Sawyer Paul's Blog, page 58

On Not Using Footnotes

I used to use footnotes in my blog writing, but I stopped pretty quickly once I found out how much it annoyed readers. I also design layouts for a living, and footnotes are pretty much the bane of my existence. I would never wish it upon my worst enemy. Seems like the vitriol is spreading.

Manton Reece:

I avoid footnotes in my writing. Often the same effect can be achieved with simple parenthesis. If parenthesis don’t fit well, entire extra paragraphs are also much more readable. And if it can’t be conveyed without footnotes, maybe the text should be cut out completely, if it is of so little importance to be relegated to the bottom of the article.

What I do use footnotes for now is in Scrivener, where you have the choice of not exporting them. They're for me, the writer, so I know where I need to expand an idea or remind myself why I wrote something in a certain way. It's a fantastic tool, but it shouldn't be for sharing.

While I'm on the subject, I'll point out that footnotes in print books still have value, because it acts as an analogue link to another work. However, the second you put an actual hyperlink into the text of a printed book, you've lost me. The web is a constantly changing thing, and that hyperlink is going to have a much shorter lifespan than another printed publication. At least for now, until everyone stops jumping from domain to domain anytime they get a new web designer.

Design as a selling point

I've always thought it would be a good marketing move to take a few out-of-copyright books and design them as a proof-of-talent project. Apparently, so did Penguin:

The commercial success of the commute-length gobbets – 80 titles ranging from the Communist Manifesto to Sappho’s poems to Mozart’s letters to his father – is striking since they are all in the public domain. To quote a commenter on the Guardian website: “How many of these are not available in full on Project Gutenberg?”

How to explain the appeal? Partly it’s the curation; but it also proves people like their reading matter cheap… and portable.

Perhaps this is something I'll try in the summer, when I have some downtime from other projects.

Productivity is typing

Chip Sudderth, writing for Six Colors:

I realize that among iOS users, I’m an outlier in wanting support for pointing devices. But when I look at that cheap mouse I pair with my Nexus 7, I wish that Apple—having recently added extensibility features in iOS 8—might consider taking a chance on this formerly verboten concept and see what develops.

I haven't talked about what I use to write in a long time, but I liked this article a lot so I thought I'd add my two cents.

Depending on who you ask, I either need a lot to write, or not much. Here's my list of needs:

a real keyboard with actual keys
a computer with dropbox support
Scrivener

Here's what I don't need:

a large screen
a ton of power (I'm working with text)

Going by this, I found a perfect combination: A Dell Venue Pro 8 tablet, and a Microsoft bluetooth keyboard. The VP8 runs full Windows, so I can install Scrivener and Dropbox. I write in full-screen mode, and Scrivener works really well with a touch screen (Dell's stylus helps with the tiny tap-points). But when I want to get in there with a mouse, I can (bluetooth or USB). The screen is only 8" so I move to my 13" laptop for long editing sessions, but the Venue is a perfect writing machine.

Layout Thoughts: Details March 2015

About the blur: I'm only writing about these pages based on details in layout. I don't want to accidentally infringe on anyone's copyright, hence the "content" itself is blurred whenever there's a paragraph or more. If you are the content owner and want me to take these down, I completely understand. 

Clever "yes" in the background (it's actually much easier to see when everything is blurred). I did think "hey, this is clever" more than "hey, this helped me understand the point of the text", though. 

It's pretty tough to photograph a table and light and try to make it attractive. It takes up a ton of vertical space, which is annoying for copy, and it's bland (especially in an uninhabitable modern stark house, as this suggests). Still, I like that the main paragraph breaks the gridline, and pushes the eye towards the bottom paragraph. It kept me reading. 

Details' feature pages are areas where the layout team gets to have some typgraphic fun. This one, about the porn industry in japan, looks like a Japanese character at a glance (if it exists, it's one I don't know), but quickly becomes two men, one handing off the job to another in a suggestive relay. It's the best kind of icon: it summarizes the content while declaring boldly the tone and context. 

Two ads intrigued me. First, K&N, which makes me think of the late 70's orange & red style that Alex Varnese uses to a wonderful end. I don't really know what this ad is doing in Details, but it's a slick and stylish addition to what would be an otherwise super boring product. 

The other ad is the most pro wrestling thing I've seen Cadillac attempt. (I know it's a Roosevelt quote, but I think of it primarily as a great metaphor for wrestling). It's a car ad with no car, and no positive message. It's an ad about failure, but great failure. It's also mostly type  (mostly italic type). You can't read this without wanting to know what's going on over at Cadillac, but I bet most people will just wonder how much trouble they're actually in. They won't go buy a car, just because they're being dared to.  

Layout Thoughts: GQ March 2015

About the blur: I'm only writing about these pages based on details in layout. I don't want to accidentally infringe on anyone's copyright, hence the "content" itself is blurred whenever there's a paragraph or more. If you are the content owner and want me to take these down, I completely understand.

Loved the single-page on snoring. It's an infographic that handles cliches in a way that made me smile. As a snorer myself, I'm a sucker for any advice or remedies people have. Unfortunately, most of it's total snake oil. 

I've un-blurred enough of the text on this page to show how a poor colour choice can affect not only readability but enjoyment of what should be a very easy and basic idea: reminding men (as monthly men's mags have to do) how to do this thing they really should be better at by now. The bright blue is distracting and the "stubble" background adds nothing. I have to squint to even make out the words. 

I think these pages only exist in the digital version. Each word is a hyperlink, and it's a nice breather in between content. GQ is struggling with the same thing many digital magazine producers are: how do you show where the reader is in the story when there's no physical giveaway? GQ includes more markers of progress. It's not a bad idea. 

Lastly, an ad. Simple. Glamorous dinginess. A progression of time in a small moment. The two photos work so much better than either one of them would have alone. 

Showing raw materials

I'm interested in breaking down the process of showing off a final product, and in how other designers communicate the value of their work. The design of this menu for Italian restaurant Marco Marco helps illuminate what I mean.

Here, the raw materials are shown next to one another in a pleasing aesthetic display. The reader sees everything that will be in the dish. They get a better idea of what they'll receive. They also trust (perhaps implicitly)  that  there won't be anything in the dish they don't see. This display is meant to create trust. 

It also doesn't dumb anything down. You see pictures of spices and cuts of meat, and none of them have a description or an amount. They are indicative and pretty but infotainment at best. Still, this is more than a menu typically provides. 

The more I look at it, though, the more I see aesthetics and play  without any of the benefits of actual information. What has the reader actually learned by being shown this information? The final plate may give indication, but it takes away as much as it offers (the surprise of seeing your plate, the ability for each dish to be different and not disappointing, etc.,). I realized, the more I looked at this piece, that I was looking at representations. It reminded me of photographs of food taped to the inside of restaurant windows, or, worse, fake plastic dishes. This is a very pretty fake plastic dish. 

A Record Year for Rainfall, Chapter 11

A Record Year for Rainfall is Sawyer's second novel, originally published in 2011.

Read A Record Year for Rainfall on your ebook reader or cell phone:

Kindle
ePub & iBooks

Please note that the subject matter in this novel can be pretty graphic.

Album sat at his computer. The images were really, really great. Bret had successfully photographed a stampede of cougars into a VIP room. Scores of naked women and sex were caught. The look of desperation and shame on everyone’s faces were sublime. It would make for one of the best posts ever.

There were two problems with the set. The first was that Prince wasn’t identifiable in any of them. This was supposed to be a post about Prince, and his absence cheapened the whole thing. The second problem was that Album could clearly see Tess, and everything she had going. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He felt vindicated. He was at least a little right about her. It got him a little hard.

But could he post them, knowing what it would do to her?

Album looked at his blog. It was his adult life’s work. In totality, Album had caused an enormous amount of trouble. He liked that. He was proud of it. But he remembered the conversation he had with Bret out in the desert. He remembered his stupid idea of turning the blog into a print publication. He wondered what he really wanted out of that.

He didn’t want his words to be on paper. He wanted his words to matter.

That’s about when he called Fane and took the job. He threw in a few exceptions. He wanted a guarantee none of his writing would be censored. He wanted a guarantee that he completely controlled the creative output on the group, and he had 100% creative control on the twitter account. When Fane asked what the hell Twitter was, Album told him it was a dumb fad online, and not to worry about what he wrote there.

Album deleted the pictures. Prince wasn’t even there. There was no reason to publish the collateral damage. He kept one picture of Tess. Her tits were in excellent focus. He saved it into his pron folder.

Album wasn’t a good guy. He liked that about himself. More than anything, he figured he could have fun making Fane’s life hell.

He left a page on the blog. It wasn’t a goodbye so much as a frosty the snowman. He said he’d be back. He said he hadn’t sold out because he was taking a pay cut. He put it all out there. Made secrets public knowledge. Even his own. He complimented everyone he could by name and everyone he couldn’t. To those, he said, they’d know who they were.

He finished with a quote, as he was known to do. He chose it well, something cryptic and revealing, honest and boasting all at once. He took a quote from a Wintersleep song, a Canadian band Bret wouldn’t shut up about that he’d come to love.

“At a party with nobody who will love you but the wine

Gobbled pills that the doctor should have never prescribed

Scattered letters to the boyfriends you have never identified with

Surreptitious, spilling kisses you could never quite deny

You will find me in the valleys, in the gullies of your mind

Pigeon blood-red, cut and carat in the eyelids of your blindest memory.”

# # #

Bret stood outside Jenny’s door. He knocked. She hadn’t given back his key.

Jenny opened. “Hey,” she said. “How’d it go tonight? Feel good that it’s all over?”

“Yeah,” Bret said. “I feel good that it’s all over.”

“Well, come in. Tell me nothing about it.”

Bret held his ground. “I can’t come in. I don’t belong here.”

Jenny was confused. “What do you mean?”

“Jenny, this was a mistake. I should have never come here. I didn’t learn anything. I didn’t grow. I didn’t find out anything grand about life or the universe or my own destiny. I fucked around for a year, and I’m really sorry I dragged you into my drama and messed up your life. If I stay, I’ll just make your life worse.”

Jenny stood silent. She could believe everything she heard, but she hated it.

Bret said, “I love you, but I need to go home.”

Jenny slapped Bret and then shut the door. It was emphatic. She didn’t want words. She didn’t want hours of figuring it all out. She didn’t need every answer to every question, even though in the moment she really wanted a few. It was Jenny’s way of winning. And Bret let her have it.

# # #

Bret exited Jenny’s apartment building. He found his car. He saw Tess. She sat in the passenger seat. She was writing a text message. Bret got in the car. He turned on the engine. He turned on the radio, and found a station he liked.

“Fuck you green world,” he said. “Some of the whores on this rock are going to be all right.”

Tess looked at him with an eyebrow raised. “That code for something, cowboy?”

Bret shook his head and changed the subject. “What about your stuff?”

“Trice is going to take care of it. I’ll come back in a bit. But this is important. Going home means something for you, and I need to be a part of that, I think. And what about your stuff, buster?”

Bret smiled. “I don’t have any stuff.”

Tess smiled.

Bret pulled the car onto the road, then onto the highway. He got dust in his eyes. He was used to it.

When he couldn’t see the light of Las Vegas anymore, he asked, “Are we going to be okay?”

Tess claimed, “I’m okay now. You’re the train wreck. So it’s a push, really.”

Bret laughed. He drove the whole way north, up to the friendly chill that was the 49th parallel, through Alberta, passed the Rockies, past the long forests to the edge, to that cloudy western coast that felt entirely too damn good.

A Record Year for Rainfall, Chapter 10

A Record Year for Rainfall is Sawyer's second novel, originally published in 2011.

Read A Record Year for Rainfall on your ebook reader or cell phone:

Kindle
ePub & iBooks

Please note that the subject matter in this novel can be pretty graphic.

“Fuck, it’s raining,” Trice said, looking out Tess’ balcony window. The sun shone. It was seven in the evening. The desert wind picked up, and short, burst-like sprinkles of wet God fell. “We’re going to have to take a cab.”

“We always take a cab,” Tess yelled from the bathroom. “It’s just a shorter conversation now, that’s all.”

“It’s not just me, right?” Trice asked. “But there’s been a ton of rain this year.”

“You should see it where I come from. Would put this to shame.”

Trice waited impatiently for Tess to finish her makeup. She’d done hers on the way, thinking they were going to leave early for drinks.

Tess came out of the washroom, ready. She plopped the strap of her purse around her shoulder and stood next to Trice, who was shaking her head as several beads of water bounced off the glass.

“Come on, pussy,” Tess said. “Let’s get this goddamn work over with.”

# # #

Bret sat at Jenny’s dining room table, looking at the website and floor plan for the Palomino. That morning, he’d met Album and handed him his camera. Apparently, Album knew one of the bartenders, who would smuggle the thing in for Bret to pick up once he was inside. They didn’t allow cameras in the club at any time, so it was going to take all of Bret’s cunning to get through the night without getting tossed. It was going to cost him $30 to get in the door, and he’d have to down a few drinks before picking up the point and shoot. There was no way he could have brought a quality camera in a place like that. Album knew he was going to get bad shots. But the best camera is the one you have with you, and bad shots of great things would be enough.

“You’re sure Prince is going to be there?” Bret had asked.

“For sure. I know he’s going to be there, and I know he’s purchased a good half dozen girls to entertain his entourage.”

“How do you know all this? Wait, don’t tell me. I always ask, and I always wish you hadn’t told me. Do me a favor and never tell me anything ever again.”

Bret looked over at Jenny. She was sitting on the couch, watching television. She was the reason he was still in this city. But the fight they’d had the night before had made him question just what the hell he was doing in that apartment with her. Why hadn’t he left? He couldn’t think of a good enough reason to jump.

# # #

Album sat in his apartment in his housecoat and boxers and slippers. He wasn’t old or overweight or sad, but he felt hornier than usual. He felt too horny for jerking off, like the act wouldn’t be enough. He needed a girl. “Fuck,” he said aloud. “How long has it been?”

His phone rang. He answered it.

“Hi, Album, it’s Reggie. Reggie Fane.”

Album smirked. “Allo Gov’ner.”

Silence.

“Sorry. Always wanted to do that.”

“Right,” Reggie said. “Look, I’ve got a favor to ask. I’m heading up this new foundation. It’s a nonprofit charity for awareness and equal rights. Sounds great, right?”

“Sure, Reggie. Equal rights. That’s the American way, right?”

“Absolutely!” Reggie said, sounding more like an excited Christopher Walken than the hardened businessman Album had first met. “So that’s what I wanted to talk about. I need guys like you.”

“What do you mean, you need guys like me?” Album lit a cigarette with the phone crouched between his ear and shoulder.

“Well, you’re smart, young, and you’ve got the kids’ attention. I need a guy like you on my team. What do you say?”

“What do you mean, what do I say? I have no idea what you’re asking me to do.”

“Right,” Reggie said. “Sorry, I forgot you’re not in politics, and i cant speak in nods You’d work for me, as a PR guy. Book meetings. Write speeches. Be part of creative, the think tank. Figure out the road ahead. Starting salary’s forty grand.”

“Fuck off,” Album said. “I made that in May.”

“Yeah, you made that off me, fella, don’t forget that.”

“You think you’re the only reason I’m as popular as I am? J-wow’s vag would be very offended.”

“I’m sure it would, whatever that is,” Reggie said. “Still, it may be less money, but you’d get your foot in the door with a real job, you’d get to travel, and there’s lots of girls in this sort of game.”

Album got a boner, but this being a phone conversation he did a pretty good job of hiding it. “You don’t think I get tons of girls being an invisible douchebag with a blog? You must be out of your mind.”

“All right, final pitch,” Reggie replied. “It’ll be your chance to really change things. You want to be a journalist? Here’s a solid opportunity to make real, positive change in America.”

“Shit, Reggie,” Album said, inhaling. “You shoulda just kept hammering on about the skirts. That was your weakest point yet.”

Reggie said, “I had a feeling you’d say no, but I had to ask. Have a good day, son.”

Album hung up.

# # #

Bret hung up the phone on Album, who had told him the camera was in place. He’d even purchased one of those expensive evdo cards, which connected to the cell tower and uploaded pictures as Bret took them. He did so only after suggesting to Bret that the camera might not make it out of the club alive, and getting the pictures was really, really important. Bret stood across the street from the Palomino, its neon sign almost a bore compared to the others downtown, not to mention the neon ceiling down the street. The Palomino was old, but it made sense a guy like Prince would party here: nobody else would bother him, and he valued his privacy more than anything. Bret had never actually seen Prince in the flesh before. Not that he was any kind of Salinger figure, but Prince was never particularly photographable. He was smart: he never partied out in public, and he had limos take him from private building to private building. Sure, candid shots of Prince existed, but they were hardly in the same numbers as, say, Topher Grace’s vagina.

Bret wasn’t particularly proud of the number of vagina’s he’d shot in his time, and saw Prince as a fitting climax. Finally, a difficult catch, one that would actually take a little bit of cunning to pull.

It wasn’t hard to get into the Palomino. The bouncer didn’t even ask him for ID. Still, the second he stepped into the black-carpeted strip club, and he heard the deep bass and sharp-tongued DJ, his adrenaline shot up and he felt the same old throttle of the work. He wore his cheap leather jacket and busted-knee jeans. He looked like he belonged in a place like this, and he wasn’t alone. The news that Prince was in the building wasn’t lost on everyone, and there were three times as many people in the club as there would usually be on a Saturday night. There wasn’t a seat to be had at any bar or any stage. There were a few clusters of girls standing around, sipping martinis. They weren’t here for the strippers. That, or they were strippers. Bret couldn’t tell. Still, he smiled. The crowd was a good thing. It meant that somebody might make a mistake. Bust a door open, that sort of thing. And if mayhem were to ensue, Bret might be able to get in there, if only for a few seconds. But that was generally all he ever needed.

Bret looked around for a brunette working the bar. There were about a dozen. Album told him that she would be wearing white, but that didn’t really narrow it down, either. The wife-beaters were out in full force with the bar staff. It was a good look for them; sexy and cleavage-powered, yet still screaming I’ll fuck you up.

He gave up, and walked up to one. She leaned forward, and he said the word. The girl ducked down, and when she returned, there was a black bag on the bar. “Take it fast,” she said.

“Thanks,” Bret said.

“Tell Album I know about those pictures,” she said. “And I’ll fuck him up for it.”

Bret thought fast. “No way. You’re Vanessa, aren’t you?”

She smiled. “One and the same.”

“I’m sorry you two didn’t work out,” Bret said.

“That’s because he’s an asshole,” she said.

“That’s true,” Bret said. “He is. This is my last job for him. He is an asshole. He had me followed. Ha gave me a nemesis.”

“He thought that would make you stupid or something?”

“Yeah!” Bret exclaimed. “Exactly. It didn’t work.”

“Mine didn’t either,” she said. “He’s always pulling that shit on people.”

“What did he think made you stupid?” Bret asked.

Vanessa poured two shots of Jager and pushed one toward Bret. She said, “Working here.”

They threw back their shots. Bret nodded, thanking her again. He didn’t stop to think that maybe Album had been right, because that would be insane. He pulled the black bag down, and pocketed the tiny weapon.

# # #

An hour went by. Tess worked like a dog. Her heels killed her. Her calves were worse. Prince’s entourage was a set of slave drivers, ordering double orders of everything and downing them in record order. Prince himself hadn’t shown yet, and there were two of the dozen or so guys who had eyed Tess bad. They wanted her. She was used to this. She could have been a model if she were a foot taller. She was used to being looked at. She was used to the odd grab, even. But she wasn’t used to being cornered.

Trice had left the room to get more drinks, and these two guys, both buff and tall and wearing tank tops, had had their fill of the strippers. They stood and surrounded Tess.

“Hey girl, you want to dance?”

“Sure,” she smiled. “Let’s dance.”

They put their hands around her and they formed a Tess sandwich. This wasn’t too far out of the ordinary, but two minutes into the song they had begun to touch her, and she had to say something.

“Hey fellas, there’s girls over there who you can pay to do anything. I’m just here to serve.”

“Damn right you are,” the one behind her said. “And you’ll fucking serve.”

“Right,” Tess said. “So, drinks? I can get you drinks.”

“No,” the one in the front said. “You said serve. We’re going to use the liberal definition here, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” the one in the back agreed. “What he said. Liberal.”

“All right,” Tess said, inching her way out of from between them. “Line, fellas. I’m just here to get drinks and dance. Let’s keep it cool, eh?”

The bouncer at the door that divided the private room from the rest of the club, his head turned toward the three of them.

“All right, be cool be cool,” the taller one said. “You’re here to make sure we have a good time.”

“I’m not a fucking whore,” Tess stated, as frank as she could. “And if you don’t cool down right now, I’m out of here.”

They backed off. For whatever reason, drunken men could listen to reason temporarily. They went back to their couch and talked. Tess was worried, though. She thought of leaving, then. But it hadn’t been the worst spot. She’d experienced far worse. And she could suck it up, for the money. Trice returned with another bottle of Courvoisier for the room, and the two men took their eyes off Tess for the time being.

# # #

Bret had waited nearly an hour, but he finally saw a girl leave the private room. She was a brunette, scantily clad, but too far away for him to really get a good look at. On her way back, he took a zoomed shot and went to the men’s room, closed a stall, and took a look at her.

“Fuck,” he stated.

It was a sad coincidence that Trice was there. He didn’t want to cross paths with her again, especially if she was friendly with any strong-armed employees of the establishment. He really didn’t feel like getting beaten again. But that didn’t change the fact that it had been an hour and nothing had happened. Bret had to be more proactive, and he had devised a plan. He’d use the crowd.

Bret returned to the main room. More people had filled the space since he’d first entered. It was mostly women. The strippers must be confused, Bret thought. What the hell are all these women doing here?

Bret spotted a set of cougars at the bar. It made sense. Young girls had little to no interest in Prince. Most people Bret’s age and younger just thought he was weird. But forty-year-old married women with too much time on their hands still found him irresistible. And Bret was about to use this to his advantage.

He bought a martini from the bartender and raised it, getting their attention. “Hey beautiful ladies,” he said, trying his best to sound like his married gay friend Gas. “To Motherfuckin Prince, am I right?”

They smiled, raised their own martinis, and screamed “Wooo!” And then, the one closest to Bret, a stretched-thin fake blonde with fake tits and an extremely gaudy necklace asked him if he’d heard anything, like where Prince would be, when he’d arrive, anything.

“Well,” Bret said. “Don’t take it from me, but take it from me, you know? I just spoke with one of his fellas in the men’s room...” and he paused, letting them believe that something may have happened in there. “And he told me that, well, you see that door up there, just at the end of the room? That’s the entrance to one of the VIP rooms, and he’s going to be in there. He probably won’t come out, so if any of us girls have a chance of glimpsing the man I think we’ve got to really mow that door down. Now who’s with me!”

Again, they screamed. One of them spilled her martini, but most just sipped theirs like the classy sexy fake women they were. Bret had apparently grabbed them just at the right moment of easy drunkenness, because they all started marching to the door.

“Damn,” Bret said to Vanessa across the bar. “I really did not think that would work.”

“If this place goes down,” Vanessa replied, holding up a bottle opener. “I’m taking you down with it.”

# # #

Trice sat down on the couch with the one guy who had been really eyeing her. He was Spanish and wore his shirt half open. He whispered in her ear, and she giggled like an idiot. Tess didn’t think of it until they kissed on the couch. Still, it was her business. She’d just brought back another bottle for the guys when she saw it, and thought, “Well, that’s her business.” But then the Spaniard’s hand went up Trice’s shirt, and she didn’t stop him.

The problem was, the two guys who liked Tess saw this act and then got right up and headed toward her.

“Hey, bitch, you said you weren’t up for anything,” one said.

“I’m not, I’m just here to drink and dance and make sure everyone has a good time.”

“Well, your friend over there’s giving it up.”

“That’s her business,” Tess said. “But it’s not part of the job.”

“Oh, I think it just became part of the fucking job,” the other said.

Tess thought, “is my knife still in my boot?”

The shorter one grabbed Tess by the hair and she screamed. He was rough and his hands were hot with sweat. His breath was filled with drunken testosterone. The taller one grabbed her shirt. They were forceful, pulling her back in between them. “Fuck!” She screamed.

Trice heard the scream and got up immediately. She ran toward Tess, but the tall guy inadvertently elbowed her in the stomach and knocked her down. The bouncer approached next, moving slower but with more power. He wrapped his enormous forearm around the neck of the tall guy, pulling him off Tess. The short one held onto her, though, pulling her shirt off and falling back, both of them falling to the ground.

It was at that moment the horde of cougars broke through the door, screaming and hollering and hunting for Prince. And right in the middle of them was Bret, hollering along with them, snapping pictures of the room and everything that moved. The bouncer let go of the tall guy and tried his best to corral the cougars out the door, but there were too many of them. Bret got past him and he saw Tess, topless and on the ground and his heart sank and everything about everything seemed completely fucking worthless.

“Tess!” Bret screamed. Time stopped for him. The chaos narrowed. Her head popped up, her arms covering her tits. She saw him and her heart felt like a hundred pounds. He was holding a camera and must have caught her. Everything Trice had told her had come true, and way, way too soon.

“Bret What the fuck are you doing here?”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He repeated back.

The bouncer saw this. He squared his feet, and bellowed “EVERYBODY OUT!”

The cougars, who had collectively noticed Prince’s absence, were slowly corralled out. The entourage gathered their things and headed out the same exit. That left Bret, Trice, Tess, and the strippers. The bouncer eyed Bret and Tess.

“You two,” he said. “Come with me.”

They were escorted out the back. Tess put her dress back on as best she could. Bret took off his jacket and wrapped it around her, which was the first nice thing that had happened to her all night.

The bouncer put his hand out. “Give me the camera.” Bret complied. The bouncer held it open in his hand, looked at it for a second, then swiftly smashed it against the back brick wall.

“If I ever see you here again,” he said. “That will be your liver. Got it?”

Bret held his hands up in defeat.

“And you,” the bouncer said, motioning to Tess. “I apologize for what those men tried to pull. Come back here some night, and I will make sure you get a free drink or ten. We pride ourselves on treating our girls right, and I regret this whole scene. Please forgive me.”

Tess bowed a little. “Thanks.”

The bouncer went back in, leaving Tess and Bret alone in the alley.

 They looked at each other, impatient for the other to go first. Tess finally snapped.

“Okay, just what the fuck?”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Bret said. “What were you doing in there?”

“Working,” Tess said. “What were you doing?”

“Working,” Bret said. “Just like you. Well, not just like you. What happened? Why were you on the ground with your clothes off?”

“There was a struggle. Two guys groped me and they took it a little far.”

“Shit,” Bret said.

“Yeah. Now you go.”

“I was trying to get pictures of Prince for Album.”

“And the women?”

“Part of the plan.”

“Your plan was to stampede a bunch of cougars so you could sneak in?”

Bret nodded.

Tess sniffed. “Okay, that’s a pretty good plan.”

They stood there for a minute. It was getting cold. The rain had stopped hours ago, but there were still puddles in the alley.

Bret asked, “Did I save you?”

Tess shook her head. “Maybe. It’s hard to say. Sorry about your camera.”

Bret knelt down and picked up the pieces. He pocketed the corpse, and tried to find the memory card. It had broken into three pieces. He wasn’t sure if the evdo thing even worked.

“Prince wasn’t even fucking there.”

“Yeah,” Tess said. “He wasn’t even fucking there.”

Bret kicked the wall in a light, Charlie Brown sort of way. “Want to get a beer?”

A Record Year for Rainfall, Chapter 9

A Record Year for Rainfall is Sawyer's second novel, originally published in 2011.

Read A Record Year for Rainfall on your ebook reader or cell phone:

Kindle
ePub & iBooks

Please note that the subject matter in this novel can be pretty graphic.

Album danced to the dismay of the other guys. He had purchased drinks for three girls, and they were all grinding around him. The beat was slower and sexier, and Album took it as a sign to get real close. The girls complied.

“What’s your name, girls?” He asked. He got something back he could barely make out. Three voices in a crowded club, it came out muzzled.

“I heard Gretchen,” Album said. “Which one of you is Gretchen?”

Three hands went up.

“My God, three Gretchens! Let’s get all bad Mormon! Fuck yes!”

Tess sat at the bar. Her feet hurt. She’d danced with Album for an hour, then sat, needing a rest. Album was stone drunk from the beginning, another reason she kept her distance. She’d seen far too many guys have far too many and think they were Brad Pitt all of a sudden, except they ended up acting like Rob Schneider. She thought to herself, “Brad Pitt hasn’t even acted in a film where he’s a gigantic douche. I don’t get it.”

Tess took a drink of her beer. She looked out on the crowd. She was happy she wasn’t working tonight, but fuck, why wasn’t she home? She could be in a bath. She could be catching up on her email and magazines. She could be calling her mother. She could be watching a movie with Bret. And then she realized she wasn’t with Bret anymore, and that she hadn’t been in some time. She wondered if they were even friends, or if she wanted even that.

It was at that point Tess missed home for the first time. She missed Bret from home, too.

Album returned from dancing with the Gretchen’s and high-fived Tess.

“Can you believe it? They were all named Gretchen.”

“Sure,” Tess said, not wanting to bother arguing. “That’s crazy.”

“Let’s do this,” Album said to nobody.

Tess didn’t reply. He put a hand on her shoulder.

“Seriously, let’s do this,” Album screamed in her ear.

“Fuck man, you don’t have to yell. Do what?”

“Run this town. Your beauty and ability to get in any room in the city, and my website. We can alter things. Fix things. Break things. Whatever. We could totally be in charge.”

“Are you offering me a job? What would “help run things” look like on a resume?”

“Oh, I don’t fucking know. I don’t have a resume. I’m a Blogger for fuck’s sake.”

“Well, think of a title and get back to me.”

“Oh,” Album spit. His tone changed. “And your resume’s stellar. You’re a pretty face in the crowd. That’s what you get paid for.”

“Yeah,” Tess said. “And I get paid very well for it.”

Album got another beer. Tess tried to stop him.

“Hey, it’s only 1am. Don’t you think you should pace a little?”

“Fuck off,” Album said. “Isn’t it your job to push booze?”

“I’m not on tonight. I’m out with you. And you’re an embarrassment.”

Album looked at her. He could have done anything at that moment. But he opted for trying to kiss her.

The slap was hard.

Tess stamped out through to the casino and out the door to fresh desert air. Album didn’t follow her out. He didn’t have anything to fight for. He put the new cold glass bottle against his cheek and shrugged. He checked the score of the Rockies game on the screen above the bar and went hunting for Gretchens.

# # #

Bret awoke to the warm air from Jenny’s lips. They’d slept close, hands clasped, his arm underneath his pillow, underneath hers. Jenny was nude. She was the first naked woman Bret had seen since he’d last been right here, in this bed. He looked at Jenny’s still sleeping face and liked how she expressed no emotion and yet looked happier than any time she was awake. He lifted a few strands of her hair out of her face, and he worried whether meeting Album was the worst thing to ever happen to him.

Jenny made him want to stay, and when nobody’s pulling you in any direction, a naked ex can shake the heavens.

Bret lifted himself slowly out of bed and made way to the kitchen. He boiled water, prepared coffee. It was habit he’d grown out of while alone; the first day he was by himself, he made three times too much. Jenny hadn’t changed where anything was. She hadn’t redecorated or rearranged or even painted. Jenny’s apartment stood silent, without judgment, figuring all along they would get back together.

Jenny came out wearing pajamas. She could sleep naked, but she couldn’t walk around like that. She tried to fix her hair but it wasn’t going to happen. Her face scrunched. She wasn’t used to seeing Bret in the mornings.

“What are you...” she stopped. Remembered.

“I can get out of here if you want,” Bret said. “It was your idea, but I get it if you want to take it one day at a time.”

“No,” Jenny murmured, slinking into a chair beside her kitchen table. “Is that coffee you’re making? Do you remember where everything is?”

“Yeah,” Bret said. He poured the boiling water into the french press. “Four minutes.”

“So, wow,” she said.

“Oh, don’t start that,” Bret said. “Don’t act all surprised we hooked up. You wanted me and I had a concussion.”

“You have a concussion?” Jenny asked.

“Maybe,” Bret said. “I should probably go to a clinic today.”

“Should I ask?”

Bret blinked, and then thought what the hell? He said, “This guy has been stalking me and we got into a fight yesterday before you called and I broke a camera over his head, then I got arrested but the cop let me go because he used to skip the border for weed.”

Jenny’s lips pursed inward. She said, “I don’t know if I like your life.”

“I’m not crazy about it myself. It doesn’t matter. I’m quitting today. I’ve taken my last shot.”

Jenny perked up. “Are you sure about that? I mean, you won’t get an objection from me. But is this what you want?”

“Yeah, definitely. It’s an albatross, you know? It really sinks you. I want to do good but I can’t. Every single result from this work hurt somebody. And I just can’t deal with that anymore.”

“Well,” Jenny said, getting up, throwing her arms around Bret, and kissing him on the nose. “I’m proud of you. You’ve grown a lot in the last month.”

Bret kissed her back. It lasted until the coffee was ready. Bret poured, and they sat. The sunlight came in through one window. It was warm, but not crazy.

“Oh,” Jenny said. “I remember my dream.”

“What did you dream?”

“I think we had a threesome with God.”

“I’m sorry? We fucked God?”

“Yeah, or maybe it was Santa Claus.”

Bret laughed.

“You,” Bret said, kissing her. “Need a really expensive shrink. You’ve got to get over this old man thing. It’s making me insecure.”

She kissed back.

# # #

It was a hot and dry but sweet summer day. The tourists were out, the signs shone bright against the sun, and everything smelled of good waste. Bret got out of his car and looked up at Album’s apartment complex. He put his sunglasses away and entered, pressed the button for the elevator and waited. He felt solid, like a man with an easy to-do list. Pick up eggs. Place a long distance call. Quit your fucking job.

Bret arrived on Album’s floor and what he saw ruined everything. He saw the back of the camera man, walking away from Album’s door, towards the stairs. Bret began to chase him, but stopped after two steps. Did he really want another fight? What was the point? He was never going to figure this asshole out. He was never going to explain himself. He’d just disappear again. He was another Vegas nut ball, just like Bret in a way. Bret straightened out, and thought, Helping or hurting? Helping, or hurting?

So Bret stepped slowly, and when he couldn’t hear the camera man’s steps anymore, he knocked on Album’s door.

“Hey man,” Album said, opening up. He was wearing a kimono. Bret didn’t care why. “What’s shaking? You missed a hell of a party last night.”

“I don’t care,” Bret said. And then he placed his hands on his hips, and calmly asked, “What’s your relationship with him?”

“With who?”

“You know who. I just saw him leave your apartment.”

Album paused. He sat down in his desk chair and swiveled a little bit. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“The camera man,” Bret said. “The guy who’s been following me around. The guy that fought me in a parking lot yesterday.”

“Oh,” Album said nonchalantly. “Him.”

Bret shook his head. “Christ, Album. Do you have something to do with him?”

“Of course. I hired him.”

“You....you what?” Bret was confused, and very, very pissed off.

“I hired him. To be your nemesis.”

Bret considered storming out right there and heading for the nearest bat store.

“All of this, the paranoia that asshole put into me, the fight, the cameras. It was all because of you? Why the fuck would you do that to me?”

“Because,” Album said. “I needed you.”

Bret wished his eyes could shine bright. He wished he could shoot Album right there and get away with it using cowboy law.

He said, “You’re going to explain yourself. You’re going to give me your story. And then you’re never going to see me again.”

“Maybe. I was hoping it would last longer than this. All’s well, though. He was getting expensive. I had to pay double because of what you did to his face. I mean, a camera to the head? What were you thinking? That kind of shit’s expensive.”

Bret didn’t waiver. “Explain.”

“All right,” Album said, getting up. He dragged himself to the fridge and pulled out a beer. He motioned Bret to take it, but he just stood there, gritting his teeth. Album shrugged and popped the cap open on the edge of the counter and took a swig. “The second Fane’s photo leaked to the bigger press and you saw what was going to happen, you were like a completely different person. Before that, you didn’t care what lives you affected. It was like your jiminy cricket fucking conscious suddenly woke up. So I thought, what’s going to keep you grounded? What makes you stupid? What makes you think day to day, without any real time to plan for the future? I needed a good camera man, so I hired another one to spy on you. Because you’re the kind of guy who needs a conflict. You need your own personal drama. You need a nemesis, someone who you can’t figure out but is one step ahead of you.”

“That,” Bret cut in. “Is the most fucked up thing I’ve ever heard.”

Album smiled like a crazed villain. “But it worked, didn’t it? You kept working. You stopped worrying about Reggie, you got over Jenny, you didn’t go back to Tess, and you’re still here, taking pictures. It all worked out.” Album took a swig. He proclaimed, “I’m a genius. Probably a bastard, but a genius nonetheless.”

Bret’s eyes lit up a little. “Actually, asshole, I never really stopped feeling guilty about Reggie. Jenny and I are back together as of last night, and I tried going back to Tess, but she turned me down because I was so far away from having my shit figured out. You know, shit I probably could have figured out if I didn’t have to look over my shoulder every five minutes because a psycho had it out for me.”

“Well,” Album said. “I guess it didn’t work out so well. Still, you’re still here. You’re still taking pictures.”

“Actually, I came here to quit.”

“Fuck no. I refuse. You can’t quit.”

“You hired a guy to stalk me. You get no say whatsoever in my career path.”

“I hired him to keep you doing what you do best. What, you’re going to go back to Canada, back to the job you hated? Back to the cold, rainy, hippie-filled winters of fucking Vancouver? And what, you think Tess is going back with you? Trust me, man. I was with her last night. That slice is Vegas bred, baby. She’s not going anywhere. Though I guess you’re not going anywhere if you’re back fucking that republican bitch. I always hated her. You don’t get it, and that’s fine, but I was your best friend. I knew what you needed, and I was there to provide.”

“What do you mean you were with Tess last night?”

Album said nothing. He just smirked.

And that’s when Bret hit him with a left hook.

Album fired back, a hard left to Bret’s stomach. Bret took it in and lunged at Bret. They fell over Album’s chair, knocking his beer over and ramming into Album’s desk. Everything rattled. Bret rallied on Album’s head with quick, hard shots. Album flailed. Neither men were all that great at this, and it quickly degenerated into rolling and shoving and the odd stomach punch.

“Fuck, get off me asshole,” Album said. “We didn’t do anything. Fuck.”

Bret got off Album. He breathed hard. He let Album up.

“Sorry,” Bret said. “I’ve been getting into too many fights lately.”

“You fucking Canadians, apologizing for everything.”

“Yeah, well. You fucking Americans keep trying to fuck everything up.”

“Noted,” Album said. “Look, I’m sorry if your nemesis didn’t work out for you. It was a weird plan and there was a pretty good chance it was going to blow up in my face.”

Bret laughed. It was the first time he’d heard Album apologize for anything.

“I still don’t know if you get it,” Bret said. “You mess with people’s lives. You mess with the people who help you mess up people’s lives. Nobody is happier at the end of this process. Nobody is better off with their tits on the internet or egg on their face. Nobody is better off naked and famous.”

“I, for one, still think there’s a lot of value in brutal truth,” Album said. “And it pains me to see that you’ve lost your appetite.”

“Yeah, I think it all just stops at brutal. I’ll be seeing you.” Bret turned to leave.

“Wait,” Album said.

“What? What could there possibly be?”

“I have a going-away present for you.”

Bret turned. “What?”

“One last job,” Album said.

“Oh, Fuck you,” Bret said. “I’ll hit you again. In the face. With a brick.”

“No, seriously, you’re going to want to do this one. If you’re going to quit on me, the least you can do is accept this. It’s a challenge, but I’ll pay you triple. Consider it vacation pay, severance, and bribe money all wrapped in one.”

Bret wanted to sock Album again, but then thought about the practicalities. He was about to be out of a job. Jenny was broke, too. One more gig might hold him over for a little while. Especially if it was triple. Especially if it was easy.

“Who?”

“Prince.”

“Prince?”

“Prince. The artist formerly renamed as.”

“Prince,” Bret chewed.

“The Palomino,” Album said, swigging.

Bret thought about it. “Fine, but this is it. I’ll get him with a couple of strippers.”

“It’ll be sad to see you go,” Album said. “You were the best photographer I ever worked with. Even if you did suck at COD.”

Bret stated, “I thought we were on the same team.” Bret shook Album’s hand, and left. He felt like shit all over again, like the inside of a whore’s boxing glove.

# # #

“I’m not working the Palomino,” Tess stated, matter-of-fact-like.

“I can’t do this one without someone I trust,” Trice said. “It’s crazy money. We’re talking Prince money. Thousands in one night.”

“I don’t do nude work, Trice. You know that. Cigarettes. Booze. Free swag. That’s my racket. You and your sister do whatever you want.”

“It’s not nude, though. Just the other girls. We’re there to be arm candy for the entourage, to pour drinks and fill up the VIP section.”

“Get someone else,” Tess said. “I’m getting so sick of this shit, anyway.”

“What? This is the life, bitch. This is the fucking life.”

“It wasn’t always like this. Not for me, anyway.”

“Look, bitch,” Trice said. “It’s tons of money. It’s five hours. It’s at the old strip club, so what? What’s the worst that’s going to happen?”

“Answer’s no,” Tess stated.

Trice argued with Tess for another half hour, with little give. Finally, she threw up her hands and asked what Tess’ problem was. The problem turned out to be energy. Tess was tired of doing the job. She was tired of removing herself from every night. She was sick of playing a character. More than anything, though, she was scared that she was becoming more and more like the character she put on. She felt like less and less of her woke up every morning, and less and less of her went to bed every night.

Finally, though, Trice did talk Tess into the job. Tess wasn’t even sure what the big turn around was. Maybe she was just sick of arguing the point. Going along seemed easier. And she hated herself for being what she spent the better part of the afternoon arguing she wasn’t.

# # #

“You can’t go one day without getting into a fight, can you?”

Jenny pressed a damp washcloth into Bret’s swollen forehead. Back in her apartment, Bret found solace and warmth and all the things associated with a woman once loved.

“Didn’t I tell you? I’m joining the Ultimate Fighting thing.”

“You’re not funny,” Jenny said, pressing in so he’d feel it.

Bret smiled. “At least it’s over. Well, almost over. He talked me into doing one more. But it’ll be for a lot. It’ll tie us over for a while until we both find work.”

“Good,” Jenny said. “God knows I’ve been trying. I’ve been looking at all sorts of jobs over the last few weeks. I’ve even had the odd interview, but as soon as people find out I was part of Fane’s team, I’m out the job. I’m pretty well blackballed.”

“Really? It’s that bad, huh?”

“You don’t know what you did to me, asshole.”

They kissed. It was still kind of weird for both of them.

They left the bathroom and Bret sank into the bed, curling in. Jenny followed, crawling over him, planting her face right in front of his.

“We’re cute, you know. As a couple. My sister said so.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s why I got back together with you, I think.”

“Your sister?”

“Yeah, she was relentless. I told her to ask you out.”

“You should’ve. She’s cute.”

“But not cuter than me, right?”

“Right.”

“Because that’s the right answer.”

“Right.”

Bret held her for a moment. The room was still and air-conditioned. He could hear the motor coming from the box in the wall, above them. Sometimes he had trouble sleeping, and he blamed it on that motor.

Bret thought of something. “Hey, if you need money, I could hook you up with some work.”

“What kind of work?” One of Jenny’s eyes squinted.

“I’ll call Tess. She can get you into some things.”

Jenny sat up.

“No thanks.”

Bret looked at her, puzzled. “Why not? It’s good money. Tess tells me it’s pretty easy. And you’re pretty.”

Jenny glared at Bret. “Qualifications aren’t the issue, Bret. I don’t want to do that job.”

“What? Promo stuff? Why not?”

“I just don’t, Bret. Don’t you think I’m a little better than that?”

“Better than what?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jenny said. “But the answer’s no.”

Bret was all of a sudden pretty uncomfortable. “Is it because my ex does it?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Because I graduated from UNLV, Bret. Because I was the secretary to the Governor a few weeks ago. Because I have dignity, mainly.”

“What’s dignity got to do with it? It’s work.”

Jenny put a hand on Bret’s shoulder. “Just because you don’t find any dignity in work doesn’t mean I don’t, honey. Okay? End of discussion.”

“I...” Bret stopped himself. “I don’t know how to feel about this. That was some pretty harsh judgment.”

“You just told your girlfriend to go be a stripper, Bret. How do you think I feel?”

“It’s not stripping. Tess doesn’t take her clothes off. You’re just peddling stuff. Booze. Smokes. That kind of thing.”

“Yeah, you’re really selling it. Do you want to watch TV or something? Let’s change the subject.”

“Fine, whatever.”

They found their way to the living room, turned on the television. There was nothing but reruns, but they sat in silence for nearly an hour before falling asleep.

A Record Year for Rainfall, Chapter 8

A Record Year for Rainfall is Sawyer's second novel, originally published in 2011.

Read A Record Year for Rainfall on your ebook reader or cell phone:

Kindle
ePub & iBooks

Please note that the subject matter in this novel can be pretty graphic.

Jenny fell in her mind, through the floor, through forever. She stood still. Nobody noticed where her mind had gone. She looked at her watch to see if it had slowed, but it hadn’t. Her mind marked the moment. Reggie took questions in the background on the giant televisions. Nothing moved slower, but Jenny didn’t know what to think anymore. What the fuck had just happened?

Jenny left the store half embarrassed to have stayed so long. She felt so guilty she bought a pair of headphones she had no plans to use. She floated through the rest of the Ceasar’s mall. She had known about Reggie and his condition. She could have broken this news years ago. She was in on the private meetings. The people around her, if they’d knew, they’d hate her. They’d throw things. They would see her as a villain. She figured Reggie wouldn’t mention anymore on his staff by name, but then again, it was public knowledge. People would figure it out. People look things up. Jenny found a ludicrously expensive clothing store and shuttered herself in a change room with a red dress she grabbed from a rack without checking the size. The hung the dress and sat, leaning against the wall. This wasn’t about her, she whispered. She felt the need to repeat it a few times. Reggie would be kicked out of the republicans for this, for sure. But he would have known that. It wasn’t about her, but she was feeling every decision as if it was.

She thought about that son of a bitch Album, and how this was really all his fault. He’d turned Bret against her. For all she knew, Bret hadn’t seen this. Maybe she could talk to him, maybe commiserate. It may have been all over, but he was the only person she shared this with. She breathed normally, and fished for her phone.

# # #

Bret watched the speech, and was fucking glued. It was the first time in his entire life he wasn’t punished for affecting another persons’ life. He had no name for the emotion he was feeling, so he rounded down to relief. The speech itself was something else, but the q&a afterwards was truly revealing. Fane went on to explain how long he’d been gay (his whole life), why he buckled to societal demands, if he was going to hell, what’s going to happen to his marriage (it’s over), and whether or not he knows what he’s doing is an abominable sin (he’s well aware). He said he plans to spread awareness and lend a hand to the burgeoning gay community. To Bret, it was like watching the moon landing. It was impossible, but there it was. In Bret’s lifetime, no politician had ever spoken like this. At least, that’s what he figured. Bret blinked. How many politicians did he know? He never really cared about this stuff. Maybe they were all like this. But then, the woman on CNN reporting the story wouldn’t have called it “crazy historic, y’all.” Maybe there was someone, but certainly nobody in Bret’s periphery. How many assholes had grown a pair and owned up in front of everyone like Fane? In the 80s, 90s, and this broken decade, public figures were sheepish, cowardly, or a stereotype of acceptable behavior; the bold cowboy, the altruistic businessman, the cold, independent woman. We can love money and success, but never each other. We can aspire to greatness, but never pleasure. And here comes Reggie fucking Fane, the man Bret struck down with the only weapon more powerful than money or bombs, and he not only does the right thing by nailing himself to the wall but goes a mile further, effectively ending an era and changing the conversation. Bret had absolutely no idea what to think of this.

 He dressed and hit the street, packing his favorite camera. It was going to be a gesture of surrender. He liked this thing. It felt more solid in his hands than any remote control or steering wheel. The extended focus lens gave it more heft, but more bulk, and there was really no comfortable way to carry it except around his neck like an amateur journalist. He always hated the feeling of bulk plastic against his chest, but at least he wouldn’t have to do it much longer. He was going to find Album, and he was going to hand in his badge.

The revelation hit him the way they always did, quietly, then suddenly, in the night, with no warning. He didn’t care if the governor was cool with his new open gay life, but the speech itself moved something in Bret. He felt solidified. Bret needed out.

He checked his cell phone. No messages. No jobs. He had no idea how Album was feeling. Knowing Album, he was drunk already, enjoying some kind of sick victory. No doubt Album was taking it as such. Or maybe he was just high, sitting half naked in a ditch, spewing bullshit philosophies to whoever doddered by. Album was a weird guy.

Album was high, half naked, and well on his way to being drunk, too. It was noon, and as drove past the Flamingo, he felt like celebrating like a champion. Album found the phone in his back pocket of a pair of sweat pants strewn over a chair, and began to liberally speed-dial together a party.

“Hi,” Bret said on the other end.

“Pizzane!” Album proclaimed. “My hero! My guest of sparkling, pissing honor!”

“Listen,” Bret said. “Where the hell are you? Where have you been?”

”I’m on my way home to organize a party and order some hookers. You there?”

“I just left. Look, we’ve got to talk, preferably sans hookers,” Bret said. “I have a lot to talk about.”

Album stopped smiling. He was afraid of this. He had the slightest inkling Bret might have taken Reggie’s admission differently than he should have. Album hadn’t properly formulated a plan, so he stalled.

“Dude, I’m actually super fucking busy right now.”

“Bullshit, you were just about to invite me to some big party.”

Album paced. “Yeah, yeah, but not until tonight. You don’t want to be over there right now. It reeks of piss and pot and cum.”

”Actually, I spent the morning cleaning the place. It reeks of water lilies and pot and cum now.”

“What?” Album yelled. “Why would you clean my place? What kind of faggy Canadian gesture is that?”

“Truly, we live in a different time now,” Bret said.

 Album stalled. “Look, I’ll be home in like an hour or so. Go grab some beer and I’ll meet you.”

# # #

Bret stalked toward the parking lot across from his apartment. It was an old habit from an old paranoid hang-up, but Bret never parked in the same place twice. He crossed the street, and as he entered the car park, he was blindsided, shoved from the side into a black SUV. The blow set off the alarm. His assailant stepped back, and gave Bret room to breath, room to see who he was. Bret’s right arm held his sore left, and saw the camera man, standing cocky.

The camera man must not have seen retaliation as one of Bret’s options, or else he would have tried to block Bret’s right hook, which landed just high of his left temple. The camera man buckled and stepped back, almost down to one knee. But then he was up, faster than Bret thought. But Bret caught him again, a better shot, a cartoon boxing punch straight down the middle of camera man’s face. This time it was Bret who stepped back, and spoke.

“Who are you?” Bret demanded.

The camera man wiped his nose, checking for blood. He said nothing, but took out a small camera the size of a cell phone from his jeans. He aimed and took a picture.

“What,” Bret screamed. “Is your fucking problem?”

The camera man chuckled low, and turned to leave.

“Oh no,” Bret said. “No. I’m so fucking sick of this.”

Bret charged him, knocking him against a sedan. Another alarm went off. Bret’s shoulder planted into the camera man’s ribs. Bret rammed him against the car several times. Finally, the camera man fought back, dropping his elbow against Bret’s back.

The scrimmage went back and forth longer than Bret or even the camera man likely wanted. Neither of them were real fighters, and the shots Bret made were his first since high school. He felt he could have been stronger, could have hit harder. He should have practiced, but who expects to be jumped? Who expects to be stalked and photographed? You can’t prepare for this shit. All you can do is swing and hope you’ve got something behind it. All you can do is react.

Exhaustion began to set in Bret before surrender, and he found himself wondering if maybe walking away was the best answer. He backed off, caught his breath, and saw his favorite camera on the ground where it had dropped when he’d been shoved the first time. He reached for it, stretched his arm, feeling sure the camera man would lunge at him or shoot him or something. But he didn’t. He stood there and waited for Bret to pick up his bruised weapon. The camera man did nothing.

Tired and in a hard day’s amount of pain, Bret gave the camera man a long look of confusion and pity and submission, and turned to walk away.

Bret stole only a handful of peaceful steps before he heard the sound of asphalt against the camera man’s heels, coming fast. Bret barely turned around in time, but he did. The camera levelled against the side of his nemesis’ face. Bret heard a sound he’d never heard before, something in between a car crash and a balloon pop. Bret’s camera fell in three pieces, maybe four. The camera man’s face stayed relatively intact. Both fell hard.

Bret stepped back like he’d just cut the blue wire. He wasn’t sure what kind of damage a hulking digital camera could do when used as a weapon. He’d never thought to calculate such a thing.

It took Bret a few seconds to realize the camera man wasn’t going to get back up. Bret knelt next to him and hesitantly checked the unconscious man’s pulse. Bret smiled. He hadn’t killed him. Nothing that a couple days of xbox couldn’t cure.

# # #

Bret heard a gun cock right behind him. The cop, a strong, deep-voiced guy with a thick goatee told Bret to keep his hands up.

“Holy shit,” Bret said. “How long have you been here?”

“Whole time,” the cop said, pulling Bret’s hands behind him and feeling out for his cuffs. “That was quite a dust up.”

The cop put Bret in his car, told him to stay still, and went back for the camera man. But the camera man was already gone.

“Son of a bitch!” Bret could hear from the back seat. The officer came back in.

“Fucker was playing possum,” he said.

Bret replied, “I’m not surprised.”

“You two punks know each other?”

“You could say that,” Bret said. “I don’t know his name. I never quite understood what he wanted with me.”

“You get that in this town,” The cop said.

“Why didn’t you just arrest us before we knocked each other loopy?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I’m short my quota this month and wanted to bring you both in myself. I figured it’d be easier to round you up if you were already busted.”

Bret, for whatever reason, was understanding. Even though he knew getting fingerprinted would get him a quick trip back across the border, it was where he was heading anyway. He used to be so worried about the police, but he didn’t have anything here, anymore.

“Fine,” Bret said. “Process me. But can you be nice about it at least? I’m Canadian.”

“What did you say?”

Bret wasn’t sure why he said that. Maybe it was something he’d always wanted to say.

“I’m from Vancouver,” Bret quipped.

The cop extended his hand, then rescinded once he realized Bret was still in handcuffs and there was a steel grate between them.

“I’m from Spokane,” The cop said. “Me and my buddies used to cross the border all the time to get fucked up. Vancouver was always so nice.”

The cop pulled Bret out of the car and took off the cuffs. “Shit, I can’t hardly arrest you if there’s no proof you beat up anybody. Something tells me that guy ain’t squeeling.”

“Probably not,” Bret said.

“Straight out of a Dick Tracy novel or something.”

“I don’t know who that is,” Bret said. “But thanks for this. You’re probably the nicest guy I’ve met in America.”

After the cop left Bret next to his car, he wasn’t sure if any of it had really happened. Had he really charmed his way out of an arrest? His face hurt. He didn’t know what the hell to think anymore. Which is why this was the worst possible time for Jenny to call.

# # #

Album hung up the phone and immediately dialed more numbers. Tess said “Hello,” from the other end.

“How’s my favorite ski bunny?” Album asked.

“Album,” Tess said. “I’ve told you this six times. I’ve never skied before. I don’t even like the cold. It only ever went down to five degrees where I’m from, and it almost never snowed..”

“No human can survive five degrees, woman.”

Tess laughed. “Celsius, plebeian. We won the war.”

“What war?”

“We burned down your government building. Canadians are the reason you have a white house.”

“I thought that was the British.”

“We were British, hick. Sort of, anyway.”

“Whatever love, I’m inviting you out.”

“Why?”

“Because I won. I won a million lotteries. I beat not only that fag politician, I beat the major news agencies, I beat everyone. I’m the king of today, and the king plans on eating out.”

Tess sighed, her fingers itching to curl a phone cord that hadn’t been there for years. “You know that tomorrow you’re going to go back to being a pumpkin, right?”

“All the more reason to make it count. Why all the hate? I remember us being pretty close once upon a time.”

“Album, this whole thing has really torn Bret apart. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed. You can’t expect me not to have mixed feelings toward the devil on his shoulder.”

“I don’t recall you being that far from that shoulder yourself. You gave him the same advice, remember?”

“Yeah, but that’s been kind of eating at me too. I feel like two people, and I don’t like either of them. You seem to be the only happy person around these days.”

Album wasn’t expecting this, but he had a canned response anyway.

“Tess, baby, we were right. That fag’s life, even though, hell, especially because we fucked with it, is going to be better. You saw the speech this morning. He basically thanked us.”

“I suppose that’s one insanely egotistical way of looking at it.”

“Tell you what,” Album said. “Let’s just do this tonight. Take a small shred of pride in my public service, and then tomorrow you can go back to hating me and everything I represent.”

Tess had nothing else, so she said, “I’ll put serious stock into thinking about it.”

# # #

Bret didn’t know why he always rushed to be with Jenny, but he had. He chalked it up to her being the one, but why was he still doing it? Why was she still the only phone number he had memorized? What was wrong with him?

He knocked on her door. It used to be his door, too. He used to have a key. His face and ribs still hurt a little, but he wasn’t mad. He was mostly confused as to why she wanted to talk and why he hadn’t taken a cab to a hospital.

“Hey Bret,” she said, hugging him. He winced. “Thank you for coming on such short...Oh my God, are you bleeding?”

“Maybe,” he said. “There’s a possibility. I didn’t really check.”

“Let me take care of that,” Jenny said, souring her face and pulling him into the bathroom by the entrance. “Come in here.”

She put a damp washcloth to his forehead, and he looked down at her and she looked back at him and he only got more confused. The last time he saw her, she was in the hospital, but she wasn’t vulnerable. She’d kicked him out, and Fane had been there. He wasn’t vulnerable then, either. It really wasn’t that long ago, but everything was different.

“There,” Jenny said. “Feel any better?”

“I don’t know,” Bret said. “Do you?”

“What a cryptic question. What the hell happened?”

“Oh, nothing. I feel up some stairs.”

“How do you? Never mind. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. Some girl probably punched you for snapping a shot or something. And you probably deserved it.”

“Thanks,” Bret said. “It’s been a while since you’ve insulted me.”

Jenny straightened up. “Come,” she said. They sat down on her couch, the one she’d bought two months into the relationship that she wouldn’t let him pitch in for.

“We need to talk,” she said.

That sentence, Bret knew, was never a good thing. It meant the end of a job or a relationship. There was never a situation where it ended well. But this relationship was already over. He’d already been brought into the cold office to be let go without warning. And there had been no legal hangups keeping them together. Unless she was planning on drugging him and selling his organs and she was asking for permission, he really didn’t know what to worry about.

“I think you may have been right,” she said. “And I might have been wrong.”

“About what?”

“What do you think, Bret? Reggie.”

“You saw this morning, huh?”

“Yeah, but that wasn’t entirely it. My sister’s been a big fan of yours, and she never got out of my ear about you. That probably had more to do with it than the speech, but maybe that was the tipping point. I don’t know. This is probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

More reversals. That line’s usually used in breakups, too.

“What?” Bret asked.

“Ask you,” she paused. “If you wanted to give us another shot.”

Bret couldn’t think from one moment to the next. He was purely reactionary. It was possible he had a concussion.

“Look,” Jenny continued. “I fucked up. I made a call to hate what you’d done and to hate you. You betrayed my trust and in the process destroyed my job blew my boss’ life wide open. I acted quickly and I judged you. It’s not easy for me to say this, but I did. I compartmentalized you into this box and you didn’t deserve it. I called you the worst names I knew and kicked you out and you had to stay at that slimey blogging asshole’s place. And that’s just it. I still that that asshole plenty. I never liked him. But he poisoned you against me, and what was I supposed to do? Be totally fine with all of it? I couldn’t. I had to react. I had to dump you, Bret. I didn’t feel like I had any choice, and if I could go back, I don’t know that I wouldn’t dump you all over again. But I still regret doing it, and I still want to undo the damage.”

Bret cleared his throat. He bit his lip. He bought as much time as mannerisms could buy. But she still stared, waiting for some kind of response.

“I don’t know, Jenny,” Bret said. “I really don’t.”

“Bret,” she said. “I know this must come as a bit of a shock, but I still think we’re right for one another. Don’t you?”

Jenny could never read Bret like Tess could, so Jenny had no idea what little Bret was thinking. He was seriously wondering if he should go to the hospital. But thoughts of putting this relationship back together crept in. And the rejection he received from Tess had painted him red with embarrassment, and here was his ex American asking for another go. How hypocritical could he be? How could he get rejected and then turn around and reject? It wasn’t right, and he couldn’t think straight, so he kissed her. He couldn’t think of anything else to do.

The clothes came off. Bret never told Jenny how much he needed a win after weeks of being pulled apart by this city, or even that he considered her a “win.” She didn’t tell him how long it had been since someone had looked in her eyes with entirely animal intentions. They’d come to these conclusions using entirely different maps, but there they were, both in need of air and new life.