"You definitely help yourself a lot," Margaret, Jamie's mother, says under her breathe.  It is quickly ignored by everyone.

"Maybe, sir."

"Oh, daddy!  You have to show Kevin your collection!"  I swear that the Jamie I know was abducted once we got here and replaced with an identical copy.  The one I know would have scoffed at the idea of collections.

Roger leads me back through the massive open hallway and down into the cellar.  "This, my boy, is worth more than what most people will make in a year."  He pulls out a vintage wine bottle as I am noticing that the collection he is so proud of is a wine collection.  He holds out a bottle of unopened wine with what looks to me to just be old, but I'm sure he is right. 

"Wow, sir." 

And on it goes, Roger pulling bottle after bottle and telling me information that easily slips in one ear and out the other.  "This really is a remarkable collection you've got yourself here."  Maybe an hour has passed, or more, when I finally tell him we should get back to the girls.

"You go ahead, my boy.  I will be back up in a few minutes.  I've got to use the bathroom."

"Are you sure it is his?" Jamie's voice is weak in the distance, but still understandable.

"Yes."

"Hey, ladies.  That was quite a collection your father has, Jamie."

"Yeah, he has been collecting those since before I was born."

"Let me show you kids to your bedroom."  It comes as almost a shock that they wouldn't be forcing us to stay in separate bedrooms, but then again it is two-thousand and eighteen.

"What were you and your mom talking about?"

"Oh nothing, Kevin.  Nothing you need to worry about."

"I am going to go for a walk."  Jamie nods in agreement and gives her approval, but stays behind.

As I'm walking around the giant pond I am contemplating how easy it would be to get into the car and drive off.  The only things I've unpacked have been my toothbrush, soap and shampoo.  I wouldn't even need to grab those things they are so cheap.

"Oh, I'm sorry sir."  I was so lost in my own thought that I hadn't even noticed I had stumbled into someone else's thinking spot.  It was the woman with the baby bump.

"No, no.  I'm sorry.  I didn't realize anyone else was out here.  What are you doing out here?" 

She peers into the water without a response, but she had to have heard me.

"Do you mind if I sit next to you?"  Her hand gestures to the spot close to her.  I notice that this particular spot is shrouded in shrubbery to be unseeable from the house.  "Are you out here hiding?"

"No sir."  Her voice frail and fickle.  The lie is as clearly read as a children's book.  "What would you do if you got someone pregnant and you didn't want to keep it?"

"I mean, I would talk it out with the girl I got pregnant.  If she decided to keep it then I would do everything I could to be as best a father as I could be.  The act of creating the child would be equal part mine as her's and it isn't her choice to be born as the one who would carry the baby for 9 months like it wasn't my choice to be the one who doesn't."

Her eyes squeeze so tight that her face shrinks before a drop of water falls down her cheek.  The drop turns into a full stream as her body bobs as she is gasping for air.

"What if... what if she decided to have an abortion without... without you?"

I tilt my head back to the sky and take a deep breathe.  "Ultimately, I would hope I'd be a consideration in that whole ordeal.  I would really hope, but ultimately..."  A let out a sigh.  "Ultimately, it is her body."

"He says he will have me killed if I don't have an abortion."  Her voice is less frantic as her tears and gasping for air slow. 

"Is it your boyfriend?"

Her eyes squeeze tight like before.  "No, sir."

"Please don't call me sir.  We're all equals here.  Sir is just a bullshit word to make someone feel more important than others.  Even calling Jamie's dad 'sir' is my little way of mocking his smug ass."

She chuckles between gasps.  "It's his."

"His?"  I turn my head to face her.  Her face still pointed to the water, eyes closed with tears still flowing.  "Roger's?"

"Yes.  He rapes me.  Now he is threatening to have me killed if I don't abort his baby."

There's nothing I can say.  There's nothing I can do, but I know I have to try.  I put my arm around her and pull her close to me.  "I'm so sorry."

We sat there like that, not saying anything, for long enough for me to feel like someone was going to start looking for me soon.  "I know there is nothing I can do about this situation.  I am just so, so terribly sorry."

Jamie lays sleeping on the bed, but I shake her awake.  "Jamie.  Your dad.  She got one of the maids pregnant."

"He does that."

"What do you mean he does that?"

"She isn't the first one.  She won't be the last one.  Why do you think they all walk around wearing those outfits?  You think my mom wants to see short skirted black women running around the house?"

"Well, no, but..."

"Look, this isn't any of your business.  This is my house."

I look at my suitcase, still packed and ready to go.  I get my keys and grab the suitcase and begin walking out.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" 

"I'm going home.  I'm going home and I'm packing up all of the shit you have there.  You're not the girl I thought you were."

"Kevin, what the fuck?"

"Jamie.  The woman I fell in love with was someone who believed in equality.  Someone who believed that no matter what your social status was financially, you should always be regarded first and foremost as a human being.  Your dad raped a woman, got her pregnant, and now you're defending his actions by telling me that this is your house.  If you can't see the irony in that..."

"Any woman who takes the job here knows what it involves.  She should have been on birth control.  She is just trying to take my daddy's money."

"Fuck this."  I close the door behind me, but it wouldn't have mattered either way as Jamie was clearly not following me. 

As I approach the car I remember what started the whole argument in the first place.  I remember the look in that woman's face as it shrunk and began to cry.  I remember holding her in my arms and why my shoulder is still soaked.  I shove my bag into the car and run back to the spot I found her at as quickly as I can, using the light from my cell phone to guide me.  Not even a candle lights up anything inside the house.  The light from Jamie's bedroom is still as dark as it was when I walked out. 

I arrive, but no one is there.  Nothing, not even a trace.  I think about how it is perhaps the wrong place, but no, this place is shrouded from the house.  Nothing remains here.  I look all around for any signs of human life, but it is too dark and too late to find anyone.

Defeated, I turn and make my way back to the car, quickly, but no longer as fast as before.  Once at the car, I open the door but before I can get in I hear something faint. 

"Take me."

I look around, but it is no use.  It is still too dark and the light from the car door isn't illuminating enough. 

She crawls out of the woods beside the car, the woman from the pond still wearing that ridiculous maid outfit. 

"Get in.  Get clothes from the suitcase and change out of that bullshit if you want."

She slides into the back seat of the car as I start the car and drive off.  Her head rests upon the suitcase, her eyes closed, and her body looking at peace - a peace like she has never known before.

-Dustin S. Stover