The Master of Seduction chapter 8 The trouble with women is You never know what happens Until it's too late We seemed so close, I'm thinking, just a week ago, we seemed so close. The detached observer, the man watching this story, unfold, slips, occasionally. I become myself again, blunder into the feelings, the deeply repressed emotions, I associate with Michelle, I daydream into the abyss, living nightmare, confront my feelings unaware. I gasp, I choke, I start to cough, repeatedly, I realize I am choking back sobs, not recognized as such, the response turns into a sardonic laugh. I recover my detachment. Yes, so close, what else is new, so close. You're getting close! Watch out! And the splash I fully intend to avoid, again, and again, appears as a crushing deluge. And I'm thinking, well, you proposed a romantic adventure to Michelle in an email four months ago, Jesus Fucking Christ, did that woman come through. Jesus Fucking Christ, did she fucking come through! And I started writing about us, I had, indeed, seduced this woman into a relationship, I knew there was a hell of a story here, don't know how I knew, I do have a sixth sense, I cannot deny it, but I had no fucking idea the story would move in this direction. I don't fucking believe it. And I stopped writing about us, I could not take writing about this drama with Michelle, I could not write about it and live it. At this point, I can barely live it, can barely stand to watch. I find it all appalling, I cannot imagine trying to sort all of this out. This is fucking amazing, I'm thinking, just fucking amazing, the superlatives, the constructions, I grope for, to understand it all, evade me, I can barely describe what I observe to myself. I find it so incomprehensible, so inconceivable, I cannot credit what I see. Jesus Fucking Christ. Amazing story. And I'm pacing, and smoking, and drinking, I see the couch of my life, the marble-topped table, Jesus Fucking Christ, I had no idea what adventures awaited me as a little boy sitting around that furniture. Wanted to have great stories to tell, you got one. Forced sardonic laugh. I note the little red volume on the table, knew the risk I was taking, thought of it when I proposed the job, thought of it every step, every generous gesture. Considered the advice tendered to the prince, perform generous acts for your own reasons, do not expect gratitude. The measure of the object's need, your generosity, the measure of hostility you reap, the punishment for demonstrating your strength. And the stronger the beneficiary, the greater the resentment. The bitterness born of insufficiency, the twisted revenge, on the benefactor. I'm so fiercely independent, Michelle said, it matters to her, I appreciate that, I know how important it is to her to maintain control. Despite her will, I manipulate her into a relationship, undermine the one she had, she fights her feelings for me, fights the relationship, fights me. And as everything falls apart for her, I'm there, observe every defeat, every manifestation of failure, of her love, her life. And there I am, associated with all of her disasters, many embarrassments, seeing her exposed, time and again, know her fate before she does, glean her secrets, the man she's been fighting, for months, and I get to take control of her life. With my largess. Yes, there is control in assistance, I have bound her to me, strings attached, no matter what I say, she will feel shame, indebtedness, guilt over the resentment, Michelle will feel hostility toward me. And I reassess the woman I have come to know, how she became so, the chubby pariah from the lesbian commune, no men in her life, little respect from them, I suspect, on entering the world, little respect for herself, no self-esteem, the transformation. After pregnancy, by a man who doesn't marry her, emergence as a beautiful woman, Venus revealed at Malibu Beach, the attentions of men, by the dozens. And I understand her comfort in the ability to control men with her allures, her smile, the strength she feels, needs, given her general powerlessness in life. She can always find a man to control, if only to reject. To say no. You can't fuck me. Regardless of the question. Right now, I am that man who most needs to be rejected. And she's in control again. Michelle finally gets to win one, Peter makes the victory complete. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, still thinking this the next morning, pacing and smoking in front of the coffeehouse. Jesus Fucking Christ! Well, I'm thinking, you told yourself you'd behave like a friend, no matter what, romance or no, you are there now. And ever since she'd left for Christmas, I'd been thinking of the possibilities available to her in this job I created. I'd already decided to make it as little demanding as possible, as pleasant as possible, didn't want her to feel trapped, just wanted to accomplish a few things, of large impact. And getting her into a larger, more conventional world, I hoped, might expose to her the talents, capacities, I know she possesses. She would learn how to code web pages, run a web site, myriad skills with wide application. She would get the benefit of connections I spent years making, she would have an opportunity to perform for people who mattered. A good old boy network of people with a predisposition to look out for friends, other worthy people. I had also noticed that the ranch was still for sale. Geez, I thought, would it still be possible for Michelle to pull this off? She'd lost her boarders, it would be more difficult, but she did have a track record at running a large stable, building a clientele. It might be possible. But I couldn't raise the issue until I saw how she performed. Terry, what if I can't do this? she asked at our last lunch before Christmas. What if I screw it up? Michelle is afraid of failure, she's afraid of success, she's fighting me again, winning. This might have been the worst time in her adult life, I'm thinking, not fooling myself, she is self-defeating, she does indulge these weird gender-oriented control gestures with men, with me. I can't judge her by that, I'm thinking, tough time for her, I'm caught up in her emotional turmoil, but this is business. Maybe she can avoid mixing all this up, take care of business, as business, this once. After all, she already won. She has Peter now. Maybe she'll stop fighting me. And I'll do everything I can to see she succeeds, she cannot screw up these projects, she has all the talents she needs. And maybe, just maybe, we can resuscitate the ranch deal. Fucking Peter, I find myself thinking, fucking Peter. Fucking pathetic. Well, I just wanted to see her happy, with me or without me. Now you can put your money where your mouth is, I'm thinking. No wait a minute, I already did that. No, I'm thinking, this is where you act like a man. Attempt to conduct yourself as a gentleman. And I'm thinking, well, thanks, Michelle, thanks again. If nothing else, she does make me act like a man. If nothing else, she has given me that. Mental attitude readjusted sufficiently, I depart for the stables. Michelle is vague about how much help she has lined up, how much she needs, despite my resolutions, I'd really rather not go. I cannot, however, think of her alone, at the stables, in the rain and mud, struggling, as I expect. This is not fun anymore, still, I must go. We talk a bit, I smoke, we need to go to Napa to borrow a truck from somebody so she can pull a large trailer. Along the way, Michelle works the phone, calls from boarders, calls to job possibilities, calls in general, she is a dynamo, screening as appropriate. Who's that, what's she want now? Not talking to you, sorry. Or, Oh, hi, glad you called. She handles a dozen or so during the twenty-minute drive, bantering with me, easily, the whole time. Ah, buddies again? Michelle inquires about my New Year's Eve plans, I tell her I'm waiting to see, go out of my way not to try too hard at New Year's, always disappointing. She has off and on plans with one of the friends she went to Mexico with, decided, finally, on a dinner party, just the girls. I like the sound of that better than some alternatives. I am really waiting for her to suggest we do something together, will not hold my breath. And I certaily will not suggest it. We arrive at a squalid property off the highway, days of rain reducing it to a mire, farm equipment and junk everywhere. I recognize the guy, big, beefy, like the boyfriend, Dan. He was stacking hay for Michelle one day six months back, wondered what his story was. He displays an odd diffidence, won't look either of us in the eye, mumbles alot, seems chastened somehow, think I make him uncomfortable. I leave them alone, see Charlie Brown. Covered with mud, he stands outside in a sodden paddock. I say hello, Charlie Brown is not very interested, won't even come to the fence so I can scratch his nose. No apple, huh? Fuck you. We leave in the guy's truck, Michelle says, That man is wierd. I had to get a restaining order against him during the summer. He went kind of crazy, started talking about how I was his soulmate and stuff like that. Creepy stuff. You wouldn't believe the tack box he made for me, she continues. He made it out of wood, it was beautiful. You have to pay, like, seven hundred dollars for something like that. He started stalking me, and following me around. And then he got some guy to call Dan, to tell him I was cheating on him, running around with all kinds of guys. It was a real mess. Michelle relates this story without any sense of embarrassment, could be talking about anything, this sordid little tale, like so many I've heard from her, by now, she seems not to think it remarkable that she pervades her life with such incidents. Seems not to occur to her that perhaps she should not be tempting the man further. I, of course, say nothing. I am busily imagining the conversations she had with Peter the other day, moving horses. Hey, she says, to Peter. Remember that guy you met at the deli during the summer? Terry? He's really been after me. You wouldn't believe the things he's given me. The money, the gifts. Yeah, he's really got it bad. He even gave me money to visit my dad for Christmas. And for a present, he gave me this beautiful antique riding crop. Engraved my name on it. You have to pay, like, a couple of hundred dollars for something like that! Bruce calls him stalker guy, she says, with a chuckle and a smile. A fucking chump. This takes little imagination, I've heard all her lines before, I think, used one of them for Peter, talking to me about fucking him, used one for this last guy, takes little imagination at all. And we're talking like everything's normal, like we might be two adults who like each other, friends, maybe lovers, one day, all illusion. And I'm smiling and nodding, saying uh huh, barely paying attention, Jesus Fucking Christ, this is fucking torture. Yes, I'm thinking, Michelle does make me act like a man. Makes me act like a man, I'm thinking, as she tries to castrate me. Fucking dumbass. And I marvel at my lack of anger, hostility, toward Michelle, I see only that image of her the day I gave her the riding crop. I see her crumpled body, face, spirit, tears, leaking from the eyes squeezed shut, I touched her, I scared her, she's a sweet little girl who never had a break, she can do whatever she wants to me. We get back to her stables, she gets a call. It's a discussion about a chicken sandwich. On finishing, Michelle explains that Peter was coming over to help, wanted to bring her lunch, she said no, because there would be no sandwich for me. And Peter shows up a little while later, first time I've seen him since meeting, looks like a big little boy, husky, ruddy face. We greet each other, shake hands, spend a while shuttling things to the new place, we all go to the deli, I buy lunch. And I don't know what I'm doing, really, going through the motions, lizard brain takes over, dull, unfeeling, I'm as automatically pleasant as I can be. Peter follows Michelle around like one of her dogs, he's devoted to her, she laps it up, at least they're not holding hands. And Peter is as polite as he can be, deferential to me, really a nice young man, yes, I'd be proud to call him my son. Son of a bitch. And it's cold and wet and I see Peter shivering, didn't bring a jacket, I offer him one of mine, No, he says, I'm okay, and he continues to shiver. And he's trying so hard to be a gentleman here, trying to be nice, I can't fucking stand it. Nice young man. I finally go to my car, get the jacket, force it on him. Thank you, he says, embarrassed. Jesus Fucking Christ! And we're all tacitly aware of this situation, me least of all, lizard brain suppressing sensibility. And there's mud, and rain, and horses, and Michelle and Peter, and we're driving around together doing things, old stable to new, and back, but I'm not sure what anymore. And it's getting dark, it's pouring rain, and I leave Michelle and Peter to spend the evening at my local bar. I walk in, everyone says, Hey, Terry! We drink and bullshit, and I laugh and tell stories, go next door to eat Chinese, go home. And it's pouring, like the tropics, unrelenting, my wipers can't keep up, Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, this is bad. I get to the turnoff where the road runs into the mountains, drive through the first curve, and all of a sudden I'm in a river, the creek has overflowed its banks, water everywhere, high. I open my car door to see how much clearance I have, mere inches. I back up, park, pull on my high rubber boots, with a flashlight walk ahead to see how deep. Within a hundred feet the water is a foot high, coming into my boots. Going home right now is not an option. I return to the bar, have another drink, the women who own it are asking if we think they should sand bag. Oh, yes, everyone agrees, half the bar already has stories about the flooding, creeks everywhere spilling over, cars underwater on some nearby thoroughfares. The river, across the street, is close to overflowing, situation close to desperate. I am going home anyway, I decide. Retrace my route, I'll park on the high ground, walk the two miles to my mountain top, get a pair of tennis shoes wet, bottom of my pants, no problem. I check the road again first, not so bad now. I drive to the gated entrance to the mountain, on up, along my muddied gravel road. It is more of an adventure than I want right now, car can skid down the hillside if I get this wrong. It's the next morning, New Year's Eve, I leave to help Michelle move some more. Again, she was vague about needing help, I'd just as soon not be there with Peter, but she can't manage to plan or schedule, don't want to leave her alone. I'm creeping down the asphalt drive connecting my gravel track with the county road, notice it's been undermined, this could be serious, if it goes, I can't drive up to my mountain top. Jesus Fucking Christ. A little further, I encounter the three redwoods that fell across the drive when part of the hillside slipped into our creek. Jesus Fucking Christ. I am cut off. I call Michelle, tell her I don't have a car today till we get the trees cut. She does not offer to come get me, she has all the help she needs. I do not say Happy New Year, I do not consider whether she will make it to the party with her girlfriends, do not think about her spending the night with Peter. With a great deal of effort, I do not think about these things at all. I hitch a ride to town, watch the raging river, survey the lakes all around the downtown, cars underwater. Twelve inches of rain fell in my mountains, the creeks feeding it all to the river, everything overflowed, power out almost everywhere, I would feel rather smug, live on a mountain, after all, except that I may lose my road and access to the top. Jesus Fucking Christ. I return to the mountain in the afternoon, the neighbor has already had the trees cut, our road cleared. If only the asphalt drive doesn't disappear, if only. The rain, finally, stops. I spend New Year's Eve alone, nowhere to go, power out everywhere. At least I have my own generator. Happy Fucking New Year. Michelle and I spend the second day of the New Year alone, still shuttling horses and equipment between the stables, should have been done by now. The proprietors of the place she's vacating continue to distinguish themselves with petty behavior, actually complain to Michelle about leaving the wood chips behind in the parking area, want her to dig out all the drainage trenches. As if the biggest flood in twenty years is her fault. We retrieve Ty from the stables where the prospective buyer kept him while looking him over, not interested after all, no five or six grand payday for Michelle. We spend the day in the muck, eat at the deli. More of the same the next day, but Peter's back. At some point, the subject of goat cheese comes up, God knows how. Michelle hates it, feels compelled to explain to me that Peter fixed a great pasta sauce and ruined it by putting goat cheese into it. Thank you for sharing that, I think, as I smile and nod, Yes, isn't that funny. Peter and I end up working alone together while Michelle does other errands, I determine in conversation that he's returning to Europe in five weeks. Well, I'm thinking, hope Michelle makes the best of this fine young man, hope he's a good fuck buddy, that's what she said she wanted, someone to fuck, no emotional attachments. I'm sure Michelle will be very happy, no emotional attachment at all to this nice kid, no one will feel anything at all. Fucking dumbass. Oh, Michelle. Sigh. And Peter and I are waiting for her at the old stables, her little tractor is one of the last things to go, the stable owners object. Seems there's a disagreement over who owns it, the foul-mouthed owner immediately starts cursing, cursing Michelle, Peter and I avoid him. Hey, we each say in turn, work it out with Michelle. He calls the sheriff. And he's striding back and forth, spewing hatred for Michelle, and the wife goads him on, Yes, she agrees, Michelle's a real bitch, and Peter and I just try to stay out of their way, and I'm thinking what malicious fucking assholes, known Michelle much of her life, she built a business there that they're killing, don't care, must exact revenge on Michelle. They're worth millions in property and pensions, Michelle has nothing, their doing, and they want to crush her. Just because they can. The deputy arrives about the same time Michelle does, no crime has been committed, the owners are spitting and frothing. Michelle doesn't argue, maintains her composure, real grace in response to intemperate bile. They can keep the tractor. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, she really is something, my admiration for her boosted to yet another level. She's a hell of a woman, I'm thinking, yes, perfect descripton, didn't mean it like that, but perfect, yes, she is a hell of a woman. In every sense of the expression. Too bad she's such a self-defeating dumbass. And then it's over. Our work is done, I'm thinking, my time at these stables is over, that special world I shared with Michelle is over. No more riding Jaxon in the vineyards, no more training Charlie Brown with Michelle, no more cigarettes in the white plastic chairs. It's all over. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, it was so sweet out here, what we had. All I see now is the muck, everywhere the muck. I'm ready to go. Night is falling, the western skies brighten behind the scrim of gray backdrop, flying dark clouds, scattered rain drops. Mud, mud, mud everywhere. Before I leave, Michelle makes a point of retrieving the skull from its place on the overhang. Late in the morning, next day, I arrange to meet Michelle at her house, I drop off a box full of xeroxed newspaper clippings, historical research concerning the old resort Billy Cash hopes to develop. I need it all organized, explain it to Michelle, she seems not too excited at the prospect. It'll be easier than you think, I say. You can do it watching television. And I'm thinking, yeah, and you might learn something, too, this wouldn't be a bad project to get involved in, somehow, if this comes together, if, it will be a very big deal. Big fucking deal. If. She'll come to the office on Monday, four, five days from now, I tell her I'll call her over the weekend to work out the details. From her place, I drive to the stables where Jaxon will now be boarded, the owner didn't like Michelle's new facility. These stables are just minutes from Michelle's house and the deli, not too bad, I'm thinking. This could work out great, I'm thinking, maintain a little of our old routines, new context. Jaxon doesn't seem to remember me any better than Charlie Brown did, I've been avoiding him the last week or so, rain and Michelle's move dictating the neglect. I inform Billy of my plans to have Michelle come in a bit, no problem, I inform the secretary, the parking lot attendant, that she'll be around next week off and on for a while. Everything's set. I call Michelle over the weekend, no answer, leave a message, let's talk about Monday, the schedule. By Monday, I still have not heard from Michelle, not surprised. She's looking for work, I know, has the new stables to arrange, horses to find homes for. Even so, we should talk, I need to know what's going on, I call her midmorning, leave a simple message, Hey, Michelle, hope everything's going well, give me a call. She responds Tuesday, leaves a message. Hi, Terry, she says, sing-song voice of woe, but not quite. Sorry I haven't gotten back to you. So much has happened. I've had this horrible toothache for days, and I finally went to the dentist yesterday. It's an abcess. I need a root canal. Then I had a chance to make some money doing a surgery. And you wouldn't believe what's going on at my new place. I'm sorry I couldn't make it in, she says. Can we start next Monday? Seeya, bye! All just as I suspected, I'm thinking, poor Michelle. Of course, next Monday will be fine. I return the call within half an hour of getting it, she doesn't answer, I leave a message. Hi, Michelle, I say. Next Monday's fine. I'll call you over the weekend to work out the details. And good luck with all that other stuff. Seeya, bye. For the rest of the week, I try to organize my office, restore order. Consolidate the stacks of books accumulated during my searches, inventory the old prints I'd acquired in the last six months. Contrive a new history display to replace the antique toys in the downtown storefronts. The general change in my schedule disorients me, I feel as though I have nothing to do now that the midday riding routine is over. And, of course, I simply miss seeing Michelle, being with her regularly. I also worry over Michelle, so convinced have I become of her instability, despite the long-demonstrated ability to survive. This time, I think, it was a close call, I'm not sure she's really grounded yet. I cannot, however, deny her resilience. I saved her ass when she needed it most, but Michelle was taking control of her life again, again found it admirable that she was drumming up work, juggling the horses and stable, back to a semblance of herself. As for Michelle and Peter, together, that was none of my business. The boyfriend had subjected her to a personally designed hell, she had to respond to her needs her way, none of my business. Her self-doubts, her self-torments, defy my imagination, her burdens to bear. I just hope she comes out of it okay. And maybe, just maybe, one day, she'll be ready for me. For awhile anyway. Meanwhile, we were still friends. Near the end of the week, clears up, warms, I intend to pay Jaxon a visit at his new home, meet with the woman who owns the stables. She's a tall, rangy woman, like Michelle, but long, blonde hair, instead. Attractive, in the same earthy, no-makeup way. Displays the same easy confidence, sense of command, on her territory, but to a greater degree. After a perfunctory hello, I stand aside and watch as she gives lessons to a woman decked out in English gear, the horse looks familiar. They ride around the nicely groomed oval of a gravel run, the owner standing in the sandy center, scrutinizing the couple. She offers her advice in a strong, clear voice, discouraging hesitation, this is, undoubtedly, what the rider should do. The similarities and nuanced differences contrast vaguely with Michelle's manner, can't put my finger on it. English lessons demand a different level of intervention, have to manage the horse and posting, coordinational nightmare for the novice like me. This rider can post, moves well up and down, in conjunction with the horse, the owner still has much to recommend. And I'm trying to put my finger on it, this subtle difference I see between her and Michelle, disregarding the riding style, Oh, yeah, I'm thinking, yeah, that's it. Superficially, they are both equivalently commanding, in control. But this woman demonstrates a sense of security, she doesn't need to convince herself she's in control, whatever measures of self-confidence each may have, this woman seems free of doubt. And I'm thinking this as I watch the lesson proceed, the rider has these problems with the horse, she's afraid of him, not comfortable, it's an issue, he seems too spirited for this constipated exercise. And I'm watching the session, observing the instructor, the student and horse, speculating, and the horse balks a bit, the rider says, plaintive voice, slight whine, Oh, come on, Jaxon, be nice. Jaxon, I'm thinking, well I am a dumbass, did not recognize Jaxon. No wonder he's troublesome, he just wants to go for a run. With me, no doubt. Oh, Jaxon! I'm thinking. Oh, Jaxon! I miss you. And it takes me by surprise. I cough, stifle the successors, straighten up again, nose in the air, just as the women look to the noise. I'm standing there smoking, snug jeans, black boots, belt, white t-shirt, suede flight jacket, wire-rim sunglasses. I look, I know, just like an Air America pilot, circa 1967, down to the arrogant body language, we live by different rules. They return their attention to the riding, cannot see my trembling, the welling tears behind the sunglasses, the strays rolling down my cheek, I am choking back sobs. Oh, Jaxon, I'm thinking, no more gallops through those vineyards, our own special world, our own special relationship, we were meant for each other. This person does not appreciate you, should not ride you. Oh, Jaxon. This only takes five or ten seconds, and I know, of course, by then, I'm not thinking of Jaxon at all. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, you can bury those emotions from yourself, but they will leak out when you least expect them. I breathe deeply, square my shoulders, straighten up again, imperious. Yes, I tell myself, you are above it all. Except when I'm not. They end the session after ten or fifteen minutes, the owner says, You should try my horse, he'll be a lot easier on you. The rider is convinced. She's the woman who shares the lease on Jaxon, never met her at Michelle's, I introduce myself, seems she's always been afraid of him. Not so sure she wants to renew her half of the lease. After her departure, the owner shows me around. The stables are well-maintained, nicely appointed, match the ranch house in front. She indicates where I can cross the creek to get to the vineyards further back, no time soon, though, still running high. In the course of conversation, the owner alludes to her husband, they're prosperous, obviously, been together some time. I ask about smoking, a problem? Oh, no, she says. My husband smokes. And it hits me, oh, yeah, that's it. She lives a secure, traditional life, I'm thinking, unthreatened by trivial manifestations of random fate. And I think she genuinely likes and respects her husband, just the way she said, My husband smokes, no hint of disapproval. No gratuitous need to find a reason for it, either. And I'm thinking of Michelle, the first time I saw her, the first months I observed her, the self-confidence evident, but accompanied by that tentative streak, wasn't quite sure of something. And of course this woman is more grounded, more together, yes, together, an integrated whole. Michelle, always on the verge of disintegration. Not sure of herself, not sure of anything. But fiercely independent. Deadly combination, that, deadly combination. Jesus Fucking Christ. I call Michelle over the weekend, no answer, leave a message. Hi, Michelle, just called to find out when you're coming in. Give me a call, seeya, Bye. And it's Monday morning, now, I'm pacing and smoking in front of the bank building, have not heard from Michelle, I'm thinking, oh, well, Michelle's got a lot going on now, not much of a surprise. Things'll settle down. Go back into the office, flip through the pages of the more significant books I've picked up in the last months, forgot how interesting some of these are, some magnificent, obscure stories come to light. Billy's working the phone from across the corridor, making, massaging, deals, lawyers, contractors, engineers, community leaders, reporters, variously on the other end of his conversations. Done with his morning calls, resources deployed, he walks out from his office, sees that I'm in, for once. He wants to talk. Despite our superficial differences in appearance, personality and style, we're more alike than not under the skin, feed each other's shared enthusiasms, especially our growing history endeavor. Billy explains that he's in the process of simplifying his affairs, most of his big projects are in final stages, long-range deals are on their way, his immediate attentions no longer required. The point, he says, is to stabilize everything, so he can focus on trying to develop the old resort, the initial impetus for my post-marital history obsession. There's no doubt in Billy's mind that the place can make money, pay for itself as a business deal, in any number of ways, he's exploring myriad contingencies. He really just wants to see the stone ruins saved, maybe restore a few of the buildings that still have walls intact, recreate the original landscaping, gardens, with limited access to the public. The trick is paying for it, he has it figured out. The seven-hundred-acre mountainside could accommodate a couple of dozen mansions on an acre apiece, damn near pay for the total price of the entire property. Could lease a hundred acres for vineyards. A polo facility could generate a small fortune, patrons spend substantial amounts on membership and use fees, low impact on the environment, big money. The politics interject the only doubt, no question that money could be made on the project, no question that it would be a great cultural contribution to the valley. But nothing can happen if the politics don't allow it, if project and permits aren't approved, if too many legal challenges threaten. Otherwise, this can happen, theoretically, at least. The history research we're doing offers a compelling reason to do something to save the ruins, they are important, their evolution providing a behind the scenes look at the great affairs of the nation. The history will help with the politics. So will certain potential community allies, and hikers and horseman comprise an affinity group equally served by trails, the former reaching into environmental circles, the latter into old families with money. The horsemen, it seems, can provide clout and resources inconsistent with their small numbers, Billy sees them as major players, and he likes the idea of horses and riders anyway, just for history's sake. He's even talking about rebuilding the old barn to display a carriage collection we know of. And Billy's getting excited as he's talking, and I encourage it with my own enthusiasm, and all of a sudden he's telling me he wants to turn the grandest ruin of all, too far gone for restoraton, the grandest ruin of all into stables. We discuss how that might look, work, issues of access and priority, how public stables might operate within the overall plan, but Billy loves the idea, his idea, after all, and I'm certainly not going to object. And in the middle of this, Billy and I are both energized at the prospects, both overcome with enthusiasm, and Billy, in the middle of this, stops himself short, obviously has an idea, just hit him, Hey, he says. Your friend, Michelle. She could run the place, that's what she does right? What do you think of that? Billy's standing there with his hands on his hips, broad grin on his face, he loves the idea, met her, found her pretty sharp, he thinks it's an excellent plan. Geez, Billy, I say, taken aback but pleased. That's a great idea. She'd be perfect. Yeah, he says, that could work out just fine. By the way, how's she doing, did she find new stables? Yeah, I say, but they're small, and she won't be able to support herself off it. She's looking for work as a vet tech now. That's too bad, he says. Wasn't she coming in one of these days? Yeah, I say, one of these days. But she's still got a lot to deal with right now. She's got some major problems. Whatever happened to that ranch you were looking at with her? he asks. That fell through, I say. You know, she had these plans with her boyfriend and these other vets, and all that kind of came apart. But I've been thinking about that myself. I just drove by there the other day, and it's still for sale. I was thinking of floating the idea with her again. And Billy wants me to refresh his memory about the property, where is it exactly, and he's thinking things, he's developed lots of the property in that area, he's thinking things, thinking possibilities. Well, he says, concluding, we both have to move on, he says, Well, let me know if anything happens with that. Hey, Billy, I say, you'll be the first to know. Honest. By the time I return to my office, a combination of hyperawareness and racing thoughts, elation and anxiety, overtake my faculties, I'm thinking fast here, sorting things out, Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, Jesus Fucking Christ. This could work out just as I thought, we could pull something off for her, Jesus Fucking Christ, Harley's talking about Michelle running those stables, knew something like that could happen, never dreamed such a prospect could arise so quickly. Slow down, I'm thinking, that project might not happen, would take five years minimum if everything played out perfectly. Five years, I'm thinking, yeah, five years, about the time it would take for that ranch to double in value. In five fucking years Michelle could bank a million dollar profit on the land deal alone, God knows what kind of income, surplus, she could generate from the stable operation in that time, she can run a ranch, she can make money on horses. Yeah, in five fucking years she could be set for life, and then take over the most dramatic stables in the country, on a hundred-million dollar resort property. With me or without me. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, and Billy's interested in that land, a little bit. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, Michelle has another chance here, maybe this time she won't fight me so fucking hard. I did, after all, save her ass, already. A couple of times. Oh, yeah, I'm thinking, and I've been wondering about how that's really going to play out. Jesus Fucking Christ. I sit down behind my desk, still thiking these thoughts, yes, there is potential for big things here, yes. But where the fuck, exactly, is Michelle? And it's almost noon, if she was going to be here, would be here now, where the fuck is she? I'm starting to get annoyed. I call Michelle, no answer, leave a message. Hi, Michelle, I say, it's Terry. Give me a call, let me know what's going on. Seeya, bye. And I try to sound casual, hide my annoyance, sound normal, upbeat, don't want to nag her, make her feel nagged. It's Tuesday, still have not heard from Michelle, what the fuck, I'm thinking, what the fuck is going on. But I am not going to call her today, this is her responsibility, don't want to nag, I'll wait to see what happens. And I check my cell phone at one point in the morning, see that Michelle left a message. This will be good, I'm thinking. Hi, Terry, she says. I'm so sorry I couldn't make it in. So much is going on, you have no idea. I found out it'll cost a couple of thousand dollars for the root canal, and this abcess is killing me. I think I can get a break at this dental school, but I have to get on a waiting list. Anyway, she says, continuing, I'll come in tomorrow. How about nine? She says all this in a bright, breathy voice, sounds, really, like everything's going okay for her, sounds confident, strong again, in control. Then she shifts into the voice, all velvet, makes me melt, haven't heard this voice from her in some time, I realize. Hey, Terry, she says, right to my core, that voice. I miss you. I got used to seeing you every day. We have to get together. Okay? Then, all cheery again, Seeya, bye! Yes, I'm thinking, yes, we should get together. Thinking of that voice. The warm feeling passes, I'm thinking, yes, we should get together. So where the fuck are you? I call her back within half-an-hour of getting the call, no answer. I leave a message. Hi, Michelle, I say, casual, upbeat voice. Sorry to hear about your tooth. Yeah, tomorrow's fine, and don't worry about getting here at nine. Any time between ten and eleven would be okay. Poor Michelle, I'm thinking, can't get a break, now an abcess. Can't get a fucking break. Three thousand bucks, I'm thinking, three thousand bucks. No, I don't think so, I am not going to pay for fucking dental work. It hasn't rained for a few days, most of the county highways have been cleared of the fallen trees, the small lakes covering roads and streets have receded, maybe I can go riding today. Get my mind off this for a while, stop thinking about Michelle, the ranch she might buy, the stables she might run at the resort, the fucking abcess. Jesus Fucking Christ, cannot think about this now. Jaxon stands off as I appear at the Dutch door to his stall, the next horse over greeting me immediately. Figures, I'm thinking, you're forgetting about me too, wait a minute, what do you mean by that, I'm thinking, no, do not go there. Carving the apple just as before, I give most to Jaxon, he condescends to eat it, slip the neighbor a few smaller bits. I saddle Jaxon up, lead him through the muddy corral to the creek bank, mount him. We have to weave our way down a short, steep path, Jaxon picks his way carefully through the rocks in the creek, walks the twenty feet across almost daintily, Arabs do have a thing about water, glacial pace. I'm aware, very aware, of bad possibilities here, this would be a bad place to get thrown, all uneven, hard, flood born trash and snags everywhere. Bad place for Jaxon to lose it. And I'm thinking all this crossing the creek, thankful that it is deep enough that it might soften a fall, little consolation. He makes it over without incident, we emerge through the trees into the vineyards Jaxon's owner told me about. You'll love riding out there, she said, and the stables are so much nicer! She did not get beyond the stables, I'm thinking, yeah, they're slick, but the old place wasn't bad. And the vineyards ran for miles, almost no trace of modern civilization, little trace of anybody. Just vineyard-covered hills in every direction, the bay, oak-clad foothills in the distance. And the roads ran for miles too. And I'm thinking about the old riding grounds, looking at the new ones, and I'm sick. Cars and heavy trucks speed by on the highway half-a-mile away, the big engines growling during downshifts for the curves. Other major roads bracket us on every side except where the creek runs, rural outbuildings and rusting vehicles punctuate the perimeter. There's trash everywhere, old trash, old steel of every sort, I have to worry about Jaxon misstepping, injuring his hooves or me. The available acreage is flat, unfeatured but for the ragged vineyards and random eyesores, and dominating its southeast corner is a small airport for private planes. I'm sitting astride Jaxon, we're walking slowly along, and I get more and more angry, really angry, but there's no one to blame, I know this, I'm just angry. Well, those people who evicted Michelle, I'm thinking, yes, I can be angry at them. Fucking assholes. This is little consolation, I'm not going to indulge this, indulge anger, but this is absolutely depressing, no comparison to riding at the old place, this is barely tolerable. At that moment, I flinch as an airplane flies into view from behind, catches me by surprise, have just enough time to think about Jaxon, who predictably bolts. I rein him in fast, he just runs a few yards, turns and stops, sees the plane isn't after him, I soothe his nerves with soft words,a pat on the neck. The rest of the ride is plagued by planes coming and going, revving their engines on take off, silently gliding down, then gunning their engines on landing, Jaxon jumps with every arrival and departure, head roving this way and that looking for attackers. This is not good, I'm thinking, as I put him up. This is not fun. It's Monday morning, I'm pacing and smoking in front of the bank building. It's almost eleven o'clock, I am cold angry. No sign of Michelle. I am not thinking much, not much at all, I am busy quelling my anger. Instead of thinking, I repeat to myself the mantra, I don't fucking believe it, I don't fucking believe it. I don't fucking believe it. I don't have to think, I've thought about everything, been thinking about everything for months now, I do, indeed have the full picture here, no doubt about it, Michelle is deranged, that's it, that's everything, I don't fucking believe it. The phrase perfectly sums up all I cannot contemplate, convenient device to acknowledge and dissipate my anger, automatically. I don't fucking believe it! I slip once in a while, find myself thinking, once, I can't believe she's doing this to me, rebel at the sentiment. She can't do anything to me, I'm thinking, that fucking dumbass can't hurt me. She's doing this to herself. Fucking dumbass. That deal could actually happen again, could have been on the way by now. If only Michelle had shown up. She fucked it up again. Fucking dumbass. Michelle just fucked herself. And she fucked us, that us I'd constructed, I'm thinking, whatever else was going on between us, this wasn't about romance, this was a business deal between friends. Michelle is fucking this relationship we had, romance is no excuse, not an issue here, Michelle is going out of her way to fuck our friendship. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, yeah, this is some story, thought I figured out all the possbile outcomes, in general, this never occurred to me, whatever doubts I had about Michelle, growing over the months, capricious nature, moods, it never occurred to me she would not meet this commitment. That she would actually fuck me over in a business deal. I don't fucking believe it. I don't fucking believe it. And I'm wondering if I should call Michelle, no, what's the fucking point, she never answers the phone anyway, and that gets me thinking again, that's right, she never answers the phone. For me. Anymore. And I'm thinking of watching her work her phone over these months, especially the last weeks, we shuttled horses around, saw her take dozens of calls, took most, screening some. Ooh, she said, do not want to talk to her. Or, Damn, him again. What's he want now? Making faces. Like she's smelling shit. And I'm thinking of all the calls I've made in the last week or so, five, six, something like that, during the day, at night, on a weekend, she always has her phone with her, she's always checking it, I imagine her getting those calls from me, no, do not have to imagine, I saw it, I'm sure same words, same expression, Oh, shit, Terry again. Why doesn't he get a clue? No, I am not going to call. I do not fucking believe it. Michelle calls late Thursday morning, leaves a message. Certainly sounds like she's herself again, yes, herself again, whoever the fuck that is, I hear the same excuses, abcessed tooth, so much going on, if you only knew! Yes, I know, I do, fucking, know. But I'll be in on Monday! Honest! Then the voice, again, all velvet. Oh, Terry, she says. You know, I got so used to seeing you every day, seeing your face. I miss you. That voice, again, all velvet. I do not get mushy inside this time, I note, not mushy at all. I pull up the pictures I have of Michelle on my laptop, run the slide show option on my laptop, the images lingering a few seconds before moving to the next one, it cycles through the half-dozen. Starting with the picture of her hugging Lucy, ending with the dogs, the enigmatic smile, Catch me if you can. And I'm watching the pictures come and go, I'm thinking of the good feelings they once evoked, the warm glow seeping throughout my body, just a flicker now, extinguished viscerally, cold anger. I don't fucking believe it. I'm not even going to walk away from this with the ghost of a good memory. I don't fucking believe it! ANd now it's Monday, again. I'm pacing and smoking in front of the bank building, it's past eleven o'clock, I am cold angry. Where the fuck is Michelle? I return to my office, sit behind the desk, lean back in my chair. I don't fucking believe it. My head could explode. My cell phone rings, I look to see who it is. Michelle. I'm tempted not to answer, just to hear the message she leaves. I hit the talk button. Hello? Terry, it's Michelle, she says, sobbing, choking out the words. I'm sorry, I'll pay you back, I can't help it, a horse ran me down. And I had to go to the doctor, and see if my legs was broken, and get pain pills, and, and... She's hysterical, sounds it, anyway, gasping for breath, crying. Michelle, I say, Michelle. It's okay. Where are you? And she's gasping and sputtering and crying, she seems to have to think about where she is, and I say, again, Where are you, Michelle? I'm coming over. I'll be home by one, she says, hesitating, catching her breath. I imagine the squirrels in her brain again. Okay, I say, I'll see you then. I had found the blue willow dishes I saved from my parents estate, a worthless pattern, really, much imitated, bastardized, but I kept three examples, dinner plates, one each from China, England, Japan. This will be a fitting last gift, I'm thinking, I'll tell her the story behind the pattern, that's relevant here. And I'm expecting some kind of showdown, moment of truth, finally, I'm ready to hear she doesn't feel that way about me, didn't mean to lead me on, I misunderstood. No, I'm thinking, no, Michelle, no misunderstanding, none of that applies. We had a business deal, very clear cut, you stiffed me in a business deal, no excuse, no, fucking excuse. I resolve, however, not to provoke a confrontation, be cool, see what happens. Try to have some fun here. It will be difficult, but try. She greets me at the door in pajamas. Hi, Terry, she says, that voice, those eyes, that smile. Hug. I follow her into the kitchen from the back porch, first thing I see is a picture on her refrigerator. Michelle and Dan. That's interesting, I think. I was looking for that picture the first time I came here, to work on the web site. When he was the boyfriend she still hadn't mentioned in all our time together to that point. Wasn't there. Thought it significant at the time. And it's there now, even though that seemed over. He won't even fuck her anymore. And Peter, after all. Michelle walks with a limp, seems consistent in degree as she moves. But she really thought it was broken? Had to go to the doctor for an x-ray, pain pills? And she seemed surprised when I asked where she was. As if she hadn't made up an answer to the question she didn't expect. We sit at her kitchen table, Michelle displays a comfortable don't-give-a-fuck demeanor, no trace of this recent little breakdown, eyes aren't red, yes, I'm thinking, she's recovered her composure very nicely here. And fast. So, I ask, what happened with the horse, Michelle? How'd you get hurt? She responds with one of those over-elaborated stories that suggest contrivance. Oh, I'm sorry. I say, sympathizing. Just what you need right now, huh? Hey, I brought something for you. I hand over the plates, ask if she knows the story behind the pattern. Of course not. I explain that the two people visible are young lovers, trying to escape her powerful father, doesn't approve the match. They try to run away, to the island on the plate, get hunted down, killed. And the two birds flying away are their spirits taking wing, forever united. Isn't that a sad story? I say. Yeah, she says, That's really sweet. And I'm thinking, Jesus Fucking Christ, they died, actually seems like a happy ending compared to how this is playing out here. And Michelle gets a phone call, takes it, doesn't screen this one away, and she's wheeling and dealing, and she gets other calls, takes them all, wheeling and dealing, yes, she's doing just fine, I'm thinking. Recovered very well from this traumatic event, this injury that sent her to the doctor, what, a little more than an hour ago? Michelle gets up, puts water on for tea. Oh, she says. Do you remember those vets we were going to open the clinic with? Just talked to them awhile ago. They were telling me that they're still going to open a clinic, and they want me to manage it, I'll be able to buy a house, all that. It made me want to cry, she says. How come? I ask, wondering, what, tears of joy? It's out in the middle of nowhere, by the Central Valley, she says. I don't friggin' want to live there. She looks at me with pleading face, I look up, and away, serves you fucking right, I'm thinking, thinking about the ranch deal, everything. Yeah, I'm thinking, that'll happen about the same time we get the resort done, lucky fucking you. Keep waiting for those better deals. Fucking dumbass. Michelle asks if I want a piece of chocolate cake. Sure, I say. It's left over from the belated Christmas celebration she had with her grandmother, mother, sister, the children. Since they were apart on the actual day. You wouldn't believe what happened, she says. Oh, yes I would, I'm thinking. I'd believe anything. But I don't say that. So, she says. You know my sister, Karen? We got this idea. We thought it would be funny to rig a hidden little camera up to film the party and dinner, you know, to make fun of everyone. Acting goofy and stuff? Yeah? I say. It kind of backfired, says Michelle, embarrassed chuckle. I had a total meltdown, and I went off on everyone, and I was crying and carrying on. The joke was kind of on me. No shit, I'm thinking, the joke's always on you. Fucking dumbass. This I do not say, instead ask, in my most solicitous voice, Gee, Michelle, what set you off? Oh, I don't know, she says. Everything's been so chaotic. And I'm eating the cake, she's not, started gaining weight, she tells me, we drink tea. Michelle gets up to find a magic marker, sits back down, takes one of the plates I gave her, she's writing on its back. I don't ever want to forget where I got these, she says, smiling, at me, that voice, those eyes. Does not have the usual effect, I am all hyperaware here. Anyway, she continues, my mom and grandmother got me these girly things they know I'm not interested in. For the kitchen. The kind of things they like. And they know that's not me. They know I need some new jeans, or boots, stuff like that. I don't know, she says. It's like they don't even know me, or who I am. Or care. And I kind of lost it. I acted like a real dumbass. Yes, I'm thinking, I'm sure you did. And she's still writing on the backs of the plates, doesn't want to forget where she got these, yes, she'll treasure these, a gift from me. And I see the riding crop displayed near her shelf of curios, and, yes, I'm thinking, she collects curios, too, another little thing we have in common, I see some I gave her. So, I'm thinking, they don't know you at all, huh, can't get the gifts right? And where does that leave me, I'm thinking, I seem to get them right, don't I, perhaps I know you. Yes, I'm thinking, I know you. Fucking dumbass. And I'm looking at Michelle, in pajamas, this don't-care attitude I detect somewhere in the atmosphere, traces of that knowing smile I know so well now from that picture with the dogs. A sense of falseness slithers through my consciousness, I try to hide my growing disgust. But she does always limp on the same leg. She's pretty good, I'm thinking. And I commisserate with her about the meltdown, serves her fucking right, I'm thinking, you really do manage to fuck everything up, everything you do, huh? You know, she says, after a lull, I've decided that whole thing with karma is bullshit. I can't believe all the stuff that's happened to me, and I just don't deserve it. I have done nothing to deserve all this stuff that has happened to me. She looks to me for the affirmation I provide, shaking my head, I know, I say, it's just not fair. Fucking dumbass. And she starts talking about books, tells me that she has some neat old books she wants to show me, I follow her to the living room, stand behind while she searches. Michelle peruses the spines as I look around the room, the pictures in the corner catch my attention. All the photos I have on my laptop, of Michelle, she has framed on the wall. Those images mean something to her, I'm thinking, she likes how she looks in them. And, of course, she sent them to me. But she needs to see herself that way. The chubby ugly duckling needs to see herself as svelte swan. As often as possible. Oh, Michelle. This is pretty cool, she says, handing back an old volume, continuing her search. Published in the 1920s, it's a book about marriage and female sexuality, written in that oddly delicate way reserved for such matters in those days. I go to open it, it falls open, on its own, in my hand. To the section about women attaining orgasms. And Michelle's still looking for this other book, and talking, and I'm reading about women trying to get pleasured within the sanctity of marriage, I'm thinking, fucking perfect, doesn't want me to get the wrong idea, I'm sure, gives me a book about sex, looked at it first, book about sex, she specifically picks this book out for me. And it falls open to these pages. Fucking perfect. I'm sure she wouldn't want me to misunderstand. I don't fucking believe it. And she eventually gives up looking for the book she had in mind, distracted by something. She moves off, I continue to read her manual on achieving orgasm, Michelle returns with a stack of photos. You might be interested in these, she says, passing them over. More pictures of Michelle, she provides the captions as I thumb through. Oh, that's me before I got pregnant, she says, hard to make out, small image of her, but she's big, bigger anyway, short, bleached hair. And that's at the beach in Mexico, she says. Wears a bikini. Others in the stack I already have, they're on the wall over there, doesn't she know she's sent me these pictures several times already? Does she hand so many of these out to admirers she loses track? Could be, I'm thinking. What's this about, I wonder, it's as if she's doing a before-and-after demonstration, see, that's who I was, see me now! Yeah, what's this about? And the stack has this prepared quality about it, her little portfolio. To show me? Or, initially, Peter? And now me? What is the point, I'm thinking, thanks for the display, but aren't you supposed to be telling me to get lost by now? Just want to let me know what I'm missing? Thank you very fucking much. And I'm nodding, making all the predictably inane noises, I'm thinking, this is just fucking pathetic, can't take it anymore. Gee, Michelle, I say, thanks for sharing those with me. But I'd better go now. Yeah, she says, I have to get my daughter, too. And by now, I'm a little shocked, she hasn't told me to get out of her life yet. No, I'm thinking, she's just going to ignore me away. But I'm still waiting for that little talk as she walks me through the porch, out the back door, waiting, ready, and Michelle says, Terry. Here it comes, I'm thinking, here it comes, here it comes, Terry, she says, I'm sorry I haven't shown up at your office yet. But I've kind of caught up with things. I think I can come in tomorrow. And if not, Wednesday. For sure. Honest. Oh, okay, I say, smiling. Seeya tomorrow. Maybe. Well, gee, wasn't that interesting. I think we dodged a bullet, there, again. Close, but dodged the bullet. Is that a good thing? Michelle staged a performance for me, I'm convinced, first the phone call, then at her house. She didn't expect me to insist on meeting her, caught Michelle by surprise, no planned answer to avoid the encounter. Yes, I'm thinking, I asked where she was, several times, she had no time to think, blurted that out, her place at one. And that casual, don't-care demeanor, actually reflected my own state of mind, we were both playing against each other, consciously this time, clearly. And I'm sure she was trying to figure out how to tell me whatever it was she wanted to tell me, some version of get lost, I deprived her of the opportunity. The dishes, I'm thinking, the dishes. Those threw her off-stride. I got to her again, actually touched her somewhere, again, despite trying to callous herself against me. Yes, I'm thinking, Michelle desperately wants to blow me off, but she can't figure out how to do it. And I certainly will not make it easy on her. I suppose she wants me to take the hints, she is not going to show up, get a clue. I am not taking any more of your hints, Michelle, I'm thinking, I fucking want clarity. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me, in so many words, you have consciously decided to rip me off. Hear the explanation, if any. Hear the whatever excuse. Michelle, I say, we had a deal, this had nothing to do with romance. Hey, she says, Whatever. Sorry. But not very, nothing new for her, I'm sure, had versions of this conversation with many men. Catch and release, toss the guy away, yes, We had a little talk, didn't we, Terry, yes, compare your conquests with that lovely sister of yours, laugh with satisfaction at your many, many Pyrrhic victories. Lonely, single mothers, I'm thinking, winning every time, yes, really in control. Alone, in control, forever. Beat the man every time. Yes, they have it all figured out. Fucking dumbasses. So, I'm thinking, I'm still in the game here. Sure don't feel the sense of hope and elation I once knew, no, now I'm engaged in a morbid intellectual exercise, the goal of which evades me. As if I take this woman seriously as a candidate for a relationship? Now? I am developing the impression that Michelle is really nothing more than a stupid, silly tramp, certainly have abundant evidence. The thought, unsolicited, overwhelms me with a wave of disgust, full weight of what I couldn't allow myself to feel half-an-hour ago in Michelle's presence, did not want her to see, sense, that. And I reflexively resist the tendency to characterize any woman like that, know how easily people condemn women with the epithet, know better than most the complex motivations explaining why such women act the way they do. Presuming they even really act like tramps. Some of my sweetest romantic encounters were with nice, attached women, who really did love their boyfriends, husbands. And they dabbled in extra-marital sex for completely legitimate reasons. They had to, once in a while, to remain married. But did not do it to exercise control over some man, or to get even with a husband, to punish someone. They could not help themselves. They needed to scratch the itch. Discreetly. And they actively tried to avoid hurting anyone's feelings. No woman I knew conducted herself like Michelle. No one elicted that feeling of disgust. And that inner voice speaks up, says, yeah, whatever, but you also know she's a very good woman, desperately wants to be, anyway. Whatever you think you see. And I'm analyzing the residue of this feeling of disgust, the suggestion of nausea in the gut, I realize, I'm not disgusted by Michelle, I'm disgusted that she gives me reason to think like this. That I am disgusted. I'm really disgusted by the idea of associating Michelle with the notion of disgust. Of associating Michelle with the word tramp. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, I could go on forever like this, not a good idea. Whatever, I'm thinking. And I still like her. I'd already decided she was deranged, just couldn't help herself, been dealing with her bullshit for months. And though the specifics of her recent behavior reached new heights, so to speak, I really was beyond surprise. The only surprise left, I'm thinking, would be for her to act like a normal woman. In short, to stop surprising me. Without having made a conscious decision to go there, I discover I'm on my way to Jaxon's new home. No apple for him, not particularly happy to see me. The neighbor, a big, handsome Appaloosa, comes over for a scratch on the nose, pat on the flank. The whole, fucking situation really makes me angry, I'm thinking, can't even ride my fucking horse now. Wish she'd left him at the old place, even if the owners are assholes. But then, I'm thinking, who knows what they went through with Michelle. They'd been close to her for years, became disenchanted. I certainly see how that can happen, I'm thinking, yes, I do. And I miss the endless trails out there. I throw the English saddle on Jaxon, ride the oval, walking, trotting, cantering. Thinking, more. That encounter does supply an ending of sorts for our story, though, yes, I'm thinking, could end right here. Or in a day or two, when she doesn't show up again. Yes, I'm thinking, some kind of perfect. The dramatic phone call, a transparent charade, hurt by a horse, the limp, a last visit to her house. The picture of Michelle and Dan, she's sending a message with that no doubt. And I'm thinking of my first visit, no picture, knew there was a boyfriend, actually considered at the time, wonder if she took that picture down because I was coming over. Making herself available. Yeah, I'm thinking, that was my chance, considered at the time, did not act. Wanted to treat Michelle like a lady, knew her four, five months by then, just did not seem right to try to jump her the first time alone. I knew there was a boyfriend though she hadn't mentioned him, did not want to toy with her security, plans, did not want to just jump her. Especially under the pretext of working together. And now, I'm thinking, oh, yeah, that's how Michelle gets laid, puts herself knowingly into innocent situations so she can be taken advantage of, sex, guilt free. I just have a beer or two and flirt a bit. I know that. Now. Had not figured it out yet. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, Jesus Fucking Christ. Stop second guessing yourself, I think. You did everything about as right as anyone could get it. You just wasted the effort on Michelle, crazy fucking Michelle. Pang of guilt, again, no, you wasted nothing on Michelle. It was all worth it, she is worth it, and you never tried so hard to act right. You got your reward. And punishment. I don't fucking believe it. I stop the second-guessing, random views of the last hour flicker through my head. The sex book, my little gifts scattered throughout her house, the party scene I imagine the other night at her house, Michelle, the dumbass, at her own Christmas celebration. The future she doesn't want beyond her house in the vineyards, a future in the Central Valley. With those vets who discouraged the ranch deal. Jesus Fucking Christ. I see the expressions on her face, that false mask, the knowing smile, those eyes, that voice, didn't want to forget where she got the plates. She'll remember she got them from a man she wants to forget. The knowing smile, I'm thinking, the glint in the eye, I'm thinking, oh, yeah. I'm thinking of that little girl again, still hazy, not the bad seed. But close enough. The little girl confronts someone again, someone, yes, of course, I'm the little boy. Still, I can't see her, determine when and where this happened, who was that little girl? And she's wearing an Alice in Wonderland kind of dress, grips the fabric covering her thighs, she smiles coyly, glint in eye. And she says, Hey, Terry, with seductive voice, knowing look. And she says to me, Wanna see up my dress? I was five or six, had no notion of sex, knew boys and girls were different, just lacked any sense of the significance. But I did know boys were supposed to like looking up girl's dresses. Playland had a funhouse with air jets to blow skirts up, women screamed unconvincingly, laughed, men leered. I didn't understand the interest, but if the little girl wanted to show me something, I was amenable. Okay, I say. No! she yells. That's nasty! The little girl disappears, cannot remember who, when, where. I continue to drift, mentally, walking Jaxon now, Michelle is talking about karma. Geez, I'm thinking, hope she didn't see my jaw drop. All that blather about karma. Now that was almost funny, everything about it. Half-baked Eastern philosophy, adopted by wishful thinkers, yeah, explains everything. Cosmic justice, may as well stick with heaven and hell, it'll all work out. Some god, gods, will see to it. Karma, my ass, I'm thinking, perfectly fuzzy concept for fuzzy minds. Just right for Michelle. Behavior has consequences, that's philosophy enough, scrutinize what you do, what happens, adjust. Yes, that's karma, I'm thinking, pay attention to your life, things turn out better. For that we need the Upanishads? But karma's perfect for people who don't get it, excellent outlet for good intentions. Mean well, act badly, everything should work out, right? I'm a nice person, things will work out, right? Yes, throw yourself on the mercy of fate, whatever happens happens. Whatever. Evaluating your behavior, the consequences, readjusting your approach, all a waste of time. Karma will take care of everything. Just as long as your intentions are benign. Or ignored. I just have a glass of wine and flirt a bit, she said. I was so glad I didn't go home with anybody. What goes around, comes around, I'm thinking, Michelle goes around alot. She may come once in a while, but she'll never quite come around. Fucking dumbass. Yeah, Michelle, karma will take care of you. Don't change a thing. And aren't you happy now? I stop by the Boon Fly Cafe for dinner on the way home, flirt with the young waitresses, not sure they know I'm flirting, can't help thinking about our lunch here less than a month ago. Geez, I'm thinking, it all seemed so hopeful then. Get a grip, I yell at myself, mentally, chuckling audibly. And how many times did you say that to yourself? I sit and shake my head. I'm pacing and smoking in front of the roadhouse, by now, looking at the stars, dark clouds speeding across the sky. Karma, I'm thinking. Huh, karma. Cell phone retrieved from my car, I sit in one of the rocking chairs on the porch, yes, that's a thought. There I sit, rocking, thinking, gee, what if I blow it, I'm thinking, guffaw, again, mentally, like there's something to lose? Fuck it. I'm going for it. Just fucking do it. Phone flipped open, I enter Michelle's number, no answer, I'm thinking, no surprise, I see Michelle looking at her phone, Him again, she's thinking, why doesn't that sap get a clue. Or saying it outloud. For her daughter's benefit. Her sister. Peter? All three, perhaps, maybe some random drinking buddies too. Yes, I'm thinking, and then they can all have a good laugh over my message. Boy, he's got it bad, huh? says Michelle. Clueless frigging sap. Hardy har har. Well, I'm thinking, I wanted to see Michelle happy, have some fun in her life. Glad to deliver. The phone beeps her message prompt. Hi Michelle, I say, it's Terry. Hey, I know you're recovering from the incident with the horse, but if there's any way you can make it tomorrow, please try to come in. These projects could turn into something big. Wouldn't be bad for you. And you know, I've been thinking about what you said about karma. Did it ever occur to you that I'm your karma? Some nice stuff has happened between us. Even though things have been kind of chaotic. And there might be quite a few opportunities available here, Anyway, I'll see you Wednesday, if not before. Bye. It's done, I'm thinking, it's done. And this last effort to get her to show up might be just what she needs to justify staying away. Fuck it. And I'm thinking about the message, wonder about its effect, tried to sound warm, understanding, but I didn't script it enough, I'm thinking, but I don't fucking care. No more agonizing over how to reach Michelle, she's the mule who needs the two-by-four laid across her head for attention's sake. Yeah, fuck it. And I'm thinking about the conversation with Billy, a week ago today, geez, I actually thought we might be able to pull something together for Michelle, the ranch deal, the resort, if it ever happens. And she's telling me how she doesn't want to move to the Central Valley, I cried, she said, all the while acting out her little charade of deception for me. To avoid showing up at my office. Where her last chance to achieve her dreams, any time soon, anyway, awaited. Of course, I didn't tell her that, yeah, please, come in, honor your commitment, please, we'll make you rich, successful. Might even find some loving. Please, come in. Please. Just show up, make an effort. Please. Fucking please. Michelle doesn't show on Tuesday, I'm hardly surprised, she doesn't show on Wednesday, I'm hardly surprised. It's just after eleven, I hop into my car, drive to her new stables. I drive by the old place, turn off the highway toward Sonoma, drive by her cottage in the vineyards, pass the deli at the crossroad. A little further on, I drive through the intersection leading to the town square, see it up the street, yeah, I'm thinking, our whole history, right along this route, probably my last trip to see Michelle. Jesus Fucking Christ. I have no idea what I will say to her when I see her, cannot imagine her reaction. But the performance the other day suggests an interesting sequel. I can't wait. I can't fucking wait. The place is on a highway, turn into the entrance, drive around the paddocks, pass the front of the small barn, see Michlle grooming a horse outside its entrance. She doesn't look up. On approaching, I notice Michelle keeps working on the horse, as if I'm not there. I get closer, no acknowledgement, her face obscured by the animal's back Just as I'm thinking it's getting a bit weird, Michelle says, weakly, little-girl, sing-song voice, Hi, Terry. Keeps working, not looking up. Michelle starts talking, disembodied voice, still not looking at me, could be talking to herself. Michelle's telling me that she's tending some horses belonging to the man vacating the stables. Moved to another state, has to shuttle the horses in stages, paying Michelle for her trouble in the interim. That all her plans here aren't working out, the owner's playing rough with her, started changing the deal after she moved in, wife goading him on. Abcess, looking for work, the tale of woe continues. No self pity, though, just resignation. Defeat. Geez, I'm thinking, I must make her feel terrible. Just being here. Jesus Fucking Christ. Michelle keeps talking in that voice from the grave, as if I'm not present, rambling, thinking out loud, in the presence of a stranger, yes, I'm thinking, we are strangers, we're just shadows on the back of the cave, and she says, Remember my yard waste cart? Yeah, I say. I had to trade that away to get some stuff done, Michelle says, and I respond, not prying, but her reply is somehow evasive. And she rambles on some more, disjointedly, and says, finally, Well, I guess I'm fired, huh? It takes me a second to realize what she's talking about, oh, I'm thinking, neat trick, she just fired herself from my job. Yes, neat trick indeed. I respond without thinking, all the processes are there, however, inside, inner voice whispering, all settled in no time, I don't need to hear an explanation, I see it before my eyes. Michelle's helpless, she's paralyzed, she's defeated, a walking zombie. She is trying to surrender, doesn't know what to do about me, about us, please, just accept my surrender. Michelle, I say, don't worry about it. Okay? Okay, she says. I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you. Michelle, I say, forget about it. Really. It's not that important. I could just cry, I don't, I see Michelle clutching that riding crop, fighting the tears, I see the knowing look, glint in the eye, she could get away with anything, I understand everything, completely. Somewhere in my heart. She really is doing the best she can, I'm thinking, and it's not very good, Michelle just keeps hurting herself. I'm collateral damage, doesn't have much to do with me. I could just cry, I don't, I start telling a story. Hey, Michelle, I say. I bet you didn't know the first movie star was a horse. Yeah? she says. Yeah, I say, and tell her about Eddweard Muybridge, the famous California landscape photographer who settled a bet for Leland Stanford. The ex-governor wagered that trotting and running horses had all their hooves off the ground during the movement cycles, long an issue to artists and horsemen. But the eye wasn't quick enough to know for sure, neither were the cameras of the day. And I explain how Muybridge set up a long line of cameras along a path, triggered by trip wires, which demonstrated Stanford's assertion. The series of photos, assembled in a flip book, seemed to show movement, motion pictures were born. I probably should have stopped there, I keep talking, Muybridge is such a great story, can't help myself, I'm really not trying to make a point. Yeah, I say, and you know all those vineyards on this side of town? By Buena Vista? He was the first guy ever to photograph them. And she's going, Uh huh, uh huh, and I say, You'll never guess what happened next. Yeah? What? He was married to a beautiful younger woman, and he was gone all the time to Yosemite to take pictures. And they had this good family friend who took Muybridge's wife to the theater or dinner while he was away. And Muybridge returns from a trip, the wife is gone, and he's in their bedroom, and he notices a photo of his son. Absentmindedly turns it over. And there's a note on the back of the photo, addressed to the family friend, and it says, Your Son. Muybridge goes rather insane on the spot, takes a ferry to Vallejo, a train up the Napa Valley, to Calistoga, where he knows the family friend goes for gambling and whoring. Where he blows the man's brains out. Muybridge is prosecuted in a celebrated trial, beats the case, justifiable homicide. The wife goes insane, for good. Muybridge leaves California, establishes a photography department at Temple University, in Philadelphia, eventually returns home to Britain, dies a famous, successful man. He spurned the boy after the killing, but continued to support and educate him. Never saw him again. And the boy grew up, and became a man. A man who looked just like Eddweard Muybridge. And Michelle says, weak voice still, Wow. That's sad, and I'm just now realizing that my story might resonate with Michelle in ways unintended, I should not be talking to her about cheating hearts, bastard children, guns, and guys who get away with murder. I am not trying to send a message here. It's past noon, Michelle's almost done with the horse, I ask if she wants to go to the deli for lunch. Yeah, maybe, she says. But I'm waiting to have some horses shod. And just then, Bruce drives onto the property. Until that moment, I was devoid of anger, bad feelings, just wallowed in a sense of tender sadness, this image of Michelle before me, helpless, paralyzed, defeated. Hatred wells up within, this will be difficult, haven't thought of Bruce for a couple of weeks, my contempt for him seems rather inappropriately vast. There's something there, I'm hyperaware. We smile and nod, and shake hands, he tells Michelle his girlfriend is coming out to join him for lunch, bringing sandwiches. Been dating a couple of months, Michelle made a reservation for New Year's Eve for Bruce the last time the three of us had lunch together. When he showed up at that place on the square. Before Christmas. She wanted to make sure they had a romantic evening together, Michelle, looking out for her good buddy, Bruce. Her best guy friend. And I'm thinking something, don't know what, but I'm thinking, something, not really paying attention, as he gabs with Michelle, sets up to shoe the horse. And Bruce says something, I'm paying attention now, that's it, getting closer, Bruce is talking about the boat he bought. Yeah, I'm thinking, he was talking about buying that boat, thirty grand. Cash. And something else he wanted. By the way. Something else he wanted. He wanted a yard waste cart. Just like Michelle's. And I'm thinking of her lamenting its loss, half-an-hour ago, final symbol of defeat, had to trade it away for something. Yeah, I'm thinking, and she was evasive for no reason. She didn't want to tell me she traded it to Bruce. To get her horses shod. The good friend who dropped thirty grand on a boat. Cash. Working a deal with his good friend Michelle. For her yard waste cart. And Michelle felt the need to be evasive with me about that. Geez, she's worried about what I think, I'm thinking, she doesn't want me to know the full extent of her squalid life. With friends like Bruce. And I'm thinking of all the feelings I've felt since knowing Michelle, powerful, intense feelings, the full range of emotions, to a degree I seldom encountered. Nothing compares to what I feel now, the intensity of my hatred. Thankfully, his girlfriend drives up, breaks the homicidal spell. She's attractive, pleasant, seems sincerely to like, care for Bruce. Fucking dumbass, I'm thinking. You picked a real winner there. Bruce is a big, strong man, a blacksmith, after all, he could rip my head off if I let him. And I'm thinking, I've never in my life looked on such a weak, small, man, barely deserving of the name. Yiddishisms come to mind, legacy of West Los Angeles, Beverly Hills. Great words, don't fully understand them, but they apply. Noodge. Schmuck. Putz. The woman leaves with Michelle to get the horse needing shoes, Bruce turns to me. Gonna save Michelle from her latest crisis? he asks, mild sarcasm. Yeah, I say, trying to sound casual, cool. It's always something, huh? Uh huh, he says, smug. Knowing look, voice. Looks at me with a trace of sneer. It's always something. Said with contempt. For his good friend. Who arranged for a romatic dinner with his girlfriend. On New Year's Eve. The two women reapear with the horse, Michelle returns to the animal she was grooming, shortly starts working on him with the clippers. Bruce stands with the horse's hoof between his legs, holds a shoe against it, determines how much he has to pound it to make it conform. He talks with the girlfriend about routine matters, schedules, Bruce trims the hoof, the woman starts to lay their sandwiches out. He does two hooves, he breaks for lunch, they're eating their sandwiches, Michelle yells over from where she's clipping the other animal, Hey, Terry, you should tell them that murder story. I do. On conclusion, Bruce says, Gee, thanks for sharing that, slightly patronizing. My pleasure, I say. So glad you liked it. No, really, says the girlfriend. That was interesting. Thanks. I smile, nod, thinking, you're still a dumbass. Fucking Bruce. Jesus Fucking Christ. Bruce returns to work, the three of them discuss their mutual affairs, I stand on the periphery, pacing, smoking. Thinking. About how nice that other place was, hidden away, protected by those legions of vineyard covered hills as far as I could see, bay and mountains beyond. There I stand and hear the trucks, regard the uneasy combination of suburban tract over there, country kitsch here, rural squalor on the parcels across the highway, all flat. Jesus Fucking Christ. I turn back, I'm facing the other three, just out of ear shot, arrayed in front of the barn, Michelle clipping one horse, Bruce shoeing the other, girlfriend positioned between, leaning against her car. Simutaneously, Michelle and Bruce walk away from their respective work stations, passing each other as Michelle enters the barn, Bruce heads toward his truck for a tool. Hey, Michelle, he yells over his back. You're starting to show your age there. A few seconds later, they're retracing their steps in opposite directions, Bruce says, Yeah, you ever take a good look in the mirror, look at all those lines you're getting around your lips? Time's running out, girl. I'm closing on them, lengthening the track of my pacing to bring them into better focus, see Michelle stiffen, scrunch up her lips, make clearly evident what Bruce just mentioned, I wish I could squish that guy like the cockroach he is, I'm thinking, just a fucking roach, not even worth the disgust he evokes, let alone real anger. Turns my stomach. I say, Hey, Michelle, why don't we meet at the deli in a while. I have to run an errand. Oh, okay, she says, agrees on a time. I say my good-byes to Bruce and the girlfriend, walk, don't run, to the car, despite the inclination, imagine the conversation they'll have in my absence. So, Michelle, Bruce asks, in my scenario. Stalker guy finally getting the message? And how does Michelle respond, I'm wondering, to the chiding, scornful comments I presume she's heard in these months. Hey, he's been a very nice guy to me, she says, and changes the subject. Or, snickering, Yeah, I hope so, but he sure is clueless. I keep shitting on him and he keeps coming back for more. And I'm disgusted, again, disgusted that I would have reason to think Michelle said such things. But for what it said about her, rather than me. I give her the benefit of the doubt, the others a different story. Their contempt for everything they survey I've noticed for months, the easy scorn for anything, anybody, the whole world fair game for that small-spirited contempt, enthusiastically indulged, especially with each other. I realize I'm making a face as I think these things, that face, I am genuinely disgusted. But why, exactly, I inquire. And I'm thinking of these people I've met through Michelle. Her sister, Bruce, Annie, the various other friends. Their opinions of me mean nothing, at this point, I'd be offended if Bruce thought me an appropriate friend. No, it's not their opinion of me, it's their opinion of what they observed over the months. They observed, in fact, a lovely example of a human relationship. A courtship gone awry, circumstances beyond anyone's control, really, turned friendship. They saw the benefits Michelle derived from it, they saw Michelle grapple with her emotions, behavior, attempting to do the right thing, with Dan, Peter, me. They saw all that, more of the same, they saw nothing but innumerable opportunities to say something cynical, hurtful, cruel. And I'm thinking of Bruce, and his comments of the last hour, It's always something. Showing your age Michelle, and I'm thinking of how she constricted at those words, I'm thinking of the many times I'd heard Bruce make such comments, seen her response. The stiffening, the lips scrunched. And I'm thinking of those incidents, I'm sitting in the white plastic chair, I hear those comments, see Michelle's body language, I'm thinking how I was always a little jealous of the friendship that familiarity suggested, Bruce knows her well enough to say those things, comfortable enough to say those things. So, Michelle, the owners see you coming in late this morning? See how your ass was dragging? Yeah, Michelle, doesn't look like you got much sleep last night, partying again, huh, drinking at the saloon, flirting a little bit? Huh, Michelle, huh? And I'm getting angry all over again, that fucking cockroach, I'm thinking, he was going out of his way to make her feel insecure. To embarrass her, in front of me? Yeah, nice work, I'm thinking, reassessing those moments in the light of the recent equivalents. That fucking piece of shit, I'm thinking, that turd with a mouth, nice fucking work. Gets to undermine Michelle's self-esteem as woman, as ranch manager, vulnerabilities exploited in her personal and professional spheres. Embarrasses her by making her sound like a drunken slut to the guy interested in her. Embarrasses me with the revelation, the suggestion that I'm a chump for being interested in such a drunken slut. And I see Michelle stiffen, scrunch up her face, flinch, as he says these things, I see over and over again, in my mind's eye, the times I saw that happen, I could puke. And he gets Michelle to think of me as stalker guy. Yes, very effective work, all very funny. Michelle thought so, anyway. The intersection and the deli come into view, I realize where I am, consciousness takes over from the automatic pilot. Yeah, I'm thinking, stalker guy. I park in front of the low white fence separating the cars from the patio, step over it, take a seat at our table. Yeah, I'm thinking, our table, this is where it all began. I gasp, self-consciously, self-dramatizing, need the physical manifestation of emotion, here, now, again. What I just saw, cannot fucking believe. And I'm sitting at our table, yes, white plastic chairs here, too, and Michelle's same white plastic chairs at the new place, always sitting in those chairs by myself, with Michelle. And Bruce. Over and over again, Bruce. And I'm sitting there thinking, yes, this is it, this is the last time I'll have lunch with Michelle at the deli, getting nostalgic, wistful, but don't feel too badly about this. I wish we'd have become lovers, could have been sweet, friendship might have been nice, maybe, but Michelle's need to sexualize the relationship, treat me like a lecher, whenever she could, a pest, whenever she could. Stalker guy, Jesus Fucking Christ, stalker guy. Well, I'm thinking, I gave it my best shot, hit the target, bullseye, nothing much behind the paper. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, Jesus Fucking Christ. Do not distort this, I tell myself, do not distort this. She just wasn't quite what I expected, so naturally, reflexively, devious. Innocently devious. Couldn't help herself. And I'm sitting there thinking about our first lunch at the deli, mid-summer. Michelle mentioned that she went to her twentieth highschool reunion, said the usual things about running into old acquaintanes. And I'm thinking of the number of times people have recognized me since moving back to the Valley, men, women, who stop, stare for a minute, old people, Excuse me. Aren't you Terry Tabs? You haven't changed a bit. And every time half expect a gun to appear from nowhere, shot at close range by a familiar voice, a face I can't place. I do not share the thought. So Michelle, I ask, instead, tactfully, I hope, how do I put this, is it ever awkward running into people from your past, memories you want to forget? Michelle turns to me, knowing look, glint in eye, No, she says. I never did anything I need to forget. Or regret. Turns away, knowing look, glint in eye, even then, I'm thinking, something interesting in that, I'm thinking, either a goody-two shoes or a wild woman. Never did anything she wants to forget, needs to regret. I do not really think Michelle is a goody-two shoes. And even then I'm wondering about all those things she can't forget, won't regret. Can't forgive. And then Bruce appears, first time we met, whining about being dumped by his girlfriend, turned the conversation to infidelities. And Michelle's eyes started twinkling again, reference to Dan, never identified as her boyfriend, vague reference, couldn't figure who cheated on whom, had my suspicions. Even then. Wounded women's eyes don't twinkle quite like that on the reminding. No, I'm thinking, can't blame that on Bruce, Michelle glowed with the sexual power, satisfaction, evoked, revealed. Just glowed. Jesus Fucking Christ. I don't fucking believe it. And I'm thinking of all these little signals she sent my way. All along. I'm just a simple country girl, Terry. I'm just a trailer trash girl, Terry. No, did not say that, the message perhaps, did not say it. Said, in fact, I'm just a trailer park girl. Terry. Looking for a tattooed cowboy in a battered pickup truck. Great name for a song, song of her life, living personification of all her country western song fantasies, lived hers out as I did mine, all her fantasies just as imagined. And I'm thinking again of the day we were clipping one of the horses, Michelle says, I bet I could've been a millionaire if I'd spent as much time on business as romance. How I laughed to myself at the time, what a dumbass, I thought, still got it all wrong. Thought it was a matter of effort, expended. Got it all wrong, I'm thinking, no, that sexual energy of hers, Michelle just fucks up everything. Yes, fucks up everything, I'm thinking, fucks up everything. Literally! Yes, Michelle literally fucks up everything, all about her sexual control, issue or not, fucking not an issue, Michelle will make it an issue. Jesus Fucking Christ, I don't fucking believe it. Michelle literally fucks up everything. And I'm thinking of Bruce, again, the guardian eunuch, keeper of this one-woman harem, can't fuck her himself, not like that, anyway, no can't satisfy her, but helps her fuck things up, yes, perfect fucking interference. Can't benefit, himself, no, can't benefit, but he can fuck her up, yes, literally, fucks her up, dry fucks her, someone else's dick, Iago without the balls, Theodora without the tits, perfect fucking eunuch, long tradition of fruitless intrigue. And I'm thinking of all these men, Michelle's cast, all drinking, cheating, beating, the drunken cowboy, the impotent doc, the manchild. The first manchild, anyway, now she has the real thing, yes, Peter. He's after me bad, she says, Yeah, I'll fuck Peter, she says, no love lost there, I can control that, know I won't fall in love with him, just a fuck and chuck. Variation on a theme, you know, bait and switch, catch and release, pimp and recycle. Yes, perfect happy ending for Michelle, fuck and chuck. And welcome to the trailer park. Jesus Fucking Christ. Yes, I'm thinking, perfect, all these men, good, bad, indifferent, I can understand their abuse, their anger, doesn't justify what they did, whatever, they did, whole new perspective now, on Michelle, the wounded heart, victim of love, don't really know, can't justify, but I understand. Yes, all understandable, doesn't make it right, but I understand. God knows, I empathise, yes, empathy, I feel your pain, yes I do. But Bruce, Bruce, Bruce is something else, vandal, pimp, whispering in her ear, the sister in the other, yes, Michelle, yes, trailer park, yes, that's where you belong. Where we'll always be able to find you. You know, to play. Catch and release, fuck and chuck. We'll help, we'll take care of everything. And I'm thinking of Bruce's latest performance, needling me about the help, the stalker guy, needling Michelle about her age, the drunken slut, yes, played it just right, got rid of me, no one to help Michelle now, is there, Bruce takes care of everything. He's got a Harley, Michelle! Let's have a drink. I just get a little drunk and flirt. And I was so glad I didn't go home with somebody. Some stranger, some lucky stranger. Yes, I'm thinking, somebody always gets lucky somewhere along the way with Michelle, eneffable luck, hard to determine, someone always gets lucky, the random fuck and chuck, the random Fucking Chuck, timing right, anyone will do, timing's just right, Hi Terry, it's Michelle, I'm just having a beer with my sister, you're so nice, where are you? Oh well, I just have a drink or two and flirt a bit. I'm so happy I didn't go home with someone. And who's the lucky one here? Who is the victim? Jesus Fucking Christ, Jesus Fucking Christ, stop those racing thoughts, stop this stop this stop this. Get a grip. I don't fucking believe this, I don't fucking believe it. Where was I, where was I? Yes, all nostalgic about how sweet it was. Jesus Fucking Christ. Yes, I'm thinking, again, how many times did I ask myself this, how many times? What do you expect from this, how do you see this playing out? What are you trying to accomplish here? Yes, I'm thinking, yes, I know just what I want, will try to structure this last lunch as never attempted before, never been so important to me as now. Yes, I'm thinking, very simple goal here, Michelle can fuck it up, Bruce was the perfect preparation, God kows what they're saying now, about me, the stalker guy, but it's really very simple. I want more than anything in the world here, now, more than anything. I just want to get out of here with as pleasant a memory as I can get. Yes, just one last shred of a hope, some kind of happy ending. Not for Michelle, anymore, no, she'll fuck that up, just as she fucks everything up, yes, everything a fuck contest, Michelle always the easy winner, eventual loser. Loser, yes, loser. How I tried to drive that word from my mind after she uttered it, Michelle a pathetic loser. No, Michelle, you are not a loser! Yeah, she fucking won again, proved me wrong, yes, you showed me. Fucking loser. Oh, Michelle! I can, however, get out of this with a happy memory. She taught me to ride, set me up with Jaxon. Michelle took me on a romantic adventure I never could have imagined. Not that I would want to. And Michelle managed to bring out the best in me. Made me act like a man. A better man, anyway. It's so unfair, I'm thinking, I got a lot out of this, learned more lessons than I know. And I kept my pledge, to Michelle, to myself. I conducted myself like a true friend, kept my commitments, to Michelle, myself. Provided the assistance she could accept, never showed anger at her, tried never to hurt her. I can feel good about this. And Michelle, I know, will feel indebtedness, failure, disappointment, guilt. No matter what. I just want to keep this last encounter as pleasant as possible, prevent Michelle from fucking it up. Somehow. I just want to get out of here with one, last, happy memory. Happy ending enough for me. Please, Michelle, please, please, please. Please, Michelle, don't fuck this up. Again. Fucking loser.