Stu Jenks' Fezziwig Press

"In A Secret Place"

"In A Secret Place (Hoop Dance), Dragoon Mountains, Arizona" (c) 2016 Stu Jenks.

Step Zero by Stu Jenks (Pages 50-76)

[Pages from the uncorrected proof of Step Zero. To purchase the limited illustrated hardbound edition of this novel go to The Stu Store at Squareup.com. To purchase the non-illustrated ebook, go to those places where ebooks are sold. To start from the beginning, simply search this website for other installments. Thanks, y'all.]

 

 

Peter Saum, Jr.
Monday, March 9th, 2076: 10:05 p.m.
On The Sunset Limited
East of The Salton Sea, California

Found an empty seat just a few rows back from Artie, Georgia, Michael, and Mags. They don’t know I’m here. Hell, they never know I’m here. But I need to be here tonight.
I don’t know what’s going to happen but I just had this funny feeling while cruising around the Solar System today. Like that time Artie almost got killed three years ago. So I’m here. I can’t do much, except shine Light and send Love, but that ain’t no spiritual chicken feed.
Pretty girl in front of me. Hair blowing in the wind from the desert air coming in through the train car window. Window’s only down an inch or so, but it’s moving her auburn hair like a dance of red strings. Quite beautiful. Pretty night, too.
Then I see the first bullet enter the car. Comes through the girl’s window, right in front of face. Glass shards soon behind. Like in slow motion. I can see in slow motion when I want to, or when things go down. Things are going down.
Red-headed girl looks all right. Face looks OK. She’s on the floor. Got a pistol in her hand.
Then I float to over where my family is.

 

Georgia “G” Swann
Monday, March 9th, 2076: 10:07 p.m.
On The Sunset Limited
East of The Salton Sea, California

As soon as I hear glass shatter, I have my .357 out of my bag. I look over at Artie. He’s still grabbing for his gun. Mags’ already gone to at the other side of the car, yelling orders.
“Kill the lights,” she screams. Someone flicks a switch. Most but not all of the lights go out.
“Everyone without weapons, hug the floor on the right side of the train,” she yells. “Everyone with, over here on the left.”
Quick motions in the dark of the unarmed crawling right and the armed heading left. I’m behind Mags. She turns to speak to me.
“You any good with that?” asks Mags.
“Pope shit in the woods?” I say.
“Yes, he does,” say Mags with a smile.
“What do you see?” I ask.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Might have just been some assholes fucking with us. Might be robbers though. We’ll know in a few minutes.”
“We’ll know?” I ask.
“If the train comes to a halt,” Mags says. “Means they got through the locomotive door or put something on the tracks. Have to be something big to stop this train though. These new locomotives have hellish counter measures to combat robbers. Top secret stuff. You don’t want to know.”
I squat beside her in the dark and wait for the train to stop. One minute. Two minutes. Still moving. I feel Artie’s hand on my waist, just letting me know he’s there. Still nothing. Train’s still flying along. I hardly breath.
Then, silhouetted against the light desert sand, I see horses and then men on horses and then more horses and more men. Couple dozen at least.
“You see them?” says Mags.
“I do,” I say. “What do you think?”
“Nothing. I don’t think they mean to rob the train. Just trying to put the fear of God into us. Showing us who’s boss, and it’s not you, assholes,” say Mags, more to herself as anyone else.
“Glad you’re here,” I say.
She turns to me and smiles.
“I’m glad you all are safe,” she says, looking at Artie and I.
“No gun?” she yells across the isle to Michael.
Michael shakes his head in the dim light.
“Want one?” say Mags.
“Thanks. Not right now,” says Michael.
“If I need you, you in?” Mags asks Michael.
Michael nods
“He’s in,” say Artie. “Just not until it’s time. It’s not time yet.”
“Oh,” say Mags. “You’re right. It’s not time. Pray it doesn’t become time.”
“GGATI, help us,” I say.
And for the first time, in days, I think about my family in Cheyenne.

 

 

Peter Saum, Jr.
Monday, March 9th, 2076: 10:30 p.m.
On The Sunset Limited
East of The Salton Sea, California

Artie’s OK. Everybody else too, but one.
“What happened?” asks Melissa.
“You got shot,” I say. “You’re dead now.”
 “Really?” she says, brushing the white hair out of her face, or rather her white angel ghost hair. She’s new to this.
“Damn, I was going to visit my grandkids in San Bernardino,” she says.
“You still can,” I say. “They just won’t be able to see you. You can still send Love to them. The Love Of The Ancestors. Still watch over them too, or you can come back as a human right away or go to the Great Big Sea. You have lots of choices.”
“Am I an angel?” asks Melissa.
“An angel and a ghost. An angel ghost. It’s hard to explain,” I say.
“Is there a God? A Goddess?” she asks.
“Close your eyes, Melissa.”
She does. Then she glows. Literally glows with the Light. Her first angel ghost time with the Light of God Goddess All There Is.
I hold her hands and wait for her to decide.
I love this part.

 

 

 

Arthur “Artie” Saum
Tuesday, March 10th, 2076: 6:45 a.m.
On The Sunset Limited
Just south of San Bernardino, California

“Who was she?” I say through a yawn.
“Melissa Bartlett. 63 years old. From El Paso. On her way to visit family in San Bernerdino, judging from her papers and such,” says Mags.
“Family know she’s dead?” asks Georgia.
“Don’t know their number.” say Mags. “We checked her phone, but there are no last names with the caller IDs. My guess is someone will be at the station to pick her up, and we’ll tell them then.”
“Jesus,” says Michael.
“Yeah,” says Mags.
The train starts to slow. Dawn breaks over the mountains to the east.
“Did I sleep through Palm Springs?” I ask Georgia.
“Like a baby,” she says.
“I miss anything?”
“We stopped for fifteen minutes, picked up a half dozen passengers, and we were on our way,” say G. “The conductor whispered ‘Palm Springs” over the intercom. Sweet of him to not want to wake everyone up, even though most of us were up, due to the shooting. Except you.”
She’s not mad. Just teasing.
I give a crooked grin. I was tired, plus with Mags with us, I figured we were fine.
“I’m up now,” I say.
Georgia kisses me. Not a big kiss, but not a little one either. Damn good regular kiss.
“Check that out,” say Michael, pointing out the window.
“Wow,” I say.
For miles, all I see are concrete pads for houses. No wood, no pipes, no roofs, no homes. Just a sea of rectangular pads of concrete, with some rusted old gasoline cars mixed in. I’ve seen this before, out at Continental Ranch, a suburb of homes outside of Tucson, but not like this. I don’t get too sentimental about pre-War days. From what I can gather from old-timers, and some books and newspapers, Americans were a selfish, spoiled people, afraid of their own shadows and with little resilience to endure the ups and downs of living. But seeing all these pads, I’m reminded that families lived here, thousands of people loved and worked here, and did the best they could. Families and friends. And my family and friends are the most important thing to me, next to my sobriety. Be honest with yourself, Artie. I know if I ever lose my sobriety, I’ll lose my family and friends, or rather they’ll lose me.
“Something, eh?” Michael say.
I nod.
Mags sees what we are seeing.
“Worse as you get to closer to Los Angeles. Much worse,” she says.
“We have to change trains in San Bernardino,” says Georgia, but we all know this. “You staying on the train, Mags and heading into L.A.?” she asks the Marshal.
“Nope. Maybe on the way back I’ll come through Los Angeles, but I’m getting on the Southwest Chief for a few hours, then I’ll transfer to the San Joaquin Train in Barstow, and head straight to Oakland.”
Georgia gets up from her seat, crosses the isle and hugs Mags tight.
“Ah, I’m guessing you folks are taking that route as well,” says Mags.
G smiles and nods and hugs Mags again.

 

 

Arthur “Artie” Saum
Tuesday, March 10th, 2076: 8:40 a.m.
Santa Fe Depot
San Bernardino, California

“We have a two hour layover here,” Georgia says to me, looking at her schedule. “Let’s get something to eat.”
We exit the car to the platform. I’m traveling light with only my backpack, and a smaller bag that carries my ukelele and my gun. G has a small backpack and a mandolin case. Michael’s the one who decided to bring his Martin, but he’s not over-loaded. Most people carry instruments when they travel. At least everyone under the age of 50. Like the old priests who carry Bibles, we carry guitars, fiddles, mandolins, ukeleles, flutes, and skin drums. If it sings, we bring.
At the far end of the platform, I see Mags talking with a family. Mom, Dad, and a teenage girl. The father starts to cry. Mother and daughter hug the man. Ms. Bartlett must have been his mother.
This depot’s huge. Kind of Spanish Revival meets Moorish something. Beautiful. Four round tile domes top the lobby building with red roofs extending a hundred yards on either side. Wonderful to see the old architecture preserved. Amazing it escaped the scavengers. And there’s our next train on the far side of the tracks. Now that metal crosswalk that arches over the tracks isn’t Spanish Revivial. That Post-War Federalist Steel architecture. Not that pretty but it works.
There sure are a lot of people at this depot. Must be a few hundred. Families of three and four. Couples arm in arm. Dusty old men and women. Marshals and government workers. Blacks, Whites, Asians, Hispanics, Natives. And if my eyes don’t fail me, some men from El Grupo who are trying to look respectable. They aren’t wearing any colors but I know the smell.
Shit. Robbie Rod is here.
“What?” says Georgia, sensing my change of mood.
“A guy I used to run with in El Grupo is over there,” I say.
“Where?” she asks.
I point with my eyes.
“Tall drink of water. Black hair. Blue jean jacket.”
Michael walks up.
“Let’s get something to eat. I’m starved,” he says.
“In a minute,” I say.
I look over to Michael, than back at Robbie. He knows.
“Guy from back in the day?” asks Michael
“Yeah.”
“Want to say hello?” he asks
“What do you think?”
 “Fuck ‘em,” says Michael. “Let’s eat.”
We head toward the lobby, G’s hand in my arm. Michael walks behind us. He glances over his shoulder at Robbie. Glad Michael came.

“This is the best burrito I’ve ever eaten,” says Georgia with a mouth full of food.
“You always say that when you’re hungry,” I say.
“But it is,” say G. “Tortilla is fresh, salsa’s divine and the beans are amazing” she says.
“It is pretty good,” says Michael. “Have a bite of mine.”
“No, Thanks. I’m not that hungry. Cup of coffee is just fine.”
I’m looking down at my hands. I then raise my eyes and look at my two best friends. They both give me this ‘what the fuck’ look, like two pissed off cats.
“Sorry,” I say over the table. “I’m just spooked by Robbie Rod.”
“Nothing will happen here,” says Georgia. “Too many Feds, and shit, honey, that was three years ago.”
“I doubt Bunny’s forgotten,” I say.
They both nod and then go back to eating their breakfast.
“I’ll buy you a burrito for the train,” says Georgia “I know you’re not hungry now but you will be and you get even moodier when you’re hungry.”
She winks at me. I reach across the table and squeeze her hand.
“I’m going to go over to that bench and have a quick clove smoke, and pray a quick prayer. Y’all watch my gear?”
“Sure,” say Michael.
Near the end of the outside dining area grows a young tree. Don’t know what it is. Don’t know my California trees. Could be a eucalyptus. I light a clove cigarette. I close my eyes. I speak a quiet prayer, so only I can hear.
“God of the Sky, Goddess of the Earth. Hear my prayers,” I quietly speak. “I need you both to guide me through these scary lands. I need you both to help me stay sober, stay sane, stay on the right path. I need you both to help me love and protect my friends. I need you both to shine light on me and mine. I am small. You both are big. But I have some of both you God and you Goddess in me and some of All There Is. May my GGATI harmonize with you GGATI. Without you all, I am lost. With you all, I am whole.”
“Hey, Artie,” say a voice behind me. I turn.
“Hey, Robbie,” I say, “How are you?” I am scared but not that scared. The prayer has helped and I don’t sense any danger.
“I’m OK,” says Robbie. “Did I interrupt anything?”
“You kind of did,” I say. Now I sense something. OK, Robbie, please don’t fuck with me now.
“You got a minute?” he asks.
“Sure. But just a minute,” I look over toward Georgia and Michael. They both see Robbie. Michael gets up from his seat. I raise my hand to him to stay. Michael sits back down.
“I have to catch the train to Barstow,” I say.
“I’m getting on that train too. Been in Los Angeles for about a year. Staying close to my family there. Heading to Wyoming now to look for work.”
“Good luck with that,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, looking away from my eyes. “Anyway, It’s been around what? Three years since I saw you in Santa Rosa?”
“Something like that.”
“Well,” Robbie continues, “I may be an idiot and my sponsor will probably think I’ve lost my mind, but I need to make amends to you, Artie. When you got shot up in Sells, when we were transporting that Brigham to Tucson. Well, I told a lie about you to Bunny. I told him that you were working with the Feds, that you couldn’t be trusted. I was pissed off that you were sleeping with that girl. I wanted her too but she wanted you, not me, so I figured if I told Bunny you were a Fed, he’d kill you and she would be with me.”
“I didn’t know it was you,” I say, “But I figured somebody thought I was a snitch. Or maybe Bunny just needed to shoot at someone. So it was you?”
“Yeah, it was me,” says Robbie, “I was smoking more Tea than even you back then,” he laughs and then stops the laugh.
“Anyway,” Robbie says, “I’ve been going to Mormon Tea Anonymous in Los Angeles. It’s a 12-Step program for those of us trying to not use Brigham, to be and stay clean and sober. Going to A.A. too. And I wouldn’t blame you for shooting me right now, but I was the one who tried to get you killed, and I’m sorry about that, and if I could go back and change it, I would but I can’t. But I can commit to you that I’ll do my best not to lie for my own selfish gains again, and definitely not lie so someone gets shot or killed. I’m really sorry, Artie. Really, I am.”
I just stare at him for a second and don’t say anything. Is he playing me? I look hard into his eyes. I don’t think so.
“So if I get this straight, you just happened to be in San Bernardino at this train station on your way to Wyoming, and you see me, a guy you tried to get killed, and you figured that since our paths crossed, you’d come up to me and apologize?”
“Try and make amends. Make things right. Not apologize,” he says
“Right. Make amends,” I say.
He is for real.
“Well, Robbie Rod, I’ve got some news for you,” I say, trying to look mean but I can’t pull it off. A big smile breaks across my face.
“Robbie, My name is Artie and I’m an addict and an alcoholic. I’ve got two years clean and sober last month.”
Robbie’s mouth drops open.

 

 

Peter Saum, Jr.
Tuesday, March 10th, 2076: High Noon
On The Southwest Chief
North of San Bernardino, California

Back on the train. I loved trains when I was alive. Didn’t ride them much at all back then. We had planes and gasoline cars and all of that, but my studio was just a couple blocks away from a crossing and I would hear whistles blow as I recorded in my studio. Two long whistles, a short and a long. Dad taught me that. Sometimes, I’d leave the whistle in on the intro of a piece of space music. Gave it extra atmosphere. Wish I had ridden the train more. I don’t exactly ride anywhere now.
Really enjoyed that little miracle on the platform. A Ninth Step amends completely out of the blue. Seems Artie accepted it well, but I can tell my grandson doesn’t fully trust Robbie. If I overheard right, Robbie’s got six months clean and sober. A good amount of time but not really. Depends on the man or woman in recovery. Some people have a psychic change right away, others it takes years. I guess we’ll find out more as it is revealed, as they say in A.A. and in M.T.A. But Artie and Michael are smiling and Robbie looks relieved. The three of them are thick as thieves. Hmmm. Not my best analogy.
Georgia and Mags do look worried. They have good reason I guess. I’m hoping they have no reason to distrust Robbie. But I don’t know. I can’t read minds. I can read the faces of my descendants like Artie pretty well, but that’s only because he’s blood. I’m just as mystified as I ever was regarding human behavior.
One very big advantage to being on my side of things is I can travel anywhere, anytime, in an instant. And I have traveled quite a bit over the past 40 plus years and seen much.
A folksinger once sang, ‘You’ve never seen everything.’ I’ve come close to seeing everything and much of what I’ve seen is ugly. But now, I just go where my people are, and a few of their friends. I no longer need to explore horrors.
I have seen Barstow, California, our next stop on this train. Stopped there just last year on my way to the ancient Bristlecones Pines in the White Mountains.
Barstow’s not a pretty place.
I’ll stay close.

 

 

Deputy U.S. Marshal Magdalena “Mags” Gutierrez
Tuesday, March 10th, 2076: 5:05 p.m.
New West Train Station
Barstow, California

“Hijo de perra,” I say.
“What the matter, Mags?” asks Georgia.
I mouth ‘just a minute’ to Georgia.
“The Bakersfield Princess is late,” I say to my boss, Kirk Bledsoe, on my Sat-phone. “Seems there was a freight derailment near Boron.”
“What’s that, Chief?” I ask. “The Princess isn’t going to be here in Barstow until tomorrow morning at the earliest? Fuck. Sorry, Chief. Sir, have you ever been to Barstow?”
“No, I haven’t,” says Chief Bledsoe on the phone.
“Well, civilization has barely made it back here,” I say. “There are no craftspeople, if you know what I mean. I am a little worried. I need a room for the night. Can I put in on the Fed card?
“No problem, Mags,” says Kirk.
“Great. I’ll need two rooms.”
“Why?” he asks.
“I’ll tell you later. Trust me. It’s OK.”
“Just don’t break the government’s piggie bank, all right?” says Chief Bledsoe.
“I won’t,” I say, “I’ll call you when the train leaves for Bakersfield tomorrow. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Just tell me what’s going on tomorrow,“ he says.
“I will,” I say. “Hasta.”
I close my Sat-phone.
“What did he say?” ask Georgia.
“Two rooms. One for you and me, the other for the boys.”
“Great,” say Georgia, and give me a hug.
Georgia may be the huggiest person I’ve ever met. I don’t mind.
Artie, Michael and Robbie stand under an awning outside the rundown station. Georgia and I walk up.
“So?” says Artie.
“Train to Bakerfield’s not going to be here until tomorrow,” I say. “But no worries. I’ll get rooms for all of us at the Jasper Hotel. Let’s go get checked in, and then we can find something to eat.”
“Sounds like a plan,” say Michael. Robbie is quiet.
We all pile into a taxi, not a Flex-car but an old electric jalopy, and head up the hill toward Hotel Alley.
“The Jasper, please,” I say to the driver.
“You got a hundred dollars?” asks the cabbie.
“A hundred for just up the hill?” I ask.
“Mags, we can’t spend that kind of money,” says Georgia.
“It’s OK,” I say to Georgia. “I got it.”
GGATI save us.
And off we go.
Seems like washing isn’t something they do much here in Barstow. Then again, water is expensive here. Everything expensive here. And it smells, a mix of body odor, rotting plants and something else. I shouldn’t be so judgmental. It’s just a railroad switching town. What do I expect? A craft fair, with organic gardens?
After a couple minutes, we arrive at the Jasper.
“Here’s a hundred. Keep the change.”
“There is no change,” says the cabbie.
“My point exactly,” I say.
“Bitch,” says the cabbie.
“What did you call her?” says Artie to the cabbie.
“It’s OK, Artie. Let it go.”
We grab our bags and the boys get the instrument cases out of the trunk. We walk over to the lobby. Oh Goddess.
The Jasper is what’s left of an old motel lodge from fifty years ago, when people used to drive on The Interstate. Doesn’t seem like the maintenance man has been around much. All the wooden doors to the rooms are gone, replaced by chain-link grates across each doorway. No wood at all that I can see. Lots of wood got burned during the 41 nights. Some glass windows are intact but not many. Welded bars over most of the windows.
“I’ll go in and get our rooms,” I say.
They all look a little scared. I’m scared too. Artie, Michael and Georgia are tough cookies, not scared of much, but this has them on full alert.
I walk up to the hotel desk. A short bearded man with snot coming out his nose greets me.
“Evening. What can I do you, ma’am?” he says.
“I need two rooms for the night.”
“How many people?” he asks.
“Five. Three men, two women, all adults. Do you take The Federal Plastic?”
“Only plastic I take. You a railroader?”
“Marshal,” I say pulling my badge from my front pocket. I don’t wear the badge, nor any kind of uniform. Some people like to shoot cops for fun, you know.
“Well, Marshal Gutierrez, welcome to the Jasper Hotel. Staying one night?”
“Just one.”
He grabs my Fed card and punches the numbers into a Sat-phone, then takes a pic of me with his phone. This is going to cost.
“Card’s good. So are you. Can’t be too careful. You could be impersonating an officer of the law.” he says, still punching in numbers. “Total for two rooms for one night will be $1200 even.”
“Even,” I say. “That’s nice,” shaking my head.
“I’ll need your thumbprint, Marshal.”
I push my thumb on the face of his phone.
“Thank you. Need to tell you a few rules and things,” says the clerk. “First, sorry about the lack of solid doors but those grates keep out everyone from rats to drunks. I try and keep a quiet place here and most people go to bed pretty early, don’t you know. You can bring alcohol into your room but no drugs, no Brigham, but I don’t guess that’ll be a problem for you, Ma’am.”
He smiles. Two teeth is all he has for a smile. One for meat. One for soup.
“Also, there is a pretty good restaurant, just up the hill. Johnny’s Cafe,” he continues. “Not bad. Not great. And I can call a taxi for you anytime, to take you back to the train station. Oh, over on that little hill, there are a few chairs in a circle, around a small fire pit. We have wood if you want to a fire. $100 a bunch. Some travelers go over there to play music, other’s have prayer meetings, other’s just hang out. Got a nice little view of the town and it’s away from the hotel so the music doesn’t bother the other guests. So help yourself to that.”
“You expect to be full tonight?” I ask.
“I do. I suppose you were trying to get to Bakersfield too?”
I nod.
“Yeppers, it’s going to be hopping here tonight,” he says, licking his lips. He hands me two metal keys for grates to our rooms.
“And don’t forget to bring back your keys in the morning. If you forget, it’s an extra $300 on your card. And check out is at 11 sharp.”
“Thanks, and have a good night,” I say. Might as well be nice, even in this hell hole.
“You too, Marshal,” says the clerk and then he looks at my tits. Great.

The five of us go check out the rooms. Beds seems OK. Scratchy sheets but at least they’re clean. I don’t want to think about what those stains are on the floor. None of us leave anything in the room. This is just a bed.
“Y’all hungry? I’m buying.” I say.
“You don’t have to, Marshal,” says Robbie.
“I know, but I want to,” I say. “There’s a cafe just up the hill. Hope they serve strong coffee. I’m getting a caffeine headache.”

 

 

Michael Dollaride
Tuesday, March 10th, 2076: 7:30 p.m.
Jasper Hotel
Barstow, California

“That wasn’t terrible food,” I say.
“Tell that to my stomach,” says Artie.
“The coffee was OK,” says G.
“And I liked the oatmeal cookies,” says Robbie.
“The cookies were good,” says Mags.
“Yeah, the cookies were pretty tasty,” I say to Artie.
“Brother,” Artie says, shaking his head. “That was my worst meal in years. You know I’m not picky but I just hate Synth Meat.”
Changing the subject, I ask, “So you want to look for a meeting or just stay close to home tonight? I vote for staying here. I’d like to maybe just play some tunes and hit the hay.”
“The desk clerk says there is a circle of chairs on that little rise behind the hotel,” Mag says. “Says people use it for playing all the time. Fire pit too, but you have to buy the wood.”
“Cool, but I’ll pass on the wood.” I say.
“I’m just going to stay here with Mags,” say Georgia. “Why don’t you boys just go over there and play. We’ll watch our gear.”
“Great,” I say. “Well, grab your uke, Artie. Robbie, you play?”
Robbie pulls from his bag what looks like a penny whistle.
“Fantastic,” I say. “You know any Celtic jigs?”
Robbie smiles.
“My name might be Rodriguez but my grandmother was Scottish. Rest her soul.”
I put my arm around Robbie’s shoulder.
“Brother, you’ve just made my night,” I say.

 

Georgia “G” Swann
Wednesday, March 11th, 2076: 2:11 a.m..
Jasper Hotel
Barstow, California

Artie sleeps next to me. Mags is in the other bed. Michael and Robbie sleep next door.
It was quiet until just a minute ago. Now I hear crying. I rise from the bed, pull on my jeans, put on my blouse and slip on my boots. I walk to the metal grate door, unlock it and tippy toe outside. I’m curious.
It’s coming from the second floor across from what used to be the parking lot. It’s a woman’s voice, and a man’s.
“I don’t want to go to Bakersfield. I hate it there. I hate those people,” the woman’s voice says through tears.
“I know honey, but I have a job there,” says a masculine voice. “I have to go. There was nothing for us in San Bernardino.”
“My mother was there,” she says. “Momma was there.”
“Mary, your mother’s grave is there, but she’s not there anymore.”
I hear no more talking. Just crying.
I got back to my room and back to bed. I cuddle next to Artie. I pull him into my body.
“Goddess, protect us as we travel.” I whisper. “I know in my prayers and meditations to you the answer has always been ‘Go with Artie to see his grandmother.’ but I’m frightened now. We are far away from home. And I don’t expect you, GGATI, to come down and save us from all harm. I know my job is to align the Goddess in me with the Goddess you are, but I’m still scared. Please help me be in the moment so I can be of use to you and to all people. And to Artie and his friends. Goddess, I don’t spook easy, but I’m spooked now.
I kiss Artie’s shoulder. I’m so sleepy.
Then I hear three shots ring out. Bang, bang, pause, then bang again. They sound close.

 

 

 

Arthur “Artie” Saum
Wednesday, March 11th, 2076: 1:44 p.m..
On The Bakersfield Princess
West of Boron, California

“Damn, I wish Mags was here,” I say.
“Me too,’ Georgia says.
Michael and Robbie nod in agreement.
“So there’s no Marshal in Barstow?” asks Robbie.
“There is but he’s up here somewhere near the derailment. Mags is detaining the woman until he gets back,” I say.
“Poor bastard,” says Michael. “So you heard them talking before she killed him.”
“I did,” says Georgia. “She was crying about having to go live in Bakersfield. Guess she didn’t want to live there.”
Robbie laughs. None of the rest of us do. Robbie cuts off his chuckle. It’s really not that funny. Maybe a little.
“Would you look at that?” I say, looking out the window as we pass. “Never seen train cars on fire before.”
Most of the freight cars have burned down to the metal but these three still blaze with blue, green and orange flames. Must be some chemicals or something.
“We’ll be slowing our rate of speed for a few miles, folks,” says the conductor. “Just have to get past this derailment.”
I don’t think this was just a derailment, but what do I know.
Soon we’re past and picking up steam.

Hours later, I can see the Sierra Nevadas in the distance. Still some snow on their peaks. Starting to get a bit nippy in the car. I take my fleece jacket out of my backpack and put it on.
Georgia sleepily gazes out the train window. None of us got much sleep last night.
“Hope we see Mags soon,” says G. “But who knows,”
“She has your Sat-phone number, G,” I whisper. “I told her we’d call her once we get to the Bay Area, if not sooner.”
“Good.” she says. “I miss her.”
“Me too,” I say. “We should be in Bakersfield around sunset, Fresno by midnight.”
“I’ll get us rooms in Fresno,” says my sweetie. “I’ll pay this time.”
I squeeze her hand. Having a Richie Rich as a girlfriend does have its advantages, though I rarely take advantage of her. And we work at keeping it a secret, given the obvious consequences.
We hold hands and continue to look at the snow capped mountains in the distance.
Soon, we’re climbing toward Tehachapi. Beautiful country. Foothills of the Sierras to the north, rolling hills like out of an old movie to the south, and windmills for as far as you can see. Thousands of them, white and shiny, a hundred or more feet tall, fins turning in the breeze. Makes me happy to see.
We stop in Tehachapi to load up on some coal, or so the conductor says. Wonder if I have reception on Georgia’s Sat-phone. Two bars. Hot damn.
“Michael,” I say, nudging him awake. “We’re in Tehachapi. G and Robbie went to get some ice tea. You want anything?”
“I’m good,” he says.
“And I’m going to call Craig, Bill and Pete on G’s Sat,” I say to him. “Want to talk with Craig when I get him?”
“No,” says Michael. “Just give him my love. Plus it costs a fortune to talk on Sats.”
“I know,” I say, “but G’s OK with sharing her coin.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine,” he says.
“All right,” I say.
I open the Sat-phone and dial.
“Pete, it’s Artie.”
“Artie, little brother, where are you now?” asks my boss.
“Tehachapi, just a little east of Bakersfield.”
“Ah, you’re coming up on The Loop?”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“The Loop. The Tehachapi Loop. Where the tracks go in a complete circle to make it up the grade,” says Pete. “or in your case down the grade.”
“I didn’t know you rode the train out here?” I ask Pete.
“Haven’t,” says Pete. “My grandmother told me about it. She says it’s quite a thing. Stay awake for it.”
“OK. Anyway, Georgia and I are fine. We picked up a couple road dogs on the way. Marshal Mags Gutierrez from Tucson was with us a while, and I meet an old friend in San Bernardino.”
“Good old friend or bad old friend?” he asks.
“Bad then, good now.” I say. “And guess who decided to come with us.”
“Michael Dollaride did,” Pete says.
“How in the hell did you know?”
“I know Michael’s boss at the pottery shop. Seems Michael burned a month of vacation to come with you all.”
“I figured that,” I said. “It’s so great to have him with us.”
“Craig came in to buy some strings, yesterday,” says Pete. “Asked if I had heard from you.”
“Would you call him for me and give him the update on us?” I ask.
“You bet,” he says.
“And I’m sorry Pete for leaving you for so long,” I say. “I know there’s a lot of repairs at the shop.”
“I don’t care about that. Well, I care a little about that,” Pete says. Long pause. “Artie. Listen to me. Going to see your grandmother before she dies is a wonderful thing.”
 “We don’t know that she’s dying,” I say.
“Artie, I love you, but you know if she’s not dying, she’s damn close.
I say nothing.
“I’ll call Craig,” he says, “Don’t worry about the shop.”
“You are a saint, Pete,” I say.
“No, I’m not,” says through a laugh. “I’m just a bad man trying to be good.”
Static.
“Phone’s breaking up. Pete, I love you.”
“I love you too, little brother. Give my love to Georgia and to M...”
The phone dies.
I close G’s Sat. I hate fucking phones.

 

 

 

Pedro “Pig” Ortiz
Wednesday, March 11th, 2076: 5:30 p.m..
At The Tehachapi Loop
California

“We could blow up the tracks,” Big Jim says, “Like they did in Boron.”
I pull out my revolver and stick it in Big Jim’s face.
“Or not,” he says.
“Now listen to me good,” I say still holding my gun in his face, “If you are thinking about thinking about anything, stop and think ‘I need to talk with Pig first’, before you do any fucking thing, like think. Got it?”
“Sure, Pig. I just thought....”
I click back the hammer of the Smith and Wesson with my thumb.
“If you blow up the tracks,” I say to him, “No other trains come through, and then a bunch of railroaders and Feds come up here to fix the tracks. Now, what might that mean, Jim?”
His face knots up in thought.
“That we have to leave?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, “And what else?”
“Then we can’t sneak on trains and do our business,” Big Jims says. “And we have to go someplace else where the train runs slow, so we can rob and steal and kill and such.”
“Yes,” I say, “And such.”
I lower my pistol and hoister it.
“Jesus, Pig, I didn’t mean anything.”
I glare at him and he stops talking.
My Sat-phone rings. I open the phone and look at the screen. My brother Bunny.
“Pig, here,” I say.
“Goddamn hope so,” says Bunny.
“What’s up, Bro?” I ask.
“I need you to kill someone for me.” says Bunny. “They’re on the Bakersfield train heading west. Should be there soon. I’m sending you a pic now.”
I see the picture on my screen.
“Fast or slow,” I say.
“I don’t give a shit,” says Bunny. “Just dead. Then send me a pic of their dead face.”
“I’m on it.” I say. “I’ll do it myself. Sounds like fun.”
“Thanks, brother,” says Bunny.
“Hasta,” I say.

 

 

Peter Saum, Jr.
Wednesday, March 11th, 2076: 5:40 p.m.
At The Tehachapi Loop
California

I didn’t see the picture on Pig’s phone. Could be someone else, other than my people. Not that it matters that much, since I can’t stop anything. But I’m going to send a shit-load of Light and Love, and hope for the best.
Sun’s just dropped below that ridge. May be dark before the train comes through. I don’t know.
Fuck.
I can’t do anything!

 

 

Georgia “G” Swann
Wednesday, March 11th, 2076: 6:15 p.m.
On The Bakersfield Princess
At The Tehachapi Loop
California

Even in the fading light, this valley is beautiful. And I love all of these rail tunnels. Then, I see the tracks in front of us curve hard to the left and go behind a hill with a Jesus Cross on top of it. The track reappears below us and then we head through another tunnel that goes under the tracks. We are hardly moving at all, the train traveling at a man’s walking pace. The wheels squeal loudly, sounding almost like birds. The train curves left and left and more left, leaning hard to one side. Wow. This must me the loop Artie told me about.
I touch Artie’s shoulder as I lean forward to get a better view out the window. He has the window seat. I smile at Michael in the row behinds us. He smiles back. First time I’ve seen him smile in days, in weeks. Robbie’s mouth hangs open in wonder as he looks over Michael’s body to see out the window. This is pretty cool.
Then I see something out of the corner of my eye. Motion. Metal. A hand. Michael sees the look in my eyes and turn toward where I’m looking. He sees the man too, the gun, the hand.
Robbie’s mouth closes. He jumps into the aisle, running toward the man with the gun. I grab for the LadySmith inside my small bag. My hand wraps around its grip. I start to pull my gun out of my bag when I hear a loud pop, then another. My ears ring from the shots. Then another bang, and then screams. Then I have this burning in my leg. I look down. I don’t see anything but, Goddess, it hurts.
I turn toward the man with the gun but I don’t see him. Don’t see Robbie either. Don’t see Michael.
Then I get tunnel vision. I look at Artie. I see his face, looking toward the back of the train. Then the circle of his face gets real small. Then smaller. Then black.

 

Step Zero by Stu Jenks (Pages 31-49)

[Pages from the uncorrected proof of the novel Step Zero. To purchase the limited illustrated hardbound edition of this novel go to The Stu Store at Squareup.com. To purchase the non-illustrated ebook, go to those places where ebooks are sold.]

Image: "The Death of Self, Emmerton, Virginia" (c) 2016 Stu Jenks.

 

 

William “Bill” Monroe
Wednesday, March 4th, 2076: 8:15 p.m.
Downtown Alano Club
Tucson, Arizona.

What in GGATI’s name is that newcomer talking about? OK, Bill. Just calm down. Remember you’re here to help and be helped, not judge and be judged, and remember what Larry used to say to you: ‘All those newcomers going on and on, and not making any sense? Well, it may be what keeps them sober tonight.’ Yea, Larry, you were right, like you were so often. I miss you Larry. Rest in peace, brother.
That girl’s kind of cute. Ain’t seen her before, and she looks around my age. Wonder if she’s a newcomer. Hope not. Maybe she’s a visitor who just got off the train. We do get some cute sober women traveling from California from time to time. Now, Bill, you ain’t here to get laid. You’re here to stay sober and help others to get sober. She is pretty though. God, I can’t remember the last time I made love to a woman.
Good to see so many new faces tonight. Must be three new men and maybe that pretty woman if she ain’t visiting. I love my home group, the Wednesday night God/Not God group of Alcoholics Anonymous. I love these people. And there’s Michael and Craig chuckling over there, and Joy and Sammy holding hands, and Josh and Melissa by the door and Roy and Robbie, and Tony leading the meeting tonight. Oh my. I’m being such a judgmental prick. Newcomers never make sense. Did you, Bill? Hell no. You didn’t stop shaking for three days and all you did was scream about fucking jarheads for your first month. And what did these people do? They loved you, Bill. They loved you. So love them back.
And there’s Artie, one of my sponsees. Good kid. I was too hard on him the other day. I need to make amends to him after the meeting. Tell him I wasn’t really angry at him going to California. I’m just scared for him is all. And he’s going to get his grandfather’s harmonium. That’s pretty cool.
Well, maybe I’ll share next. Sweet God, those newcomers are so full of shit. Now, now, Bill. Love and tolerance of others is our code. Love and tolerance, Bill.
Sounds like Roy is winding up.
“Thanks for letting me share,” says Roy.
“My name is Bill and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Bill,” says the group.
“It’s been over ten years since I’ve felt it necessary to take a drink and for that, I’m truly grateful. And if you’re new, keep coming back. I remember when I was new. I wanted this so bad, but I was so full of shit, I even scared myself.”
Chuckles.
“But that was OK,” I say. “I was here. I was sober. I went to a meeting every day. I got a sponsor on day three. My first sponsor, Larry. Many of you all remember Larry. He taught me a lot. He had me working the Steps immediately. ‘You think you’re an alcoholic,’ he asked me after my fourth or fifth meeting. ‘I know I am,’ I said. ‘Do you believe that a power greater than yourself can restore you to sanity?” he asked me? ‘I hope so,” I said. ‘Are you willing to turn your will and your life over to the care of God, as you understand him or her or it?’ ‘I don’t know,’ I said. Larry paused and then said with a big grin his face: ‘That’s OK.Two out of three ain’t bad’
Everyone laughs.
“God, I miss that old son of a bitch,” I say.
I can’t talk. I start to cry. I didn’t realize how much I still missed Larry. He’s been dead a year now. I don’t know if I can share anymore. Just one more thing.
“Larry helped save my life,” I say through the tears. “If you’re new, let us help you get and stay sober, like Larry and many people did for me. We are rooting for you to live. We’re rooting for you. That’s all I’ve got. Thanks for letting me share.”
“Thank you, Bill,” say many in the room.
I look over at Artie. I see he’s crying too. He knew his grand-sponsor Larry. I smile at Artie. He smiles back. I wipe the tears from my eyes and look down at my hands. I look up. Other people are wiping away tears too.
Larry was a hell of a man.
His love saved my life.

 

Georgia “G” Swann
Thursday, March 5th, 2076: a little after Midnight
Her and Artie’s House
Armory Park
Tucson, Arizona

Artie’s sleeping but I can’t sleep. I hold a glass of iced tea in my hand. A slight breeze blows down our street. Tabitha, our cat, rubs against my leg.
I’m worried about this trip and Artie too.
Every since he decided to go, his nightmares have gotten worse, and just last night he yelled Bunny’s name in his sleep. He hasn’t done that since he got sober. Fucking Bunny.
I take a sip of my tea. It’ll be OK or it won’t, like the Goddess says. And I’ll be going with him too. And we’ve got plenty of ammo. We’ll be fine or we won’t. Can’t let fear keep us from living.
To the east, I see an Almost-Full-Moon rise over the Rincon Mountains. At least we’ll have the Moon with us. His granddad used to love these nights, or so Artie tells me. Artie too. Me, not so much. I like New Moon nights with the Milky Way shining overhead. Not Artie. He likes the bright nights before and after the Full Moon. He walks the streets on Full Moon nights. Must run in the family.
I’m worried. He’s not walking with the Moon tonight.
I hear a moan from inside. Must be having another dream. I rub Tabitha’s head then head back to bed.

 

 

Michael Dollaride
Monday, March 9th, 2076: 7:51 a.m.
San Agustin Train Station
Downtown Tucson, Arizona

This may not be such a good idea, but I meditated on it and the GGATI inside of me said a single word. ‘Go.’ So I’m going. And Harold, my boss, said go too. Can’t argue with Harold or God.
I know I should have borrowed a gun from somebody but I hate guns. If I have a gun, I’ll think about killing and I’ve done enough killing for this lifetime. And the next. Pause when agitated they say in the Meetings. I can do that if I’m unarmed. But I can’t if I’m packing. I’ve proven that.
Got my ticket, my backpack and my Martin. Paper cup of coffee in my hand. Twenty people on the platform this morning for the Sunset Limited. The smell of coal and steam in the air. I love the smell of trains.
There’s Artie and Georgia. They don’t know I’m coming. Won’t they be surprised.
“Hey, guys,” I say.
They smile at me, then see my backpack and guitar case. Artie’s smile broadens. Georgia’s mouth falls open.
“You coming?” Artie asks.
‘I am,” I say.
“Oh man,” he says, and all three of us hug. A nice group hug.
“Thank you, Michael,” Georgia whispers in my ear.

 

Georgia “G” Swann
Monday, March 9th, 2076: 8:21 a.m.
On The Sunset Limited
Near Picacho Peak, Arizona

The boys have broken out the instruments—Artie on uke, Michael on guitar. Michael’s singing an old Gillian Welch song. Strangest lyrics, about how “one monkey don’t stop the show.” I think the men like this song because it mentions slow freight trains and having a purpose.
I’m looking out the window of our train car. The old Interstate 10 is vacant of any traffic, just a couple hundred feet west of the tracks. Hundreds of rusty cars, trucks and semis fill both lanes, some spilling onto the shoulder. Only the occasional Flex-truck weaves its way through the abandoned vehicles and they seem to be scavenging for parts and scrap. Every once in a while, I see a white human skull or a pile of bleached bones. I’ve seen this hundreds of times and it doesn’t bother me that much, but I’ve never really gotten used to it. Picacho Peak’s anvil summit rises out of the desert, the morning light hitting its sheer walls, making the mountain shine. Saguaros stand at attention at its base. A Red-tailed Hawk rides an updraft between the train and the Peak. The light’s just wonderful this morning. Goddess is healing the planet. She’s been good to me, to Artie, to Michael, to all our friends. I’m so grateful to Her.
I open my handbag and take out a glass water bottle. I take a sip of Sun Tea, handing the bottle to Artie who shares it with Michael. They hand the bottle back to me. The boys are having a time.
“You know how all those old-timers in A.A. used to say that behind every skirt there’s a slip?” say Michael. “That you need to not get into a relationship in your first year of sobriety?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard Bill use the saying once or twice,” Artie says.
“Well, I’ve been thinking. You know most women don’t even wear underwear anymore. So I guess, behind every skirt is...crack.”
“You guys,” I admonish Michael.
“It’s just a joke,” he says, laughing.
“Yeah and not a very good one at that,” I say.
I then elbow Artie in the ribs to stop him from laughing. He does and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“You better kiss me,” I say.
“Ah, honey,” he says, giving me a squeeze too.
“Don’t ‘ah, honey me’,” I say, but I’m just teasing him.
Suddenly, Michael stops laughing. He’s looking over at I-10. Artie follows his gaze, as do I.
Five men and two woman on horseback canter south toward Tucson on the shoulder of the Interstate. All seven wear the fire-engine red shirts of El Grupo. The last guy in line stops, letting the other six ride on. He turns his horse to face the train. He pull sout his shotgun from its holster beside his saddle, raises the gun above his head and shakes it at the train, smiling a manical grin the whole time. He then turns his horse, and catches up with his partners.
“You brought your pistols with you, I assume,” Michael says.
“Yep,” I say, craning to see the last of the riders as they disappear from view.
“You?” Artie asks Michael.
“I don’t own a gun anymore,” Michael says.
“I forgot,” says Artie.
Artie holds my hand for a while. Michael stares out the window. We don’t talk.

 

 

Deputy U. S. Marshal Magdalena “Mags” Gutierrez
Monday, March 9th, 2076: 8:27 a.m.
On The Sunset Limited
near Picacho Peak, Arizona.

I’m fortunate to be a civil servant. I have a Sat-phone. Well, anyone can get a Sat-phone, but they cost a fortune. The Richie Riches and the Mormon Tea growers have Sat-phones of course, as do all government workers but most Americans only have Flex-phones, which are much cheaper but you can only get coverage in cities and big towns. Most people hate phones, texts, and computers. I need it for my job and lucky me, I got my mama an old out-of-date Sat-phone and we can talk and text each other.
Speaking of the devil, it’s a text from my mother in New Mexico. Asks how Stephanie is. Says the river is high and the snow is melting. I miss the Rio Grande, but I don’t mind that they transferred me to Tucson two years ago. Tucson kind of reminds me of Albuquerque except hotter, but the people are just as friendly. But ABQ doesn’t have a huge Tea problem. Some Brigham, but not like here where they grow the damn stuff. No, I miss my family but this is where I need to be.
Except today.
The Chief is sending me to San Francisco to pick up a prisoner and transport him back to Tucson for trial. Not my favorite job. I could fly but I’m not. The train will add a few days on the trip but no sense using oil resources for some scumbug in the Tea trade. Plus I like trains. No, I love trains. My favorite thing to do is to sit in my backyard at night, drink some iced coffee, and listen to the trains whisper through town. Second favorite thing to do, actually. Favorite thing is to be kissing and touching Stephanie.
I put away the Sat-phone and look out my window. Picacho Peak looks pretty this morning. And I get paid for this.
Then I see them. Seven of them.
Shit. Red shirts.
What are they doing here? They’re not doing anything illegal that I can see, but damn. Well, look at that. I think that’s Bunny Ortiz at the head. There’s a warrant out for his arrest. Double murder. Damn it. I’m on this train and there’s no law enforcement on The Sunset Limited, except me and three railroad dicks. And what can I do? Stop the train and then run after them on foot?
Well, they’re gone now. Just have to get Bunny when I get home. Like I wish.
I open up my Sat-phone again and dictate a quick text to my mother.
“Dear Momma,” I say into the phone, “I’m off to San Francisco for a few days to pick up a prisoner. You know I wish I was with you and Papa, looking at the Rio Grande flow, and eating your chile rellenos, but I’m a hard working woman these days. And if Stephanie was here she’d send her love. I gotta go. I love you Momma. Kiss Papa for me. Love, Magdalena.”
I send the text and close the phone. I gaze out the window again at Picacho Peak. Then I think of Stephanie’s breasts. I shake my head. Stay frosty, Mags. No time to be thinking about having sex with your girlfriend.

 

Arthur “Artie” Saum
Monday, March 9th, 2076: 10:10 a.m.
On The Sunset Limited
Outside of Casa Grande, Arizona.

Standing between cars, smoking a clove cigarette. I don’t smoke many. Can’t afford them, but seeing El Grupo messed me up. Actually, it was seeing Bunny for the first time since I got sober that did it.
“Mind if I join you,” says Michael exiting his car.
“Hey, Michael. Sure. Want a clove?”
“Can’t stand ‘em, but thanks.”
“I forgot,” I say.
“You all right?”
“Yeah, sure.” I say, looking at him and wonder why I’m lying.
“No, I’m not,” I say. “That was Bunny back there.”
“Yeah,” Michael says.
I take a long drag off my clove. I need to quit these.
“Don’t tell Georgia but I really want to use right now,” I say. “I can taste the Brigham in my mouth. That’s why I’m out here having a clove. I haven’t been this triggered in months. Jesus fuck.”
My hand shakes as I bring the cigarette to my lips.
“You prayed about it?” he asks.
“About what?”
“To have God Goddess All There Is remove the obsession to drink and use.”
That brought a smile to my face.
“I didn’t even think about that.,” I say. “Geez. Do I feel dumb.”
“You’re not dumb, Artie,” says Michael. “You’re just an addict. I forget to pray all the time.”
“But I bet you didn’t forget to pray when El Grupo rode by just now,” I say.
Michael looks down at his feet, then looks out toward the desert barreling by.
“No, I didn’t,” he says.
 “Didn’t think so,” I say. “You’re the most spiritual man I know.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” he says. “I just have a daily reprieve from my addictions, contingent on my spiritual condition or something like that. You too.”
“I know,” I say.
“Life still sucks sometimes,” says Michael. “I can’t be helped.”
I exhale some clove smoke.
“I’m glad you came out here,” I say. “I needed to talk with another addict, about how I just want to jump off this goddamned train, steal a horse in Casa Grande, catch up with Bunny, and completely ruin my whole fucking life.”
“One addict helping another, and all that shit,” he says.
“Yeah, all that shit,” I say. “I do feel better talking with you. Not a lot but a little.”
“You’ve listened to me talk about all those murders so many times,” says Michael. “About time I listen to you talk about wanting to leap from a moving train, leaving the love of your life, so you can get high one more time.”
“True,” I say. “You have killed a shit load of people, and listening to you talk about that, Michael, plum wore me out.”
Michael punches me in the arm. I then grab his shoulder and give it a shake.
“Seriously,” I say, “Thanks for coming to look for me.”
I take a last drag of my clove, and flick it off the train.
Damn it. I forgot to stub it out. I hope I don’t catch the desert on fire.

 

 

Jesus “Bunny” Ortiz
Monday, March 9th, 2076: 10:15 a.m.
On Interstate Ten
Near Red Rock, Arizona.

“Chuckie, get your ass up here.”
“What do you want, jefe?” says Chuckie, galloping up on his horse.
“You fucking pendejo,” I say. “What the fuck were you thinking, shaking your rifle at that train?”
“Nothing.” says Chuckie. “Just letting them know we owns this goddamned road.”
“Really?” I say “So you were just fucking with them?”
“Yea, pretty much, Bunny.”
I pull out my .357 Smith and Wesson and shoot Chuckie in the head. He falls from his horse.
“Roberto, grab the reins of his horse.”
He does.
I look down at Chuckie’s body. He’s missing the top of his head. Cool.
“Chinga tu madre, asshole,” I say.
I turn to the other five.
“Let’s get off this road, so none of you find it necessary to screw with any more customers. We’re the good guys remember.”
“OK, jefe,” I hear a couple of them mumble.
We’re trying to win the hearts and minds of the people, goddamn it. And make some serious dinero for Christ’s sake.
Mary save us.
I need to get home to Santa Rosa.
I look one more time at Chuckie’s body and shake my head. A waste of a perfectly good bullet. I should have just sliced his throat.

 

Deputy U. S. Marshal Magdalena “Mags” Gutierrez
Monday, March 9th, 2076: 11:20 a.m.
New Union Station
Maricopa, Arizona

Good to stretch my legs, and get a cup of coffee. Interesting assortment of individuals on the platform. Old dirt-poor desert rats. Young people going to California. Of course, government officials, and some business men and women. Funny, you can always tell business people. They don’t wear sensible shoes.
Looks like Marshal Piehole over there, from Phoenix. Or what’s left of Phoenix. Guess I’ll have to say hello. He’s such a jerk, always looking at my tits.
“Hello, Marshal,” I say.
“Why hello, Mags. How are you?” saying this directly to my breasts.
“Good. What brings you down to the station?” I ask.
“Business, says Piehole.
Thanks for being specific. Jerk.
“You?” he asks.
“Going to California to pick up a convict. How’s life in The Valley of The Sun?”
“Same old, same old. Protecting the farmers along the Salt River. Busting some Brigham dealers. The occasional murder.”
“Anybody still living in Phoenix?” I ask.
“Just a few crazies is all,” says Piehole “Most everyone else lives along the Salt and Gila Rivers you know. Growing corn and beans. Making babies. Making pots and furniture. Some damn fine Mesquite tables and beds being made along the river now.”
“I have a Mesquite chair at home, made on the Gila,” I say. “It’s beautiful.”
“They are pretty,” says Piehole.
Then I see Artie Saum on the train platform. Well, I’ll be.
“Got to run, Marshal,” I say. “I see one of my old wards over there. My love to the missus.”
“Oh. OK, Mags,” he says. “Safe trip.”
“You too.” Pompous ass.
“Artie!” I yell.
Artie turns his head to the sound of his name. He smiles.
“Mags!” he says. He walks up to me and give me a hug before I even ask for one.
“Artie, how’ve you been?” I ask. “It’s good to see you.
“Thanks,” says Artie.
“So who this?” I ask, looking at the pretty blond woman standing next to Artie.
“This is Georgia Swann, a very girlfriend,” he says. “Georgia, this is Mags Gutierrez. The Fed who arrested me, and went to bat for me, so I didn’t go to prison. Mags also is a killer harp player. She came into the store just last week to buy two more Marine Bands. A and D, right?”
“Good memory, Artie,” I say.
“It’s my business,” he says.
“Nice to meet you, Georgia,” I say, shaking her hand.
“Pleasure’s mine,” she says
“And this is Michael Dollaride.” Artie says. “Another good friend. He’s coming with us to California.”
“California? What’s in California?” I ask.
“My grandmother. My Dad’s mom. She’s in a nursing home in San Francisco. I’ve never met her. Talked on a Sat-phone with her twice and we’ve exchanged lots of letters, never laid eyes on her.”
Artie pauses. A weird pause.
“I think she is dying, Mags,” Artie says.
He looks really sad. His face is so open now. He’s changed so much.
“So I want to meet her while I can,” he says, “and she says she has my grand dad’s harmonium, and she wants to give it to me.”
“No kidding, an old harmonium. Does it still play?” I ask.
“I think so,” says Artie “And if it doesn’t, I can probably fix it. At least I hope so.”
“And you’re going right to San Francisco proper?” I ask.
“Yep, a little west of downtown in what’s called the Inner Sunset district.”
I smile.
“What?” Artie asks.
“I’m going to the Federal complex, in Downtown San Francisco,” I say.
“No shit.” says Artie.
“Far out,” says Michael.
“Thank God,” says Georgia. All three at the same time.
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“Hey, want to be one of our road dogs?” asks Michael.
“Can we call it something else?” I say.
“You can call it anything you like, Mags,” says Artie. “We’re just happy you’re on the train with us.”
Georgia lightly places her hand on my arm.
“Come sit with us,” she says. “We have some food, some Sun-Tea, and Michael brought his guitar,” she says.
“Please tell me, Mags, you brought a few harps,” says Artie.
“I did,” I say.
Then Artie does a little dance right on the platform. Funny kid.


 

Michael Dollaride
Monday, March 9th, 2076: 6:40 p.m.
Grijalva Station
Yuma, Arizona

“Yuma,” yells the conductor through the intercom.
“Dinner break. We’ll be resting at the station for a couple of hours. Keep your tickets with you if you decide to get off, even though I’m pretty good with faces.”
The conductor laughs, then coughs. Guy’s a comedian.
“We’ll be leaving Yuma around 8:45 p.m.,” continues the conductor. “Arriving in San Bernardino around midnight. If you get off the train, be sure to be back in your seats by 8:30. Enjoy your visit to Yuma, the hottest town in Arizona. Temperature-wise, that is.” The conductor chuckles again and then clicks off the mic. Bet he’s used that joke a hundred times.
“Want to hit a meeting?” I ask Artie.
“Well, I was thinking of just staying on the train,” he says.
“Go ahead, honey,” says Georgia to Artie. “I’m going to stay on the train and get to know Mags better. And maybe she’ll tell me some dirt about you guys, from back in the day.”
“I won’t say a thing,” says Mags to Artie.
“She already knows everything, Mags.” Artie says.
“Everything?” I say.
“Most everything,” Artie says, shrugging his shoulders.
“Don’t worry, boys,” says the Marshal. “It’ll mostly be girl talk. Mostly.”
Both women laugh. Wonder what the Marshal knows about my past? Christ, I’m being paranoid. I’m not that damn important.
“Let’s hit that meeting,” I say to Artie.
“OK,” he says. He gives Georgia a kiss.
“Don’t forget. Be back on the train, a little after 8,” says Mags. “The train waits for no one.”
“Time too,” I say.
“Smart boy,” says Mags.
Least she’s a law-woman with a sense of humor.

Grijalva Station is a weird wood and steel thing they built a few years back, since there was no train station left after the 41 Nights. It has an open lobby and new wooden benches, the windows have no glass, only shutters to ward off the sun and rain. A nice wraparound porch and tamale and taco vendors everywhere. It smells like home. Hotels and brothels and mixes of both. Then I see the new St. Paul’s Episcopal Church across the street. I pull out the Arizona M.T.A. schedule from my backpack. Yep. Meeting’s been going on since 6:30. As long as you make it for the prayer at the end, you aren’t late for a meeting. That’s what my sponsor used to say.
“Meeting’s over there at the church,” I say.
“Cool,” says Artie.
A small ‘M.T.A. is here’ sign leans against a door jam to a classroom that faces the street. We walk in.
“...I want my wife back, but my sponsor keeps telling me that I need to stay sober for myself. But I miss her so bad. And my kids. My mother-fucking kids...”
A large Hispanic man talks. We find our seats.
“...she’s a goddamned whore, fucking...”
He starts to cry.
Artie and I settle into our seats and pay attention. No one touches the man. No one says anything. He has all of our attention. It’s what we give. We give our attention.
“...she’s not a whore. She’s a good mom,” continues the Hispanic man. “She just hates me, and for good reason. I was hanging out with El Grupo, running errands for them, making some good money, then I started spending all the money, and she left me and is back living with her mother. She doesn’t want to see me until I have a month clean. I have 15 days today.”
A smattering of applause. Neither Artie and I clap.
“...so I guess I have to make it 15 more days. Or just tonight. And then another day. One day at a time, right?”
No one speaks. Many of us nod.
“Yeah, one day at a time,” he says. “Thanks. That’s all I have to say.”
“Thanks, Chuy,” a number of people say.
About twenty of us in the room. I’ve never been to this meeting, but I feel welcome. It’s always that way.
“My name is Sally, and I’m an addict.”
“Hi, Sally,” says the room.
“I’ve been sober almost a year now,” she says. “I came in here to get my kids back. I didn’t get them back. Jack took them to his folks in Blythe. He went too. I was three months sober when that happened. I miss them so much. I went to visit them around Christmas. It was great. His folks still don’t like me very much. I don’t know. Maybe it had to do with me, stealing their shit. I only did it once.”
Laughter.
“OK, twice.”
Bigger laughs.
“All right, three times.”
The room erupts.
“I gave it all back,” says Sally. “Well, some of it.”
Chuckles.
“Seriously, I don’t mind that they don’t trust me. I don’t fully trust myself. I only think about using about once a week now. And I pray to have Goddess remove the obsession, or I call my sponsor on the Flex, or I get to a meeting or all three. And it’s a hell of a lot better than it was when I came in. I thought about Mormon Tea all the time then. All the fucking time...”
Ridden hard, hung up wet, with mad-dog blue eyes. Easy to love now. Hard to like when she was using.
“So I have a good job at the food co-op, and I’m learning to play the banjo...”
No one laughs at her learning the banjo. Music was fun before the shit hit the fan, the old timers say, but it wasn’t sacred back then. It’s holy to play an instrument now.
“...I have a good teacher. Big Mike from A.A. Y’all know Big Mike? Been sober ten years, works for the Marshal Service as a computer mechanic. Good guy. Hell of a player. He’s teaching me on one of his old Gold Tone banjos. Teaching me now this sweet little old claw hammer tune called ‘More Bad Weather On The Way.’ by Steve Martin. Tells me if I stay sober a year, he’ll give me that old five string....”
She starts to cry, not out of sadness or frustration like Chuy, but out of joy.
“...I can’t tell you how much I feel GATTI when I play, and when I think about Tea, I just pick up that loaner from Mike, and practice my scales or just play something in G. I’m so grateful to be sober. And I kind of lied before. I think about Tea a lot.”
A couple of chuckles. All smiles from us. All of us have tried to pretend we’re more sober, more sane than we actually are.
“Yeah, I miss my kids just awful,” she says in the direction of Chuy, “but I have to get myself right, or at least righter than I am if I’m going to be any good to my kids. So I pray, and I talk with other addicts and alcoholics, and I come to meetings and I play that old five-string of Mike’s...”
She cries through all of this. She transforms from a middle-aged woman who has been beaten down by about a half dozen things to one of the prettiest girls in the world. She just shines. Makes me smile. She’s my gift of sobriety tonight.
“...so if you’re hurting just keep coming back. And maybe pick up the banjo. That’s all I have.”
“Thanks, Sally,” says the room.

“That was a great meeting, wasn’t it?” say Artie as we walk back to the station. “That Sally woman talking about the Goddess and her banjo? That’s just how I feel when I play my old Martin, or when we play together. It’s so sacred. Like with each note, we are breathing a little more life into The Earth, that God Goddess All There Is grows with each tune we play. With each note I strum. We’ve talked about this. I know you feel it too.”
“I do,” I say.
“It’s better than booze, better than Brigham,” he says.
“It is,” I say.
“Almost better than sex,” Artie says.
“I won’t say that,’ I say. “Then again, it’s been a long time since I’ve even kissed a girl.”
 Artie puts his arm around my shoulders as we walk back to the station.
“Well, maybe we can change that on this trip.”
“I ain’t looking to get laid, Artie,” I say.
“And that’s just when you meet the girl of your dreams,” he says.
“Or my nightmares,” I say.
“Ah,” he says, and pushes me away.

 

"Ed-Lil"

 

"Ed-Lil, Along The Rappahannock River, Virginia (c) 2002; modified print version, 2016 Stu Jenks.

(From the hardbound book and e-book, Flame Spirals: Journey Through Nocturnal Photography)

 

Spring: 2002.
Dad's been dead nine months. Mom has to sell the river house so she can invest the cash and survive on the interest. Dad didn't leave Mom enough money to live on. Dad didn't believe in life insurance.

People loved my father, for he had the public persona of a funny, happy-go-lucky, smart, old Southern man. But his private face was darker. At home, he was a cynical loner who feared poverty and preferred his own company to that of his family.

But oddly, all that doesn’t seem to matter now, the man he was when he was alive, for I can feel him around me. I can call him to me, simply by saying his name. He seems to be this pure good soul now: loving, tender, accepting, and kind. I feel he actually likes me today. (And whether I'm making it up in my own head or Ghost Dad is really hovering around, the kind energy of my father is nice to be around.)

Months ago, I had to send Dad away for a week because the new-glowing-light-Dad was interfering with my grieving process of the newly-dead-Dad. I needed to be mad at my father for a while, but when God’s-Light-Bulb-Dad was around, I couldn’t feel that feeling and then let it go. But I called him back after awhile, after I released that rage. Unlike the living Stuart, Ghost Dad understood completely.

When I'm worried about money and going further into debt around my failing art photography business, I hear him softly say, "Don't worry, son. The money will come, and if it doesn't, it doesn't matter. You have the love of your friends, the love of your Art, the love of us." Other times, when I'm filled with self-doubt and internal hatefulness, I hear him whisper off my left shoulder, "I love you just the way you are, Son. You don’t need to change a thing." A month ago, when Ghost Dad was saying another ethereal message of Love, I actually said out loud, "Who is this guy?”

A little about Ed-Lil, The Jenks’ ancestral summer home on the Rappahannock River, which Mom is selling:

It was bought by Papa Edgar Jenks, my grandfather, in the 1920’s from Johnny Mothershead. It consisted of a two story house with five bedrooms and a bath, and a smaller one story house that had the kitchen, the dining room and a tool shed. My father deeply loved the Rappahannock River, the Ed-Lil house, and the people who lived along its banks. Loved them since he was a teenager.

Every August, Mom, Dad, Pamela and I would come to the river for two or three weeks. I hated the river as a kid. Hated the mosquitoes, the fleas, the stinging jellyfish but mostly I hated being around my parents. They were so judgmental, so critical, so volatile in bullshit ways. I couldn’t wait to get back to Raleigh and back to school in September. But then, 25 years ago, I started coming here because I wanted to, not because I had to. I always had a car, so I could come and go as I pleased, if things got too dark.

After Dad retired from IBM in mid 80's, he built himself and Mom a modest three bedroom house next to the old houses. He then tore down the bedroom house and the kitchen and left the old dining room as his workshop. The dining room/tool shed was and is gorgeous, with its ancient tongue-in-groove wood walls, the rusting gas fixtures from the 1920’s that still hang from the ceiling, and the tattered and stained white lace curtains that haven’t been washed since the Eisenhower Administration. The new smell of gasoline is added to the mix, that comes from the riding lawn mower that’s parked on the shed’s stained hardwood floors. An old map of Richmond County is pinned to the wall. It’s been crudely attached there since before I was born. Change is good sometimes, but consistency and tradition are beautiful, too, if they are humble. That is one humble map. This is one humble room.

I'm standing in the old dining room this afternoon, with the lace and the tongue in groove and the old map on the wall. A big rain is coming. Spirit Dad is here, but I sure wish Old Living Stuart were here right now. Dad and I so loved watching big storms cross the river.

The window facing the river looks great. So would a flame spiral next to it. Wonder if I can pull it off. It’ll have to be a short exposure, maybe ten seconds. I put all the red filters I have on the lens of my Rollei and hope for the best.

I open the window, get out the Zippo and wait for the storm.

A line of rain crosses the seven-mile width of the river. The river slowly goes away, replaced by a dark gray of big rain. Halfway across the river now. Just a mile away. Almost here. Now it’s here. The storm is here.

Thunder crackles in the corn fields behind me. Lightning highlights the lace curtains. Heavy dense rain blows in through the open window. The river completely disappears.

I open the Rollei’s shutter and ignite the Zippo. I paint a spiral to the left of the window. I close the shutter after ten seconds. I do this a few times.

Then suddenly, in between exposures, a small gray finch flies through the open window. Confused and wet, it lands on the lens of my camera. We stare at each other. He's scared, fidgety and soaked to the bone. My first thought is, “Don't shit on the lens. Please don’t shit on my camera.” The bird's first thought is probably something like, “Where the hell am I? How did I get in here, and who is that guy?” He stays perched on my camera for at least a minute. We continue to look at each other. I don’t care about bird shit anymore. I just care for the little bird.

 

Suddenly he flies off the camera, but now, poor thing, he can’t find the open window. He’s feverishly flying around the dining room. I quickly grab a broom. I open the ancient screen door and prop it open with an old gas can. The finch is banging itself on the ceiling of the room, completely frantic now. I gently put the straw broom head on the ceiling and usher the bird to the door. He see the open door and streaks out into the pouring rain. Success for both of us.

I go back and paint another Zippo spiral, this one for the bird. The exposure feels right. I call it a day. I put the lens cap on the camera and sit in an old chair now, looking at a large puddle of water forming under the old cedar tree out front.

I love the River now. I'm going to miss it. But you got to do what you got to do. Mom needs money to survive, and she really doesn’t like living this far away from civilization anyway. She only came here because Stuart came here to live. Now, he’s gone. Now, it’s time for her to live where she wants, for her to have her own life now.

She’ll be soon living in a cute little house next door to the organist from church. Glen’s his name. He’s a wonderful guy. I'm hopeful. For all of us.



"The Death of Stuart Jenks: September, 2001"

"The Pier Spiral, Richmond County, Virginia" (c) 2001, 2016 Stu Jenks.

From the hardbound book and e-book, Flame Spirals: Journey Through Nocturnal Photography

The last thing I wanted to do was get into a fight with my Mom, words like 'Stop being such a god damned martyr!' and 'Quit trying to control how Dad is dying, will you?' flying out of my mouth.

Bottom Line: Mom is scared. She's not the asshole. I'm the asshole.

While I was yelling at Mom, Pamela was in with Dad, quietly singing to him.

Now, the fight is over. Pamela’s on the front porch swing. Mom’s at the kitchen sink, crying. I feel like shit.

I go into see Dad, who hasn't been awake since yesterday.

"Dad, I'm sorry," I say to the unconscious man, "I'm trying to get along with your wife, but it is hard. I'm trying. Really, I am. Again, I'm so sorry, Dad."

I go out to the kitchen.

"Mom, I'm sorry."

"Just leave me alone, OK?" she says through tears.

I touch her shoulder. She cowers away. I remove my hand and take a step back.

"I'm really sorry, Mom."

She doesn't say anything, just turns and walks away.

I couldn't feel any guiltier for yelling at Mom. I've been keeping my powder dry for the last month, ever since I arrived to be with Dad as he dies, to be part of this odd makeshift hospice group of my mother, my sister and me. But the keg finally blew tonight.

I go out on the porch and talk with Pamela for a while. She suggests I yell at her instead. I know she’s trying to help. It doesn’t. I don't yell at her.

A couple of hours pass.

It's quiet at the river house now. Mom has gone into the bedroom to lay beside her husband. I'm back out with my sister on the front porch. We're making small talk now, smoking cigarettes.

Then Mary comes out to the porch.

"He's gone" she says, "It was so beautiful. He just stopped breathing. So quiet. So peaceful."

"Are you sure?" I say.

My first thought is pure selfishness. Oh, Dad, not tonight. Don't die tonight. Not after I've had a big fight with your wife. Now who is trying to control how Dad dies?

We all go into the bedroom. Not much different than other times, but it appears Dad isn't breathing at all. I place my hand under his nose and feel some air coming out.

"Mom, I think he's still breathing."

"He's gone," she says.

I bend down closer to him and realize that his skin is beginning to change color. I ask for a mirror and put it under his nose. Nothing. He's getting paler. I know he’s dead.

“Remember, Stu, what you said? That we need to open the window to let the soul out?” Mom says.

“I’ll do it,” says Pamela.

I said this Window/Soul thing over a dozen years ago. It was just a bit of conversation. I think I was reading about Navajo Spirituality at the time. I don't really think Dad's soul will get trapped in this house, but I say nothing as Pamela opens one of the windows. Then I open a window just to go along. I'm in shock right now. Dad's dead. My father is dead.

Mom says it's time to dress Stuart. I've been dreading this moment since the day Mom told me that she wanted Pamela and I to help her dress Stuart in his favorite shirt and khaki pants after he dies. I thought it would be difficult to manhandle the old man, both physically and emotionally. But after being such a jerk tonight, I'm going along with whatever Mom says.

Pamela is at Dad's head. Mary and I are on either side. We take off his nightshirt and make him naked. We grab his pants and pull them on him. We have to pull hard to get them to his waist.

It all feels completely right. We are performing a ritual that has been done for centuries: The dressing of a dead loved one for his passage to the other side.

Pamela holds Stuart's head. We pull him up into a seated position and we put on his favorite plaid Dockers shirt, the one with the turquoise checks. We gently lay him back down. Mom buckles his belt. I'm standing next to Dad holding his hand. It’s cold and slack. A lifeless hand but still my Daddy's hand. Mom leaves the room to call the minister, the nurse and the undertakers. Pamela stays a bit longer then she leaves too.

Then it’s just Dad and I.

I whisper to his body.

"I'm so sorry Dad about getting into a fight with Mom. I'm so so sorry. If I could go back in time…” I can't talk through my tears.

Scott, the priest at St. Mary's Whitechapel is the first to arrive. The nurse and her husband are next. The undertakers have to come from Richmond, so it'll be an hour plus before they get here. It's after midnight now. Dad died a little after 11. Everyone is on the screened-in porch making small talk. I was there for a minute or two but it felt a little disrespectful somehow. I kept thinking my father is dead in the other room and we're talking about the weather? I seem to be going back into Dad's bedroom a lot, holding his hand, watching him change color from red to pink to white. I can't help but wonder if he's really dead. It's hard for me to wrap my head around the idea that Dad is truly gone. I hold his cold hand again. The undertakers will soon be here. I'll only have a few more opportunities to touch my father.

I want to hold his hand forever.

I'm in the kitchen getting a soda when the nurse comes up and says, “Stu, are you planning on being in the room when they take your Dad out on a stretcher?”

“I might,” I say.

“I would really suggest you not be there for that. All you'll remember is seeing him put into the bag. That memory will overshadow all the rest. You may want to go upstairs or go outside when they do that.”

Pamela walks in on the conversation and gets the gist.

“I’ll go up stairs,” she says.

“I'm going out to the pier,” I say.

The next hour is so weird. More small talk on the porch, but I can't hang there. I drift back to the bedroom to hold Dad's hand, outside to have a smoke, back to his bedside. At one point, the nurse's husband comes up and talks with me. I don't have a clue what he said.

Finally at around 1:30 a.m., a black hearse comes up the drive and two men enter our kitchen. One is a very skinny man, in a huge black suit that fits him about like a tent. Next to him is large fat man with a small black suit that fits him like a child's hand-me-down that’s two sizes too small. Wait a minute. They seem to have on the exact same size black jacket, the one-size-fits-all-undertaker's-jacket. When did I enter a David Lynch movie? When will the midget appear? Is Dali going to walk through that door?

The skinny man holds his hands together in that earnest creepy sort of way. The fat one just stands there. They talk with the nurse and Mom for a bit then they go outside to the hearse to get the stretcher. I take this as my time to exit stage right and head for the pier. I grab the cordless phone as I leave the house.

Out on the pier, I call Annie to tell her that Dad's dead. I already talked with her earlier about the big fight with Mom. Annie's trying to help me not feel so guilty about it all. God bless her, but her words give me little comfort.

“I feel so guilty about the fight,” I say. “I wish Dad had died tomorrow instead."

“I know, sweetie,” she says.

I talk with Annie a bit more, saying I'll call her tomorrow. I also ask her if she will call Len and Virginia, my mother's sister and brother-in-law in Tucson. “That would be great,” I add. “And check on plane tickets for you and Len to come to the funeral. You are coming, aren't you?"

"Of course," she says.

"I really need you, honey."

I'm back at the house now. The undertakers are gone. So are the nurse and her husband. Scott the priest is still here. Pamela is nowhere to be seen. I tell Mom I'm going back to the pier. So glad Scott is here. Mom loves Scott. She seems OK, considering she’s lost the love of her life.

I walk the couple of hundred feet to the pier again, this time wrapped in my Dad's old Marine Corps blanket along with the phone. I call Michael and tell him about Dad's dying. He's great as ever. We talk for half an hour then I hang up and put the phone down.

I've barely noticed the weather these past few hours but I sure do now. The wind has really picked up. Must be a storm in the Bay or a front moving in. The river is choppy. The wind howls.

I begin to talk to my Dad. The wind swallows my words. I'm sitting on a step at the far end of the pier, looking out into the dark Rappahannock River.

“Dad, I'm so sorry,” I say to the wind.

“I'm really sorry about yelling at Mom. Please forgive me. Please forgive me. Please.” I just keep crying. I don't speak for a while. I just cry.

Then I feel a presence. I don't trust it at first, but then I know it's him. It's Stuart.

 

Dad then sits down beside me on the steps of the pier and put his arm around me. I could feel the light pressure of his hand on my shoulder. And I swear to God I hear him speak.

“I forgive you, son.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know."

“I love you, Dad.”

“Me too, honey,” he says.

Dad always called me honey.

 

 

"Flame Circle at St. Mary's Whitechapel"

"Flame Circle at St. Mary's Whitechapel Episcopal Church, Lively, Virginia" (c) 2000, 2016 Stu Jenks.

From the hardbound book and e-book, Flame Spirals: Journey Through Nocturnal Photography

Dad's cancer has shrunk but hasn't gone away. After almost two years of awful chemotherapy, we are pretty much where we started: Dad has a bad lymphoma and he's probably going to die.

I was up in New York City for a few days photographing and attending a friend's wedding. [Major emotional highlights were the Klezmer band at Craig and Barbara's reception; the delightful and generous devotees at the Hare Krishna Bed and Breakfast in the Lower East Side; and the many Monet haystacks at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.] I've just come down to Virginia for a brief visit with the folks before flying back to Arizona.

It's good and not-so-good to see Dad. I always experience some sort of internal emotional bugaboo when I'm hanging around my mother and father. All of us Jenks are judgmenta, me included—this is good, that is bad, blah, blah, blah—but my mother and father have it down to an art form. Dad's mockingly sarcastic laughter at my going to their church tonight to shoot is just one example. Mom's subtle shaming sighs of disapproval are another. God love 'em, or to Hell with 'em. See what I mean? I inherited the virus too.

Within twenty minutes, I’ve parked my rental pickup truck in a gravel parking lot of their church.

My parents' church, St. Mary's Whitechapel Episcopal Church, is just down the road near the little town of Lively, Virginia. Lively is actually just a crossroads, with a drug store, a post office, and a bar called “The Corner” that serves pretty good shrimp and really great hamburgers. The church is a few miles south of Lively at an even smaller crossroads. The church is the only thing at the corner of routes 201 and 354. It's a very small chapel that has been there since 1669. It thrived during Colonial Times, was vacant and abandoned for fifty years during Antidisestablishmentarian Times (when the Church of England was shunned by most new Americans after the Revolutionary War), was reborn in the middle 19th century, and is now an historic, financially well-endowed, little church in the middle of nowhere in Virginia.

There's no moon tonight, but there’s plenty of good light shining into the graveyard from a strong streetlight near the back of the church. The church’s sexton has apparently cut the grass today. What a delightful surprise. Large amounts of cut grass are scattered all around. I walk around the cemetery looking for just the right stone, just the right light. I find the stone and the light pretty quick. The smell of the grass is strong and pungent. We just don't have grass like this in Tucson.

I make a circle of cut grass on a tombstone. I look and find the angle, set up my Rollei, and practice making circles with my Zippo. I get the hang of it after a few minutes. I stop and take in the space: the ancient Oak trees that surround me; the graves of wealthy Colonial Virginia planters; the monuments of a movie star or two.

I open the shutter and enter the frame and begin to paint a flame circle above the grass. Cicadas sing loudly from the surrounding woods. I close the Zippo, exit the field of view, and then go for a walk around the cemetery. This is going to have to be a long exposure. Probably a half hour or more. It's a strong streetlight but it gives off less light than you think.

Up the hill, I visit the four plots for the Jenks Family. No markers or graves yet. Two huge Oak trees grow just north of the plots. I won't mind having my ashes here some day. I walk to my rental truck to check the time. Fifteen minutes have gone by. I throw in a Peter Gabriel CD and light a smoke. After 25 minutes, I get out of the car and return to the grass circle. I close the shutter and repeat the process all over again. I paint a flame circle, walk among the graves, think about my Dad, think about Death.

I didn't think about Death much until my Dad got sick, but I sure do now. I believe in some sort of Soul Survival, be it in heaven or as a part of a Great Big Sea of souls. I don't know, but I'm not scared of that. OK, maybe a little anxious but not bad. I'm in my mid-40's, still thinking that my death is a good thirty years away. But being around Dad, who seems to be getting sicker and sicker, seems to be dying more than living, and this taking-it-for-granted-that-I'll-surely-live-a-long-time-thing is leaving me a little each day. When they found his cancer, it was no bigger than a pencil point. They cut it out, but it came right back, even larger. So they cut it out again, and that just made it mad and it spread like a weed. To his lymph nodes. To his lungs. Around his heart. All over. Now it's filled most of his left lung, all in a year. And if he hadn't taken the Agent Orange Chemo, he would have been dead months ago.

It could happen to me, to you, to anyone. Cancer, that is. And Death is surely going to come to all of us one day.

But again, it's not Death or Heaven that I'm scared of. It's living an unfulfilled life, here on Planet Earth, of wasting the time I have, of not risking greater happiness for myself or larger service to others, of not fully loving those who I love and not fully receiving the love they give, of not forgiving myself when I truly fall short of the mark, of not forgiving others for their shortcomings. That’s what really terrifies me, that at perhaps age 77 I'll look back at my life with deep regret, knowing I should have eaten more ice cream, should have forgiven that friend, should have loved the imperfect Stu just a little bit more.

Then again, I could die tonight, by accidentally hitting a deer with my truck on the way back to the river, and avoid this imaginary-unhappy-old-me all together.

Nah. That won't happen.

I guess I’m going to have to eat more butter pecan, forgive that jerk Richard, and love Stu more.

Shit.

 

"Tintagel Castle"

"Tintagel Castle, Merlin's Cave, Cornwall, England, United Kingdom" (c) 2013, 2016 Stu Jenks.

Step Zero by Stu Jenks (Pages 22-30)

 

[Pages from the uncorrected proof. To purchase the limited illustrated hardbound edition of this novel go to The Stu Store at Squareup.com. To purchase the non-illustrated ebook, go to those places where ebooks are sold.]

 

 

Arthur “Artie” Saum
Monday, February 17th, 2076: 2:05 p.m.
Giffords Adult Care Center
Tucson, Arizona

“Hi, Martha,” I say. I like calling Mom by her first name. Don’t know why. Just do.
“Arthur,” she says, looking up from her comfy old chair. The Flex-TV is on but the sound’s turned down. Looks like an old movie. Braveheart, I think. I hate Flex-TV.
“Where have you been?” Mom demands.
“I was here a couple days ago. I visit you twice a week or thereabouts.”
“I haven’t seen you in forever,” she says, almost yelling now.
I place my hand on her arm. My touch seems to calm her.
“Why am I here?” she asks, like a scared little girl.
“Well, Mom. You have this brain thing.” I tend to tell her the whole story about twice a month. The hard facts don’t seem to bother her. They seem to relax her.
“You’ve been at Giffords Adult Care Center for about five years now,” I say.
“Really?” Mom says.
“Yep. Five years plus. You got sick when I was 16. You’re 50 now. Dad’s been dead almost 20 years. Died in Saudi. Nannie died during the 41 Nights. So did Poppa Ball. Or at least we think they did. Char is still alive in San Francisco. She loves you very much.”
I talked with Char just a couple weeks ago on G’s Sat-phone. She sent her love to my mom.
“Georgia loves you, too. She’ll come and visit you in a couple of days. And Mom, I love you.”
Mom’s quiet, not in a good way. Her face has a passive affect like a barely awake infant. I really wish Mom and I could have a regular conversation, but we can’t. Mom’s been through enough. I’m glad she can’t remember and I’m glad the Feds provide good homes for people like her. More than glad. Profoundly grateful.
“Mom, there’s something else I have to tell you.”
“Yes?”
“Georgia and I are going to go visit Char on the train,” I say. “We’re going to see her, and bring back Granddad’s harmonium. We’ll be away for a while. Probably a month. Maybe less. I won’t be here to visit twice a week for a while.”
Martha is trying to puzzle what I’ve said. I can see the gears working. I’ve given her too much to think about. Let me try a different approach.
“Mom, I’m going to San Francisco to visit Char. Char is sick. I’ve never met her in person, you know. I need to see her. And I need to pick up something of Granddad’s”
“You’ve never met Chartreuse?”
“Nope.”
“And she has something of Peter’s?”
“Yes, she does.”
“Well, you need to go!”
“I do.”
“Are you taking anyone with you? I can go with you, you know.”
“No, Mom. You’re too sick with the brain thing. Georgia is coming with me.”
Martha smiles.
“Oh good. I love Georgia.”
“I know, and she loves you too.”
Mom looks at the Flex-TV again. Looks like Mel Gibson has a sword in his hand and blue paint on his face. Weird. Mom looks back at me, as if she’s seeing me for the first time today.
“Arthur! Where have you been?”

 

Georgia “G” Swann
Tuesday, February 18th, 2076: 1:05 a.m.
New Chicks Coffee Shop
Downtown Tucson, Arizona


“Chessie, I’ve closed out the register and put the cash in the bank bag. You want me to drop if off on my way home?” I ask.
“No, I’ll do it. Busy night.” Chessie says.
“Yes, it was,” I say, doing the last couple things before I leave for the night.
Chessie Dupree’s so pretty with that long black hair and hourglass figure. Wish she could find a good man. Not that she can’t take care of herself without one. She can. I just know she could use some loving, some good hard loving with a tender kiss at the end. Sigh. How did I get so lucky to find Artie? Oh, that’s right. He was that cute jerk I met a few years ago who broke my heart and now he’s not such an asshole anymore. Thank God for Craig and Bill, and their help in Artie’s transformation. Maybe a guy from A.A. and M.T.A. would like Chessie. Nah. That’s not what it’s about, and if sparks do happen between members, we just need to let it be, not push it. They are there to get sober, not get a date.
I just love Chessie so much. She gave me a job and she cares for me like a sister, not a boss. Oh yeah. I’ve got to remind her about Artie’s and my trip. I told her last week, but I don’t know if she really heard me. Or if she just didn’t want to.
“Hey,” I say to her, “I need to talk with you after we close. It won’t take a second.”
“We are closed,” she says.
“Hey, Sammy,” Chessie yells over to a big guy with brown hair and a beard. “Time to hit the streets. I need to sleep,” she says firmly, but with a smile.
“OK, OK, Chessie. Hold your horses,” says Sammy, standing up and putting on his jean jacket. “I’m going.”
“See you tomorrow,” says Chessie.
“You bet. After the meeting,” says Sammy. He’s smiling now. I think he has a crush on the boss. Not her type. She goes for the skinny, tough type. What do I know?
“Take care, Sammy,” she says.
Sammy waves a hand and steps out the front door of the coffee shop.
“OK. Just us,” she says.
“I just wanted to remind you to not put me on the schedule for the month of March. Remember, Artie and I are going to visit his grandmother in San Francisco. I told you last week, I think.”
Chessie looks down. Her long black hair falls in her face.
“Yeah, I remember,” she says.
She looks up and brushes her hair out of her face.
“I’m just nervous for you,” she says. “You know the stories about the bodies in the desert, and you know Phoenix, or rather the hell that was Phoenix....”
She stops talking for a minute.
“Georgia,” she says, “it’s a long way to go just to have some alone time with your boyfriend.”
I chuckle. It’s not that funny, but she’s trying.
“He’s more than just my boyfriend,” I say.
“Yeah, I know,” she says.
“Well,” she says with a wry grin, “you’re going to take your pistol, right?”
“You’re goddamned right I am,” I say.
Now we laugh.
“Need a box of ammo for the trip?” Chessie asks.
I give her a hug.
“Oh, Chessie. That’s so sweet. Yes, we don’t have much ammo.”
Then I start to cry.
“Oh Goddess,” I say through tears.
“Don’t worry, honey,” Chessie says. “I got tons. I like .357s better than .38s anyway. I know you love the .38s for your LadySmith.”
We hug. And both of us cry.

 

 

Arthur “Artie” Saum
Friday, February 21th, 2076, 8:15 a.m.
Bill Monroe’s House
Tucson, Arizona

I pull out my phone, open it, and check the time. Twenty minutes before I have to be at The Instrument Shop for work. Not soon enough.
“Have you lost your fucking mind?” says Bill, my A.A. sponsor.
He’s not a bad guy. Just wound a little tight. OK, really tight. Well, he was a Master Sergeant in the Marines from ’54 to ’60, and he saw a lot of shit in Saudi, I’m sure. He’s only told me a little. You can always tell those guys who saw major action during the Oil Wars. They hardly talk about it at all, even A.A. guys.
Anyway, Bill’s a good guy. Been sober a long time, over 12 years. He’s just a little short on communication skills is all.
“Why am I asking if you’ve lost your mind?” yells Bill. “Because I know it for a fact! You’re getting on the train to travel to San Francisco to visit your grandmother so you can pick up your grandfather’s synthesizer?”
“Harmonium, not a synthesizer. A portable hand-pumped organ that needs no electricity. Bill, I have to go to work.” I say.
“Harmonium!” repeats Bill.
He places his face in his hands and shakes his head.
“Harmonium,” he says, or I think he says that. Hard to hear what he said as he’s now speaking into the palms of his hands. Sounds like ‘lost his mind’ but I can’t be sure.

 

 

Deputy U.S. Marshal Magdalena “Mags” Gutierrez
Wednesday, February 26th, 2076: 8:14 a.m.
Gate’s Pass, west of Tucson

A bite in the air. I breathe it in. Probably around 40°F . I love winter in the desert. And no one’s here. I like to be in the desert alone. Or with Stephanie.
I don’t need to be here. Just want to be here. Nice way to start my shift.
I open the door of my Flex-truck, get behind the wheel, and start it up. I check the batteries. Got a 90% charge. Cool.
Well, time to serve and protect. God Goddess All There Is, be with me today.

 

 

Arthur “Artie” Saum
Monday, March 2nd, 2076: 5:12 p.m.
The Instrument Shop
Tucson, Arizona.

“Tomorrow is my last day before I catch the train, you know,” I say.
“Yeah, I know,” says Pete Rainer, owner of The Instrument Shop. A big man with a white beard. Around 50. Hell of a flat picker.
‘“Paul will do fine fixing guitars and such while I’m gone,” I say.
“Yeah, but he’s not as good as you,” Pete says with a smile.
“You know I think it’s great, Arthur,” continues Pete, “that you’re going to get your granddad’s harmonium. I understand your reasoning about not having it shipped, and that you want to meet your grandmother for the first time, but…”
Pete looks at me with those loving, blue eyes.
“...but I’m just worried for you. We’ve all heard the tales about things in the Mojave.”
“Most of that stuff is just made up by Fox News, to wind people up.” I say. “The BBC says most tracks west of here are clear and safe most of the time.”
“And the truth lies somewhere between Fox and the BBC,” says Pete. “You know that.”
 Yes I do. The BBC tends to not want to tell too much bad news and Fox News only broadcasts the bad and the ugly.
“I know, just try not to worry,” I say. “Georgia and I are armed and her boss gave us a new box of .38 ammo.”
“Artie, everyone is armed,” Pete says.
I shuffle my feet.
“Georgia is an even better shot than me,” I say.
Pete doesn’t feel like laughing.
“Arthur, you’re a shitty shot,” he says. “Do me a favor. Call the shop from time to time on Georgia’s Sat-phone and let me know how you guys are.”
“I will,” I say. “And you know you are one of the few who knows Georgia has a Sat-phone, right?”
Pete looks around the empty shop.
“No one’s here, Artie,” he says. “No one’s heard.”
“I’m just saying,” I say.
He smiles.
“I’ll be careful with that information,” say Pete. “And for Goddess’s sake, you be careful on your trip and get back here as soon as you can.”
“Promise.”
“Paul doesn’t have your confidence,” says Pete. “It takes him forever to service a Martin.”
And with that, Pete walks from behind the counter and gives me a bear hug. I can hardly breathe.
“Pete, I need to breathe,” I say.
He doesn’t let me go..
“You know I love you like a little brother,” he says.
“I know,” I say in a weak voice.
I really do need to breathe.

 

 

Peter Saum, Jr.
Tuesday, March 3rd, 2076: 5:17 p.m.
The Upper Atmosphere of the Planet Jupiter
The Other Solar System

Whew. Killer left break around The Great Red Spot today. And Earl thinks he’s so cute when he cuts me off. Steal my wave again, buckaroo, and you’ll feel the rage of The South.
“How’s your grandson?” Earls asks, after we back away from the surf.
“Good. He and his girlfriend are taking the train to San Francisco to see his grandmother.”
“Isn’t that still dangerous?” he asks.
“It’s better, but not great,” I say. “I plan on staying close.”
“Do,” says Earl. “Last September, my granddaughter almost shot a man for stealing a bottle of milk. I sent a big dose of the Love of the Ancestors and she decided not to kill him. Just shot him in the arm and he ran away. Lolly isn’t a killer and killing someone would fuck her up. I think your boy Artie is that sensitive too, right?”
“He is. He’s never killed anymore and he’s a terrible shot,” I say. “Luckily his girlfriend’s pretty tough. She’s a great girl, Georgia, and made of steel. From Wyoming. She killed someone a few years ago. A Mormon Tea manufacturer who was raping a friend of hers. She didn’t think twice about popping a cap in the rapist’s head.”
“Good,” says Earl. “Well, still stay close, Peter. She may be tough but she needs the Light of GGATI like everyone else.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I say.
“We do more than we think,” Earl says.
“Hey, another set’s coming in,” he continues. “I promise not to cut you off.”
“You’d better not,” I say, and off we fly toward The Great Red Spot.

 

Step Zero by Stu Jenks (Pages 10-21)

Step Zero by Stu Jenks (Pages 10-21)

[Pages from the uncorrected proof. To purchase the limited illustrated hardbound edition of this novel go to The Stu Store at Squareup.com. To purchase the non-illustrated ebook, go to those places where ebooks are sold. Thanks, guys.]

 

Arthur “Artie” Saum
Saturday, February 15th, 2076: 8:07 p.m.
Downtown Alano Club Annex
Tucson, Arizona

“My name is Artie, and I’m an addict and an alcoholic,” I say.
“Hi, Artie,” say all the addicts in unison.
“I had two years yesterday.”
Lots of whooping and applauding. I rise from my chair and walk across the room to Michael, who is handing out the chips tonight. Michael hands me my two-year medallion. We hug.
“Love you, brother,” whispers Michael into my ear.
“Me too,” I say.
“Anybody else celebrating multiple years of sobriety tonight?” asks Michael.
He gave out two one-month chips tonight, a six-month and a few newcomer chips. I am the only birthday.
“Well, give yourself a hand for staying clean and sober today.”
The room of twenty plus addicts clap.
Michael puts the chip box down on the front table and walks back to his seat.
“Welcome to the Sunset meeting of Mormon Tea Anonymous,” says Roy, who is leading the meeting tonight. ”We are glad that you are all here.”
He reads from the preamble of Mormon Tea Anonymous. Roy is a short, stocky man in his 30’s. A man you’d like to have beside you in a fight, that’s for sure, yet he has a broad smile and a spiritual glow about him. I was introduced to him at my first M.T.A. meeting. He gave me hope then and still does now. I know his story. It ain’t pretty, but he’s a different man from the one he describes when he shares about his life before he got sober.
“Mormon Tea Anonymous is a fellowship of men, women and children who share their experience, strength and hope with each other that they may solve their common problem and become free of Mormon Tea addiction,” reads Roy. “The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop using Mormon Tea and all other mind-altering substances including alcohol, and marijuana.”
I look around the room. I see people I’ve known for two years. New faces, too. Some I like. Some I can barely stand, but all I love. Even that guy over there who I’ve never seen before. I love him, too.
“M.T.A. is not allied with any sect, denomination, politic group, religion, faction, gang or government,” Roy says. “We are self-supporting by our own contributions. Our primary purpose is to stay free of Mormon Tea and all other mind-altering substances and to help others to achieve the same freedom.”
Roy reads the Twelve Steps and some other stuff but I barely hear him. I’m lost in my thoughts, thinking about Michael, Craig, and Georgia and of just how grateful I am right now. I don’t often feel happy with my lot in life, but I do tonight.
“Fifteen minutes before the end of the meeting, we’ll pass the basket,” says Roy. “Does anybody have a topic or a question regarding the program of recovery?”
A moment of silence follows.
“My name is Bob, and I’m an addict.”
“Hey, Bob,” says everyone.
“This is only my third meeting. I haven’t used Tea now for nine days.”
A smattering of applause. “Right on,” someone says.
“I really don’t know what’s wrong with me,” says Bob. “I was happier when I was using Brigham. Okay, maybe not. Fuck.” He pauses. He seems a little lost. That’s OK.
“One moment I’m happy,” he says, “the next I want to take the head off the guy next to me.” He shakes his head. “No offense,” he adds, turning to the man seated next to him.
The man smiles and shrugs, with a look of “I don’t care.”
“I’m all over the fucking place,” continues Bob. “I feel crazier now than when I was smoking Tea every day, all day. Fuck. Anyway, I don’t know if there’s a topic in that, but I just feel nuts. I don’t want to use again,” he pauses. “But I’m afraid I will. I’m really afraid I’ll smoke Brigham again. I stopped nine days ago because I hit my little boy, and I’ve never hit my son before. Never. Fuck me.”
Bob puts his head in his hands. He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. None of us do. When you’re sharing, no one interrupts you. We give our full attention. We listen. What a gift we give to each other. You are heard and no one stops you from talking. Unless you go on for too long, but we members of Tucson M.T.A. will let you go on for at least five minutes or more before we kindly ask you to wrap it up. Bob lifts his head. His eyes are misty.
“I don’t know. I’ve got a sponsor,” he says. “Craig over there. We’re working the Second Step. I just wonder if I’m going crazy or something. Am I doing something wrong? Christ. Thanks for listening. That’s all I got.”
“Thanks, Bob,” say a few people.
“My name is Craig and I’m an addict.”
“Hi, Craig.”
Craig is my sponsor, too. What a great guy.
 “I felt the same way when I quit Brigham five years ago. Tea kicked my ass,” says Craig. “At first when I smoked Brigham, everything was great. I didn’t dream about skulls in the desert anymore. I didn’t feel scared. I didn’t feel anything. It was great. Then, it turned on me. I went from feeling ten-foot-tall and bulletproof, to being paranoid that my girlfriend Peggy was plotting to turn me in to the Feds. And I wasn’t even doing anything that illegal.”
Laughter.
“Ok, Mormon Tea is illegal but I wasn’t making it. I wasn’t killing or robbing the rich people. I was just a Tea head. But I started to hear voices that weren’t there, and anyway, you know the drill. Stealing from my friends, not wanting to work, just staying home with my little Flex-TV. Then Peggy threatened to leave me if I didn’t get a job and stop smoking Brigham. So, I left her before she could leave me.”
More laughter.
“Then I did get a job, running with those boys in Santa Rosa. Things got really bad, fast.”
He doesn’t have to name the boys in Santa Rosa. We all know.
“A year later I quit. On day two I went looking for Peggy but she was gone. Took the train east. And it was great, being clean, for about three days.”
Chuckles.
“I felt like I was crazier than bat shit for about a month,” says Craig. “Then it got better. I got a sponsor and began to work the Steps with him. And I got lots of Flex-phone numbers of guys in the Program. It slowly got better. I slowly got better, with the help of God Goddess All There Is and from you guys.”
“Now I know this is technically cross-talk,” continues Craig, turning in his chair to look at Bob, “but I think it’s great that you’re here and you’re working the Second Step. You really want this. I can tell. That’s great, man.”
Craig turns and looks at me.
“And congratulations, Artie. Fan-fucking-tastic. Two years. I’m so happy for you.”
I smile and nod toward him.
“Anyway, if you are new, keep coming back. We are all here to help. Thanks for letting me share.”
“Thanks, Craig,” says the group.

An hour later, Craig, Michael and I are heading for New Chicks, the coffee shop where Georgia works. Georgia’s pulling espresso tonight. I wave to her as we walk in. She blows me a kiss.
“What do you want? I’m buying,” says Craig.
“Just a big ass coffee with cream,” I say.
“Michael, you want anything?” asks Craig.
“I’m good,” says Michael. “Thanks, though.”
Craig walks to the counter to order, leaving Michael and me alone at a small table.
“Have you told him about your trip to San Francisco?” asks Michael.
“Not yet.”
“Going to have to tell him sometime. Or not.” He laughs.
“I’ll tell him in a couple days,” I say. “We aren’t catching the train for another two weeks.”
“Well, he is one of your sponsors,” says Michael. “Then again, sponsors are the last to know anything.”
We both laugh.
“How’s it going with that newcomer who asked you to sponsor him last week?” Michael asks.
“Haven’t heard from him since he took my Flex-phone number.”
“Yeah,” says Michael. “Big gap between the sponsees I have on the books and the ones who actually call. Just the way it is.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. Neither of us laugh at this hard truth.
Craig returns with my coffee with cream. He bought himself what looks like a Big Legged Chick, espresso with synth mocha. Bet he got an extra shot, too. Craig does like his caffeine.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” says Craig.
“So what Step are you on, Artie?” asks Craig.
We laugh. He knows damn well what I’ve done in my recovery. I worked Steps One through Eight in my first two months clean. Been doing Ten, Eleven and Twelve every day since, and working Step Nine as best I can, making right the wrongs I’ve done, and I’m doing a lot of living amends for the good number of people I have no idea how to find. Craig’s mostly busting my chops and perhaps making a little fun of Bill, my A.A. sponsor who seems to always ask that question.
“I’m working Step Fuck You,” I say to Craig.
Craig laughs so hard I think I see mocha coming out his nose. He wipes his face with a brown paper napkin he gets from the dispenser on the table.
“Artie, seriously,” he says, “I’m really happy for you. You’ve been clean two years. You and Georgia seem to be going great, unless you aren’t telling me something.”
“We’re thick as thieves,” I say. “And I’m always not telling you something.”
“I know,” laughs Craig. “Just pulling your chain. But you are living a great life now, Artie. You have a good job at The Instrument Shop. You’re playing real good. You’re writing some nice songs too, man. You aren’t the same person I met two years ago.”
 “Thanks, bro,” I say.
“But...,” Craig trails off.
“What?” I say.
“Mind if I ask you a personal question with Michael here?” he asks.
“No. Shoot,” I say. I love Craig. He has such good boundaries about this sponsor thing. Bill, my A.A. sponsor? Not so much.
“Well, I just have a feeling you really aren’t telling me something. Something kind of important.”
This time Michael laughs.
“Fuck,” I say under my breath, looking down.
“I’m not trying to put you on the spot...,” says Craig.
“He was going to tell you in a couple of days,” says Michael.
“Tell me what?” asks Craig.
“Georgia and I are taking the train to San Francisco in a couple weeks to visit my grandmother,” I say.
Craig looks down at the table. Thoughtful, not mad, that I kept this from him. He takes a long sip off his Big Legged Chick.
“Have you told your mother yet?” asks Craig.
“Tomorrow,” I say.
“Good,” says Craig.

 

Peter Saum, Jr.
Monday, February 17th, 2076: 3:11 a.m.
Across from New Chicks Coffee Shop
Downtown Tucson, Arizona

I love Tucson at this time of night. Always have.
It’s great to see how the world has come back since the hell of the 2060s. Tucson is the same, but different. Sure, the old Unisource office building sits vacant and dark but Tucson City Hall, the two Pima County government buildings and the new Kino Federal Building glow bright with lights in their windows even at this early hour. The government is busy all the time.
New Chicks is closed, but it’ll be open again in a few hours. I sit on the curb (or what we angel ghosts call sitting) and gaze toward the Kino Federal Building. My family and a lot of others would have been dead long before now if it wasn’t for the U.S. government. Thank you, Sasha.

President Sasha Obama Fulbright, the 54th President of the United States and the daughter of the 44th, inspires Americans even more than her father Barack. Sasha is one of the great problem solvers of her time. In those first weeks after the bombings, rather than continue the initial attempt at martial law, she asked gun owners to contact local law enforcements and see how they could help. The Feds hired many of them to be Deputy U.S. Marshals. She engaged people to work together. And she has stayed involved. Sasha chats to America every week on the Flex-TV.
“America will never be what it was before the Seven Sisters. We all know that,” she said in one address, years ago. “We who have survived are struck with profound grief from the deaths of our families and friends, and we are fueled with rage to avenge their murders and senseless deaths. You have my permission to seek revenge, but it won’t make you feel any better. What will heal you, what will heal us, is to help one another, not kill each other. We need to build a new nation. Smaller, poorer, yes, but perhaps happier and closer to God Goddess All There Is. And closer to each other.”
Sasha helped a lot. We’re lucky to have her.
So in the late 2060s, America went to work. With caution, yes, but with a great deal of faith and hope as well.
Food, water, power and some degree of public safety were the first priorities of the Fulbright Administration. President Fulbright asked for things and she got them. The Congress was one of liberal Democrats and moderate Republicans, so they passed all the laws Sasha asked for.
Trains brought emergency food to those who survived. The interstate system of roads was destroyed during the horrors of the 41 Nights, but we still had the trains. All public works, water and sewer were nationalized. Money and time was spent to get the water flowing in the cities and towns and to help rural communities drill wells. Septic tanks came back and sewers were renovated. We didn’t have much oil but we had coal, wood, cement, and Flex technology. You can do a lot with just wood, coal, Flex tech, cement and trains to carry them. And America did.
Ownerships of the large deposits of coal in the West and in Appalachia were kept privately owned, as were most large corporations. Sasha made a deal with them.
“You can keep your companies, dig your coal, make your computers and cars,” President Fulbright told a meeting with the captains of industry in July of 2063. “Provide phone service, make electricity, produce food, and you all can make a good deal of money. You will be regulated but not strictly.”
The captains smiled at that.
I was there. Hundreds of angel ghosts hovered above Camp David that summer. 
 “Here’s the deal,” the President continued. “We are going to tax the living shit out of you. That’s just the way it’s going to be. The rich and powerful will pay their fair share again. Frankly, you will pay more than your fair share. Most Americans have nothing but their faith, their courage and their friends and families. They have no money, nor will they have any real wealth for a very long time. But you do. You own the factories, the natural resources, the farms. So, you may ask, what do you get in return? Well, you get your freedom and you get your stuff. You can build your houses high in the hills and have your own militia to guard you. The U.S. Government isn’t going to protect your crap.”
“My U.S. Marshals will be protecting the poor and middle class people of America. You, my rich friends, are on your own,” she said. “I won’t meddle in your personal affairs, however cruel, depraved, and kinky they are. I need your goods, your food, your coal, and your phones, and I need your wealth to pay for it. And here’s the kicker.”
Sasha smiled. I remember that smile, that day, like it was yesterday.
”You either agree to this right now,” she said, “or I nationalize your phone factories, your coal fields, your power companies, your food processing centers, your factory farms, your salvage yards and I then make you lie down with the common folk. I’m not asking you, sirs and ma’ams. I’m telling you. Congress will introduce a new tax bill next week. I’ll sign it the week after. Prepare to open your wallets, ladies and gentlemen. Open them wide.”
“Oh, Bob?” Sasha said, looking over at Bob Walker, the president of Blue Cross & Blue Shield. “You’re done. All healthcare will be national healthcare in a couple of months. We are bringing back Medicare. Sorry, Bob.”
Bob shook his head in disgust. He began to speak but the President cut him off with a hand. Sasha didn’t suffer fools well. She still doesn’t.
“Mr. Walker, I don’t need any shit from you today,” she said. “I could ask the Bank of England to freeze your personal fucking assets right now, so don’t you shake your head at me! The King of England and I are friends, don’t you know.”
Walker looked down and didn’t say another word. He knew he was rich and could fly himself and his family anywhere he wanted, and that’s just what Bob Walker did a month later.
What a great summer of ’63 it was. I fell in love with Sasha Fulbright that year. And she says the word ‘fuck’ better than me.
A new amendment was made to the U.S. Constitution to repeal the 22nd Amendment so Sasha could run for a third term in 2064. She ran a fourth in 2068, then a fifth in 2072. President Sasha Obama Fulbright is 75 years old now. She has hinted she won’t run for a sixth term. Vice President Florence Biden has made sounds she may run. We don’t know yet.
President Fulbright has no children. No husband. He died. I suppose Americans have been her children, and her lover too. No, that’s not entirely true. I forgot about Bill Wilson.
In her twenty years as President, the United States has gone from a country of starving, hopeless, and sick people, to a nation of survivors, with humble hopes for their children, food on their tables, and with good work to do. Americans are healing from their mental and physical wounds with a renewed spirituality and a greater resilience.
On the small fenders of bicycles and scooters to the backs of big coal trains, bumper stickers read Sasha’s favorite two words:
Be Nice.
I look down Stone Avenue. A horse-drawn wagon and a Flex-truck or two bring produce in from Benson and Vail, and milk and cheese in from Camp Lowell. Dawn is just a few hours away. I see the lights on at Mo’s Bakery just down Pennington Street.
I smile.
Life is good. I feel pretty OK in my own skin tonight. I chuckle. Skin. I wish I had skin.
There are only a few cars on the streets of Tucson. The streets themselves are a patchwork of old asphalt and new concrete. A bumpy ride for an old 20th century automobile, but not for the new Flex-cars and -scooters with their big tires and tiny bodies. Bicycles are the most popular form of transportation in Tucson, and the horse and wagon has made a comeback, what with all the horse country surrounding downtown now.
Downtown is the core of my city, with Miracle Mile to the north, Ajo Road to the south, Barrio Anita to the west and the Sam Hughes neighborhood to the east. The University of Arizona is mostly vacant. A small college of agriculture and another college of arts, crafts and music have reopened at the U of A in the past couple years. Towns and cities all over America have shrunk, with the new centers of town being the railroad stations. Everything revolves around the trains. Tucson is no different. The old warehouses that used to rent to me and other artists 50 years ago are true warehouses again, housing food, supplies, coal, goods, clothing, and everything you might want to buy from California, Texas, Wyoming, Louisiana, and Florida. Most of the high rises are vacant, but any building within a mile of downtown that is one story tall and has windows that can open is good property.
Home ownership and renting are cheap. Everything else is pretty expensive. Electricity, Flex stuff. Some goods and services are subsidized by the Federal Government, but real estate is ridiculously inexpensive. It’s supply and demand. There are thousands of homes throughout the Tucson valley that are empty, many used now as scavengers’ treasure troves. If you need a few studs to repair your house in Armory Park, just take your Flex-truck up the road to the suburbs up north. Pick up an old toilet if you need one too, while you’re there. You can buy a house downtown for a year’s wages and homes in the suburbs are free to squatters, though few live out there. Working water lines don’t go out that far. And it’s still a little scary after dark outside of downtown.
It’s safe downtown because most of the populace are now armed with handguns and the U.S. Marshals are loved and respected due to their heroism and fairness in the last few years. Yes, there are still bad people, really bad people, both in and out of town, but most have moved out to the desert, living in houses with solar panels and rain tanks or huge mansions with deep wells bought with drug money.
There are hardly any dogs anymore, most eaten during or after the 41 Nights, but cats are still around.
Damn cats. Can’t live with them. Can’t live without them.
And the U.S. Marshals? Goddess, I love them. All Tucsonans do, man, woman, child, and angel ghost.
 Why, I do believe that’s Marshal Magdalena Gutierrez walking toward Mo’s Bakery right now. I bet she’s getting some scones before her shift.
God, I wish I could smell. I used to love the smell of fresh baked goods. And I haven’t smelled the coal exhaust of a train since I worked at Tweetsie Railroad in North Carolina in the 1980s. Wish I could smell these new coal-fueled trains. Price I pay for being an angel ghost. No big deal. We’re allowed so much from God Goddess All There Is. It’s a wonderful thing.
I think of Trey. I feel sad but not like the other night. Maybe someone’s shining some Light on me this morning.
Mags walks into the bakery. Mo’s wife, Josephine, is at the counter. The two women hug. God bless you, Marshal, Mo, and Josephine. May GGATI’s Light shine on you today, as you protect and feed Tucson. And may Light resonate in your hearts, healing you and your’n, letting you forever know you are never alone.
Never.
I raise my eyes to the night sky and gaze upon a sea of stars. I see no moon but I can sure see the Milky Way. I drop my head and look around. Here and there, I see the movements of a few angel ghosts floating near the Kino Federal Building and drifting above this corner of Pennington and Stone. Three angel ghost friends sit on the curb in front of New Chicks.
I’m not alone.
None of us are.

 

 

"Sunset Crater Angel Ghosts"

"Sunset Crater Angel Ghosts, Arizona" (c) 2016 Stu Jenks.

Everything you see here is on the digital RAW negative. No fancy Photoshop was done besides some color saturation changes. And the Angel Ghosts were drawn with a string of battery powered Christmas lights. Enjoy y'all.