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================================================
InterText Vol. 1, No. 3 / September-October 1991
================================================

  Contents

    FirstText ........................................Jason Snell

  Short Fiction

    Juliet and the Appliances_...................Christopher Shea_

    Parisian Pursuit_.............................Carlo N. Samson_

    The Piano Player_...................................Will Hyde_
  
    Peoplesurfing_....................................Jason Snell_

    The Damnation of Richard Gillman_.................Greg Knauss_

....................................................................
    Editor                                     Assistant Editor
    Jason Snell                                    Geoff Duncan
    jsnell@etext.org                       gaduncan@halcyon.com
....................................................................
         Send subscription requests, story submissions, and
               correspondence to intertext@etext.org
....................................................................
  InterText Vol. 1, No. 3. InterText (ISSN 1071-7676) is published 
  electronically on a bi-monthly basis. Reproduction of this 
  magazine is permitted as long as the magazine is not sold 
  (either by itself or as part of a collection) and the entire 
  text of the issue remains intact. Copyright 1991, 1994 Jason 
  Snell. Individual stories Copyright 1991 by their original 
  authors.
....................................................................


  FirstText  by Jason Snell
===========================

  This is becoming a habit for me.

  I'm sitting here in the offices of the UCSD Guardian, staring at 
  the screen of the Macintosh IIfx I use to lay out InterText.

  Everything else is done... except this grand column thing called 
  FirstText.

  So here I go again.

  August's Soviet coup certainly showed the power of computer 
  networks, didn't it? The coup plotters (as David Letterman would 
  remind us, the Couplotters lived next door to him growing up in 
  Indiana) didn't think to cut electronic mail links, fax 
  machines, and modems. Boris Yeltsin used a modem to dispatch 
  communiques to locations throughout the Soviet Union. Several 
  major news services ran interviews with Russians that were 
  conducted via e-mail.

  Fascinating things. I was hoping to write an article about this 
  subject for this issue, but haven't had the time. Perhaps for 
  next issue. If anyone knows the network address of people in the 
  Soviet Union, please let me know. Also, a friend of mine will be 
  studying in Leningrad (or should I say St. Petersburg?) until 
  December, and will be trying to contact me via e-mail. If we can 
  get her on-line, we may see some Soviet dispatches from her in 
  these pages. We can only hope.

  All in all, it's very encouraging to think that George Orwell 
  was wrong, wrong, wrong. Technology is not a tool of 
  totalitarianism, but rather a tool to destroy it. Computers, 
  faxes, and photocopiers enabled people to get the word out even 
  after the broadcasters and newspapers were cut off from the 
  citizens of the country.

  I'm sure if Orwell was alive, he'd find the fact that technology 
  helped overturn totalitarianism quite good news. Even if it 
  contradicted 1984.

  _Minutae:_

  I'd like to again encourage as many of the PostScript 
  subscribers as possible to go over to the ftp-notification list. 
  If you can ftp and uncompress files, it's a lot better that you 
  get your issues that way then via these ridiculously long 
  mailings I end up doing every two months.

  The notification list receives a small mail message when the 
  issue comes out, letting them know that they can go ahead and 
  ftp the thing.

  For those of you who can't ftp, you'll have to stick with the 
  unwieldy process of slapping these PostScript files together. 
  Sorry, but there's really no other way.

  One more thing about FTP sites: I've managed to locate 
  network.ucsd.edu's IP number. If you need it, drop me a line and 
  I'll tell you what it is. It should also appear in November's 
  InterText. And back issues of InterText are also available, at 
  least for the time being, at eff.org, in the /journals folder.

  So, with that out of the way, I thought I'd make mention of the 
  fact that we're finally starting to get some submissions... 
  despite the fact that it's summertime. I expect both circulation 
  and submissions to increase as college students return from 
  their summer break, so we'll see how it goes. But InterText #4 
  already has some potential stories. It's a nice feeling. Keep 
  the submissions coming.

  This issue's cover, like the others, is by godlike artist Mel 
  Marcelo, graphics editor of the _Guardian_. It (kind of, sort 
  of, by luck more than anything else) represents our lead story 
  this issue, "Juliet and the Appliances" by Christopher Shea. 
  Assistant editor Geoff Duncan and I were both impressed by this 
  story, submitted for Christopher by one of his friend with 
  Internet access. Chris' connection to the computer world is via 
  CompuServe, where he has an account.

  Also making appearances this issue are Carlo Samson, who has 
  written previously for Dargonzine, and newcomer Will Hyde. In 
  addition, a story I wrote for the final issue of Athene (the one 
  that never appeared) surfaces here, as does yet another story 
  from Greg Knauss, this one a bit longer than his previous 
  efforts.

  Hopefully next issue we'll be able to bring you more stories 
  from the "lost" Athene -- Geoff and I are in the process of 
  tracking down Jim McCabe, Athene's editor. In addition, I hope 
  we'll be able to provide back issues of Athene at some point 
  down the line. Also, Phil Nolte, who shared Assistant Editor 
  credits on the first issue of InterText has regained net access 
  and should rejoin us next issue.


  Juliet and the Appliances  by Christopher Shea
================================================

  Juliet's kitchen was an attractive place. At the far end of the 
  long, narrow room two tall windows let generous amounts of light 
  in. A huge refrigerator sat in one corner, its hum so quiet that 
  it was felt rather than heard. Next to it was a broad gas stove 
  and an electric range, and over the stove was a shelf of 
  gleaming cookbooks, new as the day they were bound. Other racks 
  held a dizzying variety of instruments-- metal, plastic, and 
  wooden tools for manipulating food in every way imagined by 
  humankind. Along the other wall a row of cabinets concealed 
  inside themselves everything from pedestrian flour and sugar to 
  a spice rack for which a medieval baron would have traded his 
  firstborn son. A formica-topped counter offered a place to roll 
  dough if Juliet was in a bready mood, and the stainless-steel 
  sink was indeed stainless. The garbage disposal was polite and 
  docile, and the dishwasher performed its duties with diligence, 
  efficiency, and a minimum of noise.

  One fine afternoon, Juliet had opened the refrigerator and was 
  peering through its well-lit recesses, trying to figure out what 
  to make for dinner, when the refrigerator closed its door gently 
  but firmly and addressed her. "Darling, this can't go on any 
  longer. I wish it could be otherwise, but it's out of my 
  control. It just can't work, do you see?"

  "No, I don't see," Juliet said quite honestly, venturing a 
  surreptitous tug on the refrigerator's handle.

  "He's right," the stove sighed. "I feel like such a fool -- and 
  a cad, too, for leading you on like this. We've had good times 
  together, I admit that, but a lasting relationship is just out 
  of the question."

  "But you're all paid for," Juliet said.

  "Damn it!" the dishwasher said. "Pardon my language. But do you 
  have to make this so hard? It pains me to spell it out, but I 
  have to: we're from Macy's. You're from Queens. It can't last, 
  do you realize that?"

  "We just weren't made for each other," the stove added. "The 
  fault's not yours or ours-- it's fate. Someone like you, who's 
  never opened a cookbook in her life, and things like us, the 
  very best in food-preparation technology, were never meant to 
  stay together."

  "Are you saying," Juliet said, "I'm not good enough for you?"

  "Please don't say that," the refrigerator urged, sidling towards 
  the door. "We'll always think fondly of you. But we can't live 
  this lie any longer. It's tearing our souls out."

  "Appliances don't have souls!" Juliet all-but-screeched.

  "Goodbye, Juliet."

  She argued. She ordered. She blocked the doorway with her body. 
  She wept. She pleaded. She promised. She raged. Nothing worked. 
  They all left her: the dishwasher, the stove (knocking a rather 
  large hole in the wall as it lumbered out), the garbage 
  disposal, the eggbeater and its clattering family of 
  attachments, the knives and forks and spoons, the ladles and 
  measuring cups, whisks and graters, the cheese axe and the 
  fondue forks, the cookbooks. The little metal rings she put 
  around fried eggs so they turned out as neat circles. When 
  Cedric came home, he found her sitting on the floor under the 
  windows, her face in her hands and the kitchen empty of 
  everything save dust.

  "Hello, love. What's this hole in the wall doing here?" he 
  asked.

  "Oh, Cedric!" Springing to her feet, Juliet crossed the kitchen 
  to bury her damp face in his pinstriped wool shoulder. 
  "Everything's gone away. The horrid things said I wasn't good 
  enough for them, and just up and left."

  "There, there, honey." Cedric patted her back. "We'll be eating 
  out tonight, then?"

  "Cedric!" Juliet wailed. "Are you listening? My-- our appliances 
  have left. How will I be able to cook?"

  "Ah, uhm," Cedric said. "It's not the end of the world, dear. 
  Who knows? It might be for the best."

  "Whatever can you mean?" Juliet demanded, detaching herself from 
  him. "Cooking is my life, my art."

  "Well, dear," Cedric glanced at the floor, "I'm sure you can 
  find some other hobby. Sewing, perhaps? Charity?"

  "You don't care about this, do you?"

  "To be honest, dear, you were never much of a cook. Oh, I'm not 
  saying you weren't... innovative, but-- well, now I suppose I 
  can hire someone to do the work."

  "Cedric!" Juliet said in horror. "Not you, too. Oh, how can you 
  be so insensitive?"

  "Remember when you thought the pepper pot soup wasn't spicy 
  enough? Or that sticky cake thing that fell apart? Don't be 
  hysterical, dear. I'm sure you'll get over it."

  Juliet stalked to the living room, Cedric trailing. She seized 
  her handbag from where it lay. "Now, love," Cedric said 
  anxiously, "you're not going to do anything irrational, are 
  you?"

  "Stand aside, Cedric. If you're not man enough to do this, I am. 
  I'm going to get my appliances back." And with that, she was 
  gone.

  Outside the townhouse, Juliet hailed a taxi and stewed in the 
  backseat all the way out to Macy's. She undertipped the driver 
  and barely noticed his sulfurous snarl as he took off in a cloud 
  of noxious fumes. Resolutely, she straightened her skirt, looped 
  her handbag's strap over her shoulder, checked her makeup, and 
  sallied forth into the world's largest department store.

  It had been a while since she'd been there. A directory told her 
  that the housewares department was two floors up. She rode the 
  escalator, surrounded by the omnipresent rustle of brown paper 
  shopping bags bearing the store's logo. "We're from Macy's, 
  you're from Queens"... bah! As if Macy's didn't have a branch in 
  Queens. A large one, too.

  At the top, she stepped off the escalator and immediately 
  spotted her refrigerator. It spotted her, too, and slowly turned 
  away, presenting the mesh of black heating coils on its back to 
  her. Juliet's mouth tightened. She strode over, heels clicking 
  emphatically on the linoleum, and slapped a possessive hand on 
  the broad white side. It tried to inch away, but Juliet was 
  implacable, maintaining the contact while she sought a 
  floorwalker.

  "Yes, ma'am?" one said, materializing at her elbow.

  "I want this refrigerator," she said.

  "Certainly, ma'am. What plan do you intend to pay on?"

  "I'll pay in full now. Just give me this refrigerator."

  The floorwalker's professional smile congealed. "You mean this 
  particular refrigerator? It's just a display model, ma'am. Rest 
  assured the one you'll get will be of the same high quality."

  "I said I want this refrigerator."

  The floorwalker made a little gesture of incomprehension. "I 
  don't understand, ma'am. What's so special about this one?"

  "None of your business," Juliet said curtly. "It's a personal 
  matter."

  The smile had rotted away and disappeared entirely. "Yes, ma'am, 
  I see. I'll have to talk with the manager first."

  The manager was duly summoned. "Look, lady, we'd have to pack 
  this refrigerator up and set up a new display model. It'd be 
  easier for both of us if you'd just take another fridge."

  "Can't you understand?" Juliet demanded. "I have to show him he 
  can't just run out on me like that. I haven't even had a chance 
  to find the others yet. Time's slipping by."

  "I'm sorry. I can't do it. It's just not worth the trouble." The 
  manager spread his hands in resignation.

  "I see. You're on his side." Juliet drew herself up to her full 
  height. "You don't think I deserve it either. Well, I'll be 
  back, and I'll show you!" As she spoke the last words, she 
  suddenly realized that she was shouting, and moreover that 
  almost everybody on the floor was staring at her. She jerked on 
  her handbag strap, gave the refrigerator a vicious little kick, 
  turned, and marched towards the escalator, cheeks flaming but 
  shoulders remaining straight. She thought she heard the 
  refrigerator snicker behind her.


  Jean-Louis' was a restaurant that prided itself on its quality. 
  Everyone from Robert, the maitre chef d'cuisine, to the lowliest 
  waiter, knew their jobs and did them well. When Juliet presented 
  herself at the back door and requested -- well, demanded would 
  be a better word -- to be taught to cook, she was nearly turned 
  away. The off-duty pastry chef she spoke to finally brought her 
  in more for the fun of seeing Robert blow up at her as anything 
  else.

  He wasn't disappointed. "This is not a school," Robert growled. 
  "Go to one of the universities, or watch the shows on 
  television."

  "I told her that," the pastry chef put in.

  "But I want to learn in person," Juliet said. "I've watched the 
  shows, I've read the books, I've worked my hardest, and, well, 
  my appliances say I don't deserve them."

  "So? In America, few people do," Robert said.

  "I'll do anything," Juliet said. "Just teach me. Let me see what 
  real cooking is."

  Before you could say, "That was a mistake", Juliet's coat was 
  off, her handbag was on the floor, her sleeves were rolled up, 
  and her hands were filled with dirty dishes. Over the course of 
  the next two hours, she became very familiar with one aspect of 
  food: its remains. The cold sliminess of used salad dressing, 
  the bits and tufts of meat that weren't worth the effort needed 
  to extract them from the bone, the little garnishes no one ever 
  ate (Jean-Louis' did not recycle them, and shame on you for 
  thinking that), lobster shells, dregs of every beverage 
  conceivable, hard greasy gobbets of old sauce. She also became 
  intimately familiar with heat and dampness, china and 
  silverware, and what happened when you dropped a wine glass on a 
  linoleum floor (it wasn't pretty, and neither was the head 
  busboy when he saw it.) She developed a deep and abiding hatred 
  of the slob customers who inflicted this never-ending tide of 
  filth on her, and when her two hours were up she was too tired 
  to even think of finding Robert. Instead, she dragged herself 
  outside, the air feeling positively Antarctic after the tumid 
  heat of the kitchen, and rode back to the townhouse.

  Needless to say, Cedric was not pleased. "Really, love," he 
  declared, "I can't see why you would do something like that."

  Juliet was too tired to argue, only making a limp gesture in 
  reply, but he pressed on. "What's the point? That's what I must 
  know. Certainly they have no shortage of people to do that kind 
  of work for them, do they, dear?"

  "I have to do it if I want to learn," Juliet said.

  "You're not thinking of going back, are you?"

  "Yes, I am."

  Cedric threw up his hands. "I could forbid you, but I hope 
  you'll see how foolish you're being for yourself."

  "Whatever. Good night, Cedric." Juliet picked herself up and 
  headed for bed.


  Two.
------

  She was back at Jean-Louis' the next day, to the surprise of 
  most and the disgust of the pastry chef, who had a sizable bet 
  with the head busboy that she wouldn't return. She tried to 
  speak with Robert, but he brushed her aside, snapping orders as 
  the kitchen girded itself to face another day of customers. 
  Silently, she took up her place in the corner of the kitchen 
  where the dishwasher was stored and waited.

  It was very much like the previous day had been. The food may 
  have been slightly different, but garbage was garbage. Juliet 
  stacked, soaped, rinsed, worked the dishwasher, until finally 
  the head busboy wandered by and told her to take a break.

  She tried to stay out of the way and watched Robert as he moved 
  around the kitchen, trying to understand him. He did very little 
  of the actual cooking, but nevertheless every dish that passed 
  through the kitchen went through his hands, in one way or 
  another. He turned up his nose at a souffle, straightened a 
  garnish, screamed at a vegetable peeler, poked at a slab of 
  uncooked meat, peered into a steaming vat in which a chicken 
  simmered. Juliet yearned to go to him, ask him why the souffle 
  was bad, what his opinion of the chicken was, but was already 
  well-versed enough in the ways of the kitchen to know what the 
  result would be. When her break was over, she returned to the 
  dishes, feeling extremely unenlightened.

  Since Robert was inaccessible, Juliet turned to the other 
  kitchen workers, the trainee chefs and specialists. They were 
  surprised, then flattered, by her attention, and gladly showed 
  her what they did. And that, for a few days, was satisfying. She 
  felt at last as if she was learning something, taking the first 
  steps towards being worthy of her appliances. But gradually she 
  became aware that something was bothering her.

  "Why so much garnish?" she asked a trainee chef who was putting 
  the final touches on a serving of pate of wild game.

  "Because without it, it'd just look like a couple slices of 
  meatloaf."

  "Yes, but you're practically putting a forest around it. Why not 
  just take one big fluffy lettuce leaf and put the slices on it?"

  The trainee chef glanced at the plate. "I dunno. This is how 
  Robert wants it."

  "Can I taste the soup?" she asked another, who grudgingly 
  scooped out a spoonful. She drank the hot liquid carefully, 
  frowning. "How much salt is in there?"

  "Do you think it's too salty?"

  "Yes."

  The trainee looked uncertainly at the pot. "I'll ask Robert what 
  he thinks."

  "What are you doing?" she asked the head saucier as he 
  disconsolately poured a bowl of brown sauce down the sink. He 
  grimaced.

  "Stupid of me. I put in too much butter and flour. It's too 
  thick."

  Juliet dipped a finger into the stream, tasted. "It seems all 
  right. Can't you add more water or something?"

  "It's not worth the effort -- and Robert wouldn't accept it."

  "That's right," Robert said. Juliet and the saucier started, the 
  last of the brown sauce splashing onto the counter. "And you," 
  he said to Juliet, "what are you asking those questions for?"

  "I'm here to learn."

  "Then why are you telling my chefs how to cook?" Robert all but 
  roared.

  "They're only my opinions."

  "There is no such thing as 'just an opinion' where food is 
  concerned." Robert was grimly serious. "Next you'll be giving 
  orders. You're more trouble than you're worth. Get out."

  The sheer injustice left Juliet all but breathless. "But..." she 
  said weakly. Robert, fists on hips, seemed to be readying 
  himself to destroy any protest she could make. "But you said 
  you'd let me learn from you."

  "And I would have-- if you'd shown any willingness to learn. I'm 
  not a cooking teacher. I don't have time for your ideas."

  "And quite right he was," Cedric said later. "May I assume, 
  dear, that you're giving up this foolish..." he waved a hand 
  aimlessly in the air "... jaunt?"

  "I picked the wrong place, that's all," Juliet said defensively.

  Cedric chuckled. "To be sure. To be sure. But you haven't 
  answered my question, love. What do you have there?"

  Juliet shifted the newspaper away too late. Cedric frowned 
  slowly. "Reading the want ads, dear? I hope you're not going to 
  do anything rash. Aren't you being the tiniest bit obsessive 
  about this?"

  "Drop dead, Cedric." Juliet couldn't quite believe she'd said 
  that, and from the expression on Cedric's face he couldn't 
  either.

  "What're the books for?" The manager of New America jerked his 
  chin at the books tucked under Juliet's arms, Craig Claiborne on 
  the left, James Beard on the right.

  "Oh, just in case," Juliet said, trying to sound nonchalant as 
  possible.

  The manager looked her over. "Won't hurt to give you a try." His 
  voice was pure Brooklyn, not surprising considering that the 
  restaurant was in Brooklyn Heights. "Get back there and make 
  yourself useful."

  Compared to Jean-Louis', the kitchen of New America was less 
  everything -- less crowded, less busy, less state-of-the-art, 
  less clean. The cylindrical dishwasher was the same, though, and 
  Juliet thought that it mumbled a greeting to her around a 
  mouthful of porcelain as she passed. She couldn't be sure, 
  though.

  The head cook introduced himself as David and made the expected 
  joke about Romeo upon hearing her name. "Hang up your coat, and 
  -- " he peered around the kitchen -- "get together some clam 
  sauce to start with. Can you handle that?" Juliet nodded. "Good. 
  Give it to Perry when you're finished."

  When David had turned his back, Juliet set down her books, 
  quick- flipping the Beard's index. Clam sauce, page 44. Here it 
  was. She scuttled around the kitchen, collecting ingredients. 
  "1/3 cup olive oil." No problem. "3 garlic cloves, peeled and 
  finely chopped." Within minutes, she had reduced the cloves to a 
  heap of smelly, infinitesmal bits. "2 7-ounce cans minced 
  clams." Easily found. "1/2 cup chopped parsley, preferably 
  Italian." The cook she asked silently handed her a small 
  canister of powdered parsley. She weighed it in her hand 
  uncertainly, then gave it back, continuing her search of the 
  kitchen until she had found fresh parsley. She wondered if it 
  was Italian, but decided it would be better not to ask.

  There; what next? Saute the garlic with part of the oil. That 
  was easy, but she turned to the "Sauteing" section of the 
  Claiborne to make sure, darting nervous eyes from the book to 
  the simmering mixture, alert for the slightest change in the 
  oil's color as she shook the pan gently.

  There -- it was turning yellow. Dump in the rest of the oil 
  quickly, add the liquid from the clams, then the parsley. Then, 
  finally, when the mixture was boiling, add the clams themselves, 
  let it heat up. A minute later, she was bearing the hissing pot 
  of sauce to the man who had been pointed out as Perry.

  Perry dipped a spoon into the sauce, blew on it, and tasted. 
  "All right. Do it quicker next time. Keep an eye on these chops 
  for me -- they're almost done." Juliet waited until his back was 
  turned before dashing cross-kitchen, nearly upsetting a 
  dish-laden busboy, scooping up her two saviors -- Craig and 
  James -- from the counter and bearing them back to the stove. 
  What kind of chops were they -- pork or lamb? They looked 
  porkish. One of them was surrounded by an ugly ring of bubbling 
  brown grease. Was it supposed to be that way?

  Quick, the index: "Pork chops, 409; braised, with sauerkraut, 
  162- 3; browned, and lentil casserole, 295; Nicoise, 196; 
  sauteed, 174." Hopelessly, Juliet turned to page 162, then 
  noticed that the grease- ringed chop had begun to smoke. 
  Dropping the book, she seized the nearest implement -- a 
  long-handled fork -- and impaled the chop, lifting it free.

  "You left it on too long," Perry said from behind her. Juliet 
  was startled; the fork jerked in her hand, and the chop slid off 
  the tines to land with a wet slap on the skillet. Spatters of 
  grease went flying, one alighting on the back of her hand. Perry 
  reached past her, switching off the stove.

  "You were just supposed to let them brown," he continued. 
  Juliet, dismayed, back of her hand pressed to her mouth, said 
  nothing. "Don't worry about it," he said in an 
  I'm-trying-to-be-reassuring voice.

  Juliet slunk away, eventually finding work putting dabs of 
  whipped cream on top of bowls of strawberries and cream. She 
  decided not to consult the books about that, but she made sure 
  that she knew to the last gram how large a dollop she was 
  supposed to use. Juliet had a new religion, and its name was 
  precision.

  She persevered. She bounced around the kitchen like a pinball, 
  never settling at any place or any job for long. She ignored 
  Cedric's poorly-concealed distaste when she returned home in the 
  evenings, tired and smelling of a thousand different dishes. The 
  Claiborne and Beard grew well-thumbed and acquired a panoply of 
  miscellaneous stains.

  And then one day, when she came in, David drew her aside. "I'd 
  like to talk with you," he said.

  Juliet's heart froze; his demeanor was sober and restrained. 
  Bad- news time.

  "It's about your books." He paused. "Personally, I don't mind, 
  but some of our cooks have said that they're not sure they can 
  trust you. It's the way you seem to have to look everything up, 
  you see."

  "I just want to make sure," Juliet said, anguished.

  "Yes, I understand that. But this is a business-- we can't hold 
  things up every time you need to make sure. You've been here 
  long enough. I think you can handle yourself. Now," David said, 
  "starting tomorrow, please don't bring those books."

  And there it was. A direct, no-getting-around-it order. Juliet 
  retreated to the kitchen, but found no solace there. Everyone 
  seemed to have become an enemy: who had complained to David? She 
  found herself watching the other cooks out of the corners of her 
  eyes, trying to judge them and winding up with nothing but a 
  futile parade of wild suspicions. When she got home that night, 
  she was in even more of a frazzle than usual, and slept poorly.

  In the morning, it required an almost physical effort to leave 
  the books behind. It didn't help that Cedric, glancing up from 
  his Journal, said almost cheerily, "You forgot your books, 
  honey" -- could he be in on it? She had to rush out, pretending 
  that she hadn't heard him.

  When she got to New America, David greeted her politely, making 
  no reference to the books. However, this small act of mercy 
  failed to lift Juliet's spirits. She went into the kitchen, 
  avoiding gazes, and proceeded to make mistakes.

  Not just any mistakes, too. She got even the most basic things 
  wrong. She beat a bowl of egg whites so long that they lost 
  their necessary buoyancy and turned into a thick grayish sludge. 
  She burned butter while trying to clarify it, the brown stink 
  rising from the pan like an accusation. She forgot to add salt 
  to a pot of boiling pasta, and it came out tasting like glue. 
  She had, she realized, learned something from the books -- but 
  not cooking. She had only learned recipes.

  After every mistake, Juliet had to pretend that she didn't hear 
  the chorus of mutters that broke out behind her. She was getting 
  a lot of practice doing that. Any minute now, David would come 
  to her, tell her that she was fired.

  He did come to her, when she was eating lunch (prepared by 
  someone who could cook better than she could) glumly in a corner 
  of the kitchen. "I hear you're having a rough day," he said.

  Juliet nodded.

  "Just relax," David offered. "Stick to the easy stuff."

  Juliet smiled gratefully. What she had been doing was the easy 
  stuff, but sympathy, however unhelpful, was always welcome. When 
  she finished eating, she rose with an effort of will and, going 
  forth into the kitchen, continued her slow-motion disaster.

  When she got home that night, she would have made a beeline for 
  the bedroom (and the books), but Cedric intercepted her. "My 
  gosh, honey, you look beat," he commented in a friendly manner. 
  "Hard day at work?"

  Juliet, not wanting to give anything away, bit her lip and 
  nodded, trying to circle around him.

  "Well," Cedric said, moving deftly to cut her off, suddenly 
  grave, "you see, I've been thinking, dear. I've been thinking," 
  he moved again, placing himself between her and the bedroom 
  door, "that I've let this go on entirely too long. You're 
  humiliating yourself, you're embarrassing me."

  "What do you have to be embarrassed about?" Juliet asked, 
  feinting to the left. Cedric remained undeceived.

  "My wife's working in a restaurant. In Brooklyn, too. The word 
  gets around, you know, dear."

  Juliet feigned a sudden loss of interest in the bedroom, pacing 
  aimlessly away. "But I'm learning, Cedric."

  Cedric continued to block the door. "Can't you just take a 
  class, love? How can you be learning anything when you're like 
  this every night?"

  Juliet rounded on her heel, glaring at him. "Out of my way, 
  Cedric."

  He stood firm. "I'm telling you this, dear. Don't go there 
  tomorrow."

  Juliet marched up to him, jabbing a shoulder into his chest. 
  Startled, Cedric stepped aside, and Juliet, barely slowing, 
  entered the bedroom with a feeling of grim, but unfortunately 
  evanescent, triumph. She slept little that night, spending most 
  of it attempting to memorize the books. Ingredients and 
  techniques ran through her mind like sand through a sieve, and 
  when she woke in the morning, with no memory of having gone to 
  sleep, she retained none of them.

  Cedric wasn't around. A note on the dining-room table, propped 
  against the salt-and-pepper shakers, read "Remember what I 
  said." Juliet picked it up, hunted around the townhouse until 
  she found a pen, and wrote "GOODBYE CEDRIC" in slashing, spiky 
  letters along the bottom before flinging the paper back onto the 
  table. As the subway to work crossed under the East River, the 
  enormity of what she'd done suddenly caught up with her, and she 
  began to quiver, feeling suddenly very alone in the midst of the 
  sardinish mass of humanity.

  By the time she reached the doors of New America, she was 
  composed of three parts misery to two parts terror. David let 
  her by without a word. One more day like yesterday and he'd have 
  to let her go. And then... her imagination faltered at this 
  point. The best she could come up with was starting over. She 
  tried not to think about how.

  "Hey!" One of the cooks tapped her on the shoulder. "Start this 
  up for me, will you? I have something to take care of." And he 
  was gone before she could protest. Juliet was left alone with 
  two steaks. It would have to be steak, of course. Not something 
  that was, well, expendable.

  She fought back panic and looked at the steaks. Strip sirloin. 
  Covered with a fine dust of crushed peppercorns. There were a 
  soft bottle of cooking oil and a stick of butter nearby. All 
  right, Juliet told herself firmly. What does this suggest?

  Um... frying? she replied tentatively.

  Don't be silly, she snapped. You don't fry steaks. No, he must 
  mean to saute them.

  Yes, of course! She applauded her own brilliance, then suddenly 
  sobered. But for how long?

  I'll just start and hope he comes back before I totally wreck 
  them, she decided, scooping up the platter the steaks lay on, 
  taking the oil and butter in her other hand and going in search 
  of a frying pan. She found one with dismaying swiftness, and was 
  easily able to get a burner at one of the stoves. Now, she said 
  tentatively, I'll heat up the oil. She dribbled oil into the pan 
  with a sparing hand, terrified of pouring too much in. When the 
  bottom of the pan was covered with a thin film she stopped. And 
  now for the meat--

  What about the butter? she reminded herself.

  Why, I'll... She stalled. I'll... just throw some in. And she 
  suited action to thought.

  You're backsliding, she reproved herself as she twisted the 
  burner control to high heat-- the better to get this over with 
  quickly. The butter softened, liquefied, began to sizzle. 
  Suddenly panicking at the thought of burning it, Juliet yanked 
  the dial to a lower setting. She put the steaks in reluctantly, 
  as if they were corpses being lowered into a grave: obviously, 
  indisputably lost.

  When they did not immediately blacken and char, some of Juliet's 
  nerve returned. Still, she glanced around anxiously for the man 
  who had dumped this duty on her, shifting the pan back and forth 
  almost absently so the steaks didn't stick.

  Nobody seemed to take any notice of her and her dilemma. Well, 
  Juliet told herself with a touch of vanity, she was handling 
  this well so far--

  Don't you think you'd better turn them over? she asked. With a 
  tiny gasp, she grabbed a nearby fork, nearly dropping the pan, 
  and flipped the steaks. It was rote after that: wait, flip, 
  wait, flip. But after three flips panic began to slowly 
  insinuate itself into her mind again. Are they done yet? How am 
  I supposed to know? They looked nice and brown, but inside, who 
  knew? Visions of a customer biting into his steak, finding it 
  raw in the middle.

  Salvation came in the form of David, passing by. "Oh," Juliet 
  said with forced casualness, lifting the pan clear of the heat 
  and displaying it to him, "who are these for?"

  "That's the steak au poivre, isn't it?"

  "Uh, yes. I think."

  David borrowed the fork and gave the meat a few inscrutable 
  pokes. "Good. Give 'em to Leo."

  Juliet marched across the kitchen, handed the pan to Leo 
  wordlessly, and collapsed against a handy wall, sweat draining 
  down her face. Any moment now, she was certain, Leo would come 
  storming up to her demanding to know what horrors she had 
  inflicted on those fine pieces of meat.

  But he didn't. And a few minutes later, she saw them -- it was 
  hard to tell precisely that they were hers, but somehow she knew 
  -- leaving the kitchen atop plates held by a jacketed waiter. 
  Out to be eaten. By customers. Complete strangers. She suddenly 
  felt dizzy.

  "Hey!" Perry was waving at her from across the kitchen. "I need 
  some clam sauce. Can you do it?"

  For a moment, Juliet was ready to retort, Go away, can't you see 
  I'm about to faint? But she took a deep breath. Pushed herself 
  away from the wall. Set her chin.

  "Of course I can."


  "Don't look now," the refrigerator muttered to the oven, "but 
  it's her again. Why must she torture herself like this?"

  "I heard that," Juliet said cheerfully. People were staring at 
  her, the way she was festooned with shopping bags and pulling a 
  crammed- to-bursting two-wheeled aluminum cart behind her.

  "Can I do something for you, madam?" the floorwalker asked.

  "You certainly can." Juliet smiled. "Plug in that refrigerator 
  and that electric range over there. And where can I get some 
  water?"

  The man backed away as Juliet advanced. "And let's not have any 
  talk about calling the manager," she continued. "Just be a good 
  fellow and do it." The floorwalker turned and fled.

  "Juliet," the refrigerator sighed, heavy emphasis on the last 
  syllable, "what do you hope to accomplish? It's over. Can't you 
  see that?"

  "Shut up," she said politely, hefting a bag, "and open up. This 
  stuff is thawing."

  The floorwalker had decided that she must be some sort of 
  terrorist. Who knew what all those bags contained. He complied 
  with her demands with great deference, and then scampered off to 
  call security as soon as her back was turned. When the Macy's 
  troopers finally arrived, shouldering their way through the 
  growing crowd, they found her standing before the range, slowly 
  stirring a tall silver pot of soup. Juliet glanced up as they 
  came close.

  "Want some?" she asked.

  Shoppers detoured to other sections of Housewares, "borrowing" 
  silverware and plates. More public-minded spirits also brought 
  back utensils Juliet requested, and several formed a sort of 
  bucket brigade between Housewares and the bathrooms in return 
  for first crack at the food, passing water one way and steaming 
  dishes the other. The manager, finally summoned, took a look at 
  the scene, immediately foresaw an upswing in sales, and loudly 
  ordered his staff to aid and abet Juliet. Anyway, it would have 
  been hard to get security to throw her out when two of their 
  guards were helping carry water. The mingled odors spread slowly 
  but irresistibly through the world's largest department store, 
  bringing shoppers from as far away as two floors down to 
  investigate.

  And in the center of it all, Juliet cooked. Broiled lamb chops 
  and baked fish fillets. Carrots Vichy and a Western omelet. 
  Steak au poivre, spaghetti (properly salted) with clam sauce. 
  Chicken roasted and chicken broiled with teriyaki sauce. A 
  chocolate souffle and lemon meringue pie. The staff ran out 
  several times to restock the refrigerator, returning panting 
  under loads of damp paper bags. But eventually all the food was 
  cooked, served, and eaten. Juliet set down a wooden spoon, 
  flexed stiff fingers, and picked up her handbag.

  The refrigerator cleared its throat.

  "Yes?" Juliet asked.

  "Oh," it said brokenly, "I've been such a fool. Oh, Juliet, can 
  you ever forgive me-- us?"

  "Oh, sure," she said easily.

  "You're too good. You're an angel." As she began to walk towards 
  the escalator, a note of hope mixed with fear entered its voice. 
  "Are you going to be taking us home now?"

  Juliet shook her head. "I don't think so. I don't need you any 
  more." At the top of the escalator, she turned one last time to 
  look at Housewares, and she smiled a heartbreaker's smile.


  Christopher Shea (74007.1375@compuserve.com)
----------------------------------------------

  Christopher Shea was found under a rock in 1970 and adopted by 
  Japanese Illuminati. He attended college at Gallaudet University 
  where he majored in grade report forgery and game mastering with 
  a minor in torturing anyone who dared call him "Chris."


  Parisian Pursuit  by Carlo N. Samson
======================================

  Kay adjusted her red-rimmed glasses and squinted through the 
  viewfinder of the camcorder. She focused in on a patch of red 
  flowers, then panned up and to the left. The image of a young 
  woman dressed in a brightly patterned skirt and a denim jacket 
  appeared. Tawny-auburn curls streamed out from under the 
  wide-brimmed black fedora she wore on her head. Kay gave the 
  thumbs-up sign and hit the record button. Her older sister 
  Marlaina began speaking.

  "Welcome to the continuing adventures of Marlaina and Kay in 
  Europe. Mom and Dad, can you guess where we are now?" She paused 
  for a moment. "Don't know? Well, here's a clue." Kay pressed the 
  wide-angle button and the brown metal framework of the Eiffel 
  Tower came into view over Marlaina's shoulder. "Put that 
  encyclopedia away, Dad -- we're in Paris!" She flung her arms 
  wide. "Yes, Paris. The City of Lights; the City of Love; 
  the...the, uh, the capital of France!" She smiled weakly and 
  shrugged. "Anyway, we'll be staying here for a couple of days, 
  then heading south toward Monaco. But right now we're going up 
  to the top of La Tour Eiffel. See you there!"

  Kay stopped recording and lowered the camcorder. "Nicely done, 
  Lainie," she said. "Now how far up do you want to go? I heard 
  it's cheaper to just go to the first stage."

  "Come on now, sis, live a little!" Marlaina replied. "If we go 
  up at all, it may as well be to the top." She patted her purse. 
  "I think we'll be able to afford it." Kay shrugged and put the 
  camcorder back into its carrying case. They joined the line for 
  the elevators.

  Twenty minutes later they were on the observation deck at the 
  top of the Tower, admiring the magnificent view of the city 
  along with the other tourists. After taking pictures and video 
  in each direction, the girls caught the next elevator back down.

  "That was really something," Marlaina said as they walked back 
  out into the square beneath the Tower. "Let's go back up -- this 
  time taking the stairs."

  Kay looked at her incredulously. "You've got to be kidding! 
  That's- -one thousand, six hundred fifty-two steps."

  Marlaina laughed and lightly punched her sister in the arm.

  "Don't have a conniption, sis." She tousled Kay's ponytail. 
  "Anyway, what do we do next: visit the Louvre? The Arc de 
  Triomphe? Notre Dame Cathedral? We're also right next to the 
  bateaux mouche dock - - does a river cruise sound good to you?"

  "Why don't we rest for a bit, then decide," Kay replied. 
  Marlaina agreed, and the two of them headed over to the nearest 
  bench. Kay started to sit, but Marlaina stopped her. "What is 
  it?" asked Kay. Marlaina indicated the next bench over; it was 
  occupied by three disheveled-looking old men. From the way they 
  were laughing and slapping each other on the back, it was 
  obvious they had been drinking. Marlaina took hold of her sister 
  and started to lead her away, but one of the old men spotted 
  them and shuffled over. "S'il vous plait," he said, holding out 
  his cap.

  Marlaina shook her head and strode away, her sister in tow. The 
  old man stared after them for a few moments, muttered something 
  under his breath and rejoined his companions.

  Marlaina warily glanced back. Another man had gotten up and was 
  working his way down the line of tourists that stood waiting for 
  elevator tickets. "You'd think that in a city like this...."

  "We might have given him a little something," said Kay.

  "It's best not to mess with those types," Marlaina replied.

  They sat themselves down on a bench at the opposite side of the 
  square, where the crowd of people milling about obscured their 
  view of the old men. Marlaina took off her purse and set it down 
  beside her. Kay unshouldered the camcorder bag and stowed it 
  under the bench.

  "You thirsty?" asked Kay. "I saw a Contact Orange stand a little 
  way down the street. I'll get us some, if you want."

  "Sounds great." Marlaina fished a few coins out of her purse and 
  handed it to her sister.

  "Be right back," Kay called over her shoulder as she departed.

  Marlaina settled back and relaxed. She looked up at the green 
  netting that was strung between the pillars of the Tower and 
  wondered if it was meant to catch anyone unfortunate enough to 
  be blown over the railing. Turning her attention to the people 
  that filled the square, she tried to pick out the foreign 
  tourists from the Parisians. She discovered it was easier to 
  spot the Americans; many of them dressed and acted like they 
  were at Disneyland or something.

  A voice over to the left of her said, "Excuse me, is anyone 
  sitting here?" Marlaina turned her head and saw a young man 
  dressed in jeans and a khaki shirt standing there. He had an 
  expensive-looking camera slung over his shoulder.

  "Not at all -- be my guest," Marlaina said, gesturing to the 
  space beside her. He smiled gratefully and sat down. She watched 
  as he unloaded the camera and put in a new roll of film.

  "Nice camera," she said, leaning over to look at it.

  "Thanks," he replied, looking up at her. "Nice hat."

  Marlaina giggled. "Let me take a wild guess -- you're not from 
  around here, are you?"

  "No, but neither are you, I take it," he replied, grinning.

  "Is this your first time in Paris?"

  Marlaina nodded. "Just got in today."

  "Traveling by yourself?"

  "With my sister. You won't believe how long we saved up for this 
  trip! Almost two years of part-time jobs. But it's been really 
  worth it. We spent about a week in England, we're going to stay 
  another week in France, then we're going to decide whether to 
  hit Spain or Italy. She wants to see Barcelona, but I've always 
  been curious about the Leaning Tower. You ever been to Pisa?"

  He admitted he hadn't, and told her that this was his first 
  vacation since he took a job at an insurance firm a year and a 
  half ago. Marlaina told him that she had just graduated from 
  college and had decided to travel before looking for a job.

  "How about your sister?" he asked.

  "She's a sophomore at Ohio University. What state are you from?"

  He didn't answer, as he seemed to be looking past her. Marlaina 
  followed his gaze and saw two shabbily-dressed children, a boy 
  and a girl, standing before her. The boy wore an old blue jacket 
  and clutched a small bouquet of plastic-wrapped roses; the girl, 
  almost certainly his sister, had on a faded lavender dress under 
  her fake-animal-fur coat.

  Wordlessly, the boy thrust the roses at Marlaina, obviously 
  intending for her to buy one. She shook her head and turned back 
  to the young man.

  "I'll bet you must have met a lot of interesting people in 
  England," he said. Before Marlaina could reply, a pair of 
  casually- dressed young women came up to them. One of them, a 
  petite redhead, said, "There you are! We thought you'd been 
  kidnapped or something. Come on, the bus is leaving."

  "Nice meeting you," the young man said to Marlaina as he got up. 
  He waved as he left with the girls.

  "Yeah," Marlaina sighed, "a lot of interesting people." She sat 
  back and saw that the boy and girl hadn't left. "I don't want 
  any," she said. "Non."

  The boy made no move to leave. He offered the roses to her 
  again. "Look, I told you I don't want any," she said, louder 
  this time. "Allez- vous-en!"

  The girl took the hint and scurried off. Her brother followed a 
  moment later, a sad look on his face.

  A few minutes later Kay returned, carrying two styrofoam cups of 
  freshly-squeezed orange juice. "What kept you?" said Marlaina. 
  "There was a line," Kay replied, handing her a cup.

  After they had finished the drinks, they decided to take the 
  river cruise since it was closest. As they stood to leave, Kay 
  frowned and said, "Where's your purse, Lainie?"

  "Right here." Marlaina looked down at the bench and saw with a 
  shock that the purse was gone. "Oh geez, no!" She frantically 
  searched the area around the bench, with no result. "It was 
  right next to me, I swear! I never left it."

  "Gods, Lainie -- did anyone come up to you, like one of those 
  old men?"

  "No," said Marlaina. She then told her about the young man and 
  the two children. "The guy couldn't have taken it--besides, why 
  would he? It had to have been those kids." She snapped her 
  fingers. "Of course! That was the whole scam. The boy distracted 
  me with the flowers while the girl grabbed my purse. Nice and 
  simple."

  Kay threw up her hands. "How could you be so careless, Lainie! 
  There goes our passports, our hotel key, your camera, your 
  credit card, our traveler's checks--what the hell are we going 
  to do now?"

  "Hey, come on sis, don't have a conniption," Marlaina said, 
  trying to sound reassuring. "You still have the two hundred 
  dollars in your money belt, right? And there's the five hundred 
  back at the hotel. We can still get along."

  "But without our passports, it'll be a major hassle getting into 
  Spain, not to mention back home. You should have let me keep the 
  stuff in my purse."

  "You didn't bring your purse. You wanted to carry the camcorder. 
  You said, 'There's no reason for both of us to bring a purse -- 
  just put everything into yours.' "

  "In retrospect, I should have known better," Kay said, folding 
  her arms.

  "Don't get snippy with me," Marlaina said. "Let's just calm down 
  and think."

  They eventually decided to call the credit card company and get 
  a refund on the travelers checks, then contact the American 
  consulate and ask what to do about the stolen passports. Kay 
  retrieved the camcorder bag, then the sisters headed off to the 
  nearest public phones.

  "Got any coins?" Marlaina asked, picking up the receiver. Kay 
  searched her pockets and came up with a 100-franc note. "Just 
  this. I used all the coins you gave me for the juice."

  "We'll have to break it." Marlaina glanced around and spotted a 
  McDonald's across the street. "How about we get something to eat 
  first?" she suggested. Kay agreed.

  They entered the restaurant and placed their orders.

  "Everything's so expensive in Paris," Kay said as they headed 
  into the dining room and sat down at a corner table. "Almost 
  nine francs for a cheeseburger. That's--" she did a rapid mental 
  calculation " -- about two dollars American! Unbelievable."

  Marlaina had her cheeseburger halfway to her mouth. She froze 
  and let it drop to the table.

  "Shocking, isn't it?" Kay said.

  "That's them!" Marlaina exclaimed. "Those kids who stole my 
  purse - - there they are!" Kay turned and saw the boy and girl 
  coming down the stairs from the upper floor of the restaurant.

  The boy held out a single plastic-wrapped rose to the couple at 
  the nearest table.

  "Hey you kids! Come here!" Marlaina said loudly. The children 
  spun around. A look of surprise and fear crossed their faces; 
  the boy flung down the rose and bolted out the door, his sister 
  not a moment behind.

  "Blast!" Marlaina spat. She dashed out after them.

  "Wait! What about..." Kay made a sound of frustration and swept 
  the cheeseburgers into the camcorder bag. She got up and took 
  off after her sister.

  "Come back here, you little spuds!" Marlaina shouted as she 
  pursued the children down the crowded sidewalk. Several people 
  shot her annoyed looks as she shoved past them in her haste. She 
  heard Kay's voice behind her and slowed momentarily to allow her 
  to catch up.

  The children ran like frightened rabbits, Marlaina a wolf on 
  their trail. They came to a metro entrance and flew down the 
  stairs. "Ha! We've got them now!" Marlaina said.

  The sisters reached the bottom and saw the kids huddled near the 
  entrance gates, which consisted of a series of vertical metal 
  panels which could only be pushed open after inserting a metro 
  ticket into the validation machine. Marlaina slowly approached 
  the children.

  "We don't want to hurt you," she said sternly. "All we want is 
  our stuff back." They remained silent. "I don't think they 
  understand," said Kay. "Let me try."

  "No -- I've got it," Marlaina said. "Je vais appeler un agent," 
  she said to the children. At this, their eyes went wide. The boy 
  said something to his sister, who seemed to agree.

  At that moment, a man came down the stairs and walked up to an 
  entrance gate. He inserted a metro ticket into a slot on the 
  front side of the validation machine. The ticket popped out of a 
  slot at the top; the man reclaimed it and pushed open the 
  panels. Before Marlaina could react, the boy had swung around 
  and shot through the panels a split second before they closed. 
  He collided with the man on the other side, but quickly 
  recovered and ran. The girl started to imitate her brother's 
  maneuver as another person came down and went through the gates. 
  Marlaina lunged and managed to grab the back of the girl's coat; 
  the child violently jerked forward and a fistful of fur tore 
  loose, allowing her to slip free.

  "Why did you have to threaten them with the police?" Kay said. 
  "They looked like they were going to give up."

  "Well they're getting away now!" Marlaina snapped. She grabbed 
  her sister by the shoulders. "Where are the rest of the train 
  tickets!"

  Kay reached into her shirt pocket and pulled out a bunch of 
  small yellow slips. Marlaina snatched one and jammed it into the 
  slot of the nearest validation machine.

  A moment later, she burst out onto the train platform. Kay 
  emerged a few seconds later. Even though the train hadn't yet 
  arrived, the people on the platform were standing around 
  expectantly. Marlaina quickly scanned the crowd and saw the 
  children at the far end of the platform. She started towards 
  them just as the train roared into the tunnel.

  "Stop those kids!" Marlaina shouted, but her words were drowned 
  out by the sound of the train as it slowly ground to a halt. The 
  doors opened, and the two children leaped inside.

  "Wait up!" called Kay. Marlaina spun around and took hold of her 
  sister. "They're in this car. Come on!" She pushed Kay ahead of 
  her into the train.

  A warning tone sounded, and seconds later the doors closed. The 
  train lurched forward and gathered speed. Marlaina looked around 
  and spotted the children near the doors at the opposite end of 
  the car. "End of the line," she murmured. Once again she started 
  towards them. The children eyed her fearfully. The boy then 
  turned to a large business- suited woman next to him and spoke 
  to her. Something he said made the woman glance over at 
  Marlaina.

  "I think you should back off for now," said Kay. "You'd only 
  make a scene."

  "You're right," Marlaina said. "They'd scream bloody murder and 
  get the fat lady to sit on us. Just wait 'till they get off."

  The train rumbled on through the tunnel. Marlaina watched the 
  children with hawklike intensity. She nearly had them, and 
  didn't intend to let them escape.

  "How old do you think they are?" Kay asked, clutching a 
  stanchion wearily.

  "What?" Marlaina said, not looking at her.

  "Those kids. They can't be more than seven or eight." Kay rubbed 
  her chin thoughtfully. "It's so sad that they have to make a 
  living on the street. They ought to be in school, having fun."

  "Yeah. Stealing from tourists is a lot of fun."

  "They wouldn't if they didn't have to," Kay replied. The kids 
  had now taken seats next to the large woman. The boy chatted 
  amiably with her, while his sister kept an eye trained on 
  Marlaina.

  "Maybe you should have bought a flower from him," said Kay.

  "I told you. It was just a diversion."

  "I just think that maybe if you had..." At this Marlaina 
  frowned. "Like, I'm not responsible for the economic condition 
  of this country," she said. Kay looked away and shrugged, 
  leaving the thought unfinished.

  For nearly half an hour the train rumbled on, and still the kids 
  made no attempt to leave. Marlaina glanced up at the metro 
  system map and saw that they were a little over half way to the 
  end of the line. The large woman had left, and two 
  leather-jacketed youths in ripped jeans had taken the seats next 
  to the kids. Eventually, Marlaina's patience broke. She made her 
  way over to where the kids sat.

  "Excusez-moi," she said to the youth in the aisle seat nearest 
  her. "I have to speak to the children -- les enfants, s'il vous 
  plait." The youth looked up at her. He was blonde and a tiny 
  gold cross dangled from his ear. The boy quickly whispered 
  something to him. The blonde youth smiled and said something to 
  his companion across from him. They laughed. He looked up at 
  Marlaina again and put his hand on her arm. "Bonjour, ma petit," 
  he grinned.

  Marlaina withdrew her arm and went back to join her sister.

  "The City of Love, eh Lainie?" Kay said, smiling.

  "Shut up, sis," said Marlaina.

  Station signs flashed by the window: St. Jacques; Glaciere; 
  Corvisart. Finally, at Place d'Italie, the children made their 
  move.

  As the train screeched to a stop, the children scrambled over 
  the laps of the leather-jackets and dashed for the doors.

  Marlaina's heart leaped. "After them!" she said, pushing Kay 
  down the aisle. "Make sure they don't double back on us."

  The doors whooshed open, and Marlaina sprang to the platform. 
  She shoved her way through the crowd, and caught a fleeting 
  glimpse of the children as they darted into a side corridor 
  marked CORRESPONDANCE. "I'm over here, Kay! Come on!" she yelled 
  over her shoulder as she began the chase anew.

  The corridor led out onto another platform, somewhat less 
  crowded than the one they had just left. A train was pulling up 
  as Marlaina and Kay rounded the corner. The kids were once again 
  heading to the car at the far end of the tunnel. Marlaina yelled 
  for them to stop, and in her haste collided with a man bearing 
  an armful of packages. Marlaina quickly apologized as she 
  scooped up a few boxes and tossed them at the man. Kay bent down 
  to collect the others, but Marlaina yanked her up and pulled her 
  along.

  The warning tone sounded. "Mairie d'Ivry," came a voice over the 
  loudspeaker. Marlaina saw the kids hop aboard the train. Her 
  first impulse was to board that same car, but the warning had 
  already sounded and there wasn't enough time. She had no choice 
  but to get aboard the car behind them.

  Kay spun around to prevent the doors from closing on the 
  camcorder bag. "Aren't you getting tired of this?" she panted.

  "I'm not going to let those little spuds get away with our 
  stuff," Marlaina said determinedly.

  "But they're in the car ahead of us," Kay said. "They'll have a 
  head start when they get off."

  "So hit the ground running," Marlaina replied.

  At the next stop, the two sisters were the first ones off the 
  train. They dashed along the platform to the car ahead of them, 
  dodging the exiting passengers. Inexplicably, the children were 
  not among them. A coldness formed in the pit of Marlaina's 
  stomach at the thought that the kids might have eluded her, but 
  she saw them sitting in the middle of the car, chatting with an 
  elderly gentleman.

  An idea struck her. She instructed Kay to board the car through 
  the doors near the rear end, while she herself entered through 
  the doors near the front. As the train staggered into motion 
  Marlaina allowed herself to smile. The children were trapped 
  between herself and her sister; there was no escaping this time.

  The girl suddenly ceased speaking and tugged at her brother's 
  sleeve. She whispered a few urgent words and pointed to either 
  end of the car. The boy's eyes went wide, but he continued 
  talking as if nothing was wrong.

  At Maison Blanche, the young man whom Marlaina met at the Eiffel 
  Tower boarded the train. He was accompanied by the two girls who 
  had called him away.

  "Hey, it's the girl with hat! Small world, isn't it?" he said 
  when he saw Marlaina. "I didn't catch your name back there."

  Marlaina frowned slightly. He and the girls were blocking her 
  view of the children; she told him her name anyway. He 
  introduced himself as Ryan, and his two companions as Heather 
  and Val. Marlaina nodded to them and tried discreetly to shift 
  her position to get a better view of the kids.

  "Guess what happened," Ryan said. "Heather's dad forgot the 
  spare battery for his video camera!" He explained that they had 
  an hour and a half for lunch before the next part of the tour, 
  and that it would be just enough time for them to return to the 
  hotel to get it and get back to the meeting place on time.

  Marlaina nodded, only half-listening.

  "Is your hotel out this way?" Ryan asked. Marlaina shook her 
  head. "You're a bit far from all the sights then," he continued. 
  "This is the 13th arrondissement -- no man's land, if you 
  believe the guidebook. For some reason the tour operators booked 
  our hotel in this district -- the rates must be lower here or 
  something."

  "I take it you're all on the same tour?" Marlaina said, craning 
  her neck slightly.

  "It's the wildest thing," said Heather, the petite redhead. "All 
  throughout Brussels we didn't notice each other, even though we 
  were at the same hotel. Then yesterday, our first day here in 
  Paris, we were on the bus tour and we stopped for pictures at" 
  -- she looked at Ryan -- "what was that place with the fountains 
  and the obelisk thing?"

  "The Place de la Concorde," he supplied.

  "That's it," Heather said. "Anyway, I had gotten away from my 
  parents for a moment, and Val had gotten away from her dad, and 
  we kind of bumped into each other as we were taking pictures of 
  the statues..." She continued on to tell how Ryan then came up 
  to them and asked if it was their first day in Paris. From that 
  point on they'd decided to see the sights together.

  "Have you been to the Louvre yet?" asked Val in an Australian- 
  accented voice. "We saw the actual Mona Lisa. It was major 
  brilliant!"

  "Notre Dame was totally awesome," added Heather. "I mean, it's 
  absolutely humungous! You've got to see it."

  "What wing of the Louvre was the Mona Lisa in?" asked Marlaina. 
  Val looked uncertain. "Somewhere past the statue of the headless 
  winged woman, I think," she said.

  "Exactly how big was the cathedral?" Marlaina asked Heather. 
  "That is, how many people could it accomodate?"

  Heather's brow furrowed in thought. "The guide told us, but I 
  can't remember. A lot, though."

  The train suddenly lurched into a hard left turn, throwing 
  everyone to the right. "Almost to the next stop," Ryan said.

  Marlaina stood on tiptoe and signalled to Kay as the train began 
  slowing down.

  "Say, why don't you have a drink with us tonight, after the 
  tour's over?" said Ryan. "There's this brasserie on Montparnasse 
  that we've heard is nice."

  "Uh, yeah. Right," said Marlaina. "Could you excuse me?"

  At that moment the train came to a stop. The children leaped up 
  and dashed straight for Marlaina's end of the car.

  "Was that a yes?" asked Ryan. The doors opened and the children 
  bolted out. Marlaina shoved him aside and raced after them.

  "I think that's a no, mate," Val said as the doors closed again.

  Marlaina and Kay pursued the children through the exit gates and 
  up the steps into the afternoon sunlight. They were now on a 
  busy street at the outskirts of the city. The buildings here 
  were mainly residential and of the same general appearance. Kay 
  grimaced and looked away as she brushed past an advertising 
  stand papered over with sex-magazine covers.

  They crossed the Peripherique overpass and came to an 
  intersection. At this point the girl continued straight on ahead 
  while the boy detoured right. "Get the girl!" Marlaina called to 
  Kay. "Meet you back here later." They split up.

  The sidewalks seemed almost deserted. Cars whizzed by on the 
  road. Marlaina was several seconds behind the boy. "Arretez!" 
  she shouted. To her surprise, the boy came to a stop. He paused 
  on the edge of the curb. Marlaina thought he was at last giving 
  himself up, but to her horror he darted out into the street.

  Marlaina stopped in her tracks. "You crazy-ass kid! Get back 
  here!" she screamed. The boy threaded his way through the stream 
  of oncoming cars and miraculously made it to a traffic island. 
  Marlaina breathed a sigh of relief. "Stay right there!" she 
  ordered him. She waited impatiently for a break in the traffic 
  and when it came, hurried across. The boy saw her coming and 
  took off.

  Marlaina made it to the traffic island. A car passed, then the 
  street was momentarily empty. She was almost halfway across when 
  her foot came down into a pothole. She lost her balance and 
  slammed forward into the asphalt. "Ow!" she yelped.

  As she pushed herself to her knees she heard the approaching 
  growl of an engine. Looking up, she saw a taxi rocketing 
  straight for her! Fear shot through her body; she quickly sprang 
  to her feet and scrambled out of the way. The taxi sped on past, 
  its horn blaring.

  Marlaina yelled a curse at the back of the departing vehicle. 
  She picked up her fallen hat and hurried to the other side of 
  the street. As she placed the fedora back on her head she saw 
  the boy standing motionless only a few feet away.

  Marlaina froze, wondering why the boy hadn't taken the 
  opportunity to flee. He simply stared at her, his large brown 
  eyes unblinking. Marlaina slowly lowered her arms to her sides, 
  knowing that any sudden movement could frighten him off.

  "I'm not going to harm you," she said in a soft voice. The boy 
  just stared at her, uncomprehending. Marlaina wished she could 
  speak the language; even though she had nearly memorized the 
  French phrasebook she'd bought before the trip, there was 
  nothing in it that was applicable to this situation.

  "Comment vous appelez-vous?" she tried. No response. Okay, so he 
  didn't want to tell her his name. "Venez ici, s'il vous plait. I 
  just want my stuff back." She slowly reached out her hand. The 
  boy looked at it for a long time. Finally, he took a tentative 
  step forward. Then another. He put his hand to his jacket 
  pocket.

  At that moment, the undulating wail of a police siren shattered 
  the momentary peace. The boy's head jerked at the sound and he 
  jumped back as if bitten. "Wait!" Marlaina cried, lunging 
  forward to grasp him. The boy spun away and sped off down a side 
  street.

  The wail reached a crescendo as the police car roared by. 
  Marlaina sprinted after the child. She wished she hadn't tried 
  to grab him.

  The boy made it to the end of the street and cut left. Marlaina 
  rounded the corner a few seconds later, but it was too late. The 
  intersection was empty -- the boy was gone.

  Marlaina sighed and slumped against the wall. She pushed herself 
  away and started walking back the way she had come. For the 
  first time she took notice of her surroundings. Cars were parked 
  on either side of the narrow street, leaving barely enough space 
  for a single car to pass down the middle. The apartment 
  buildings looked old. Marlaina spotted a small brown pile on the 
  pavement and looked away. What had Ryan's guidebook called this 
  part of the city? No man's land. Aptly put.

  Someone called her name. She looked up and saw Kay hurrying 
  toward her. "Don't tell me you lost him, Lainie," she said.

  Marlaina shrugged. "And I suppose the girl gave you the slip, 
  too," she said.

  "Au contraire, ma soeur," said Kay. "I found out where they 
  live. Come on."

  They walked out onto the main street. Kay said, "When we were at 
  the top of the Eiffel Tower, I noticed that most of the 
  buildings on each block didn't take up the entire space -- they 
  were built around the edges, leaving a sort of courtyard in the 
  center."

  "That's nice," said Marlaina. "Get to the point."

  "I am," Kay said. "Anyway, I was chasing the girl down the 
  street when she suddenly turned off into an archway that led 
  into this block's courtyard. I followed the girl in, but she was 
  gone.

  So I looked behind me and saw that this side of the block was 
  all apartments. I went back and found the door to the apartments 
  -- I didn't notice that I'd run past it."

  "So did you go in?"

  "Well...no. I didn't want to go knocking around blindly. But get 
  this: right across from the apartments is a hotel. I went around 
  to it and got on one of the upper floors. From the hallway 
  windows you can get a perfect view of those same apartments."

  "Uh-huh. So?"

  "You'll see when we get there."

  A few minutes later they were in the lobby of the hotel; they 
  took the elevator to the fourth floor. Kay led Marlaina down the 
  hallway to the window at the end. Marlaina turned the handle and 
  pushed it open.

  She looked out over the courtyard and saw the apartments Kay 
  described. They had a dark and run-down appearance. Directly 
  below her, a man rummaged through a garbage dumpster. Off to the 
  right was a ruined shack.

  No man's land, she thought.

  "I was thinking that I might see the girl in one of the 
  windows," Kay said. "And my hypothesis was correct. I saw her in 
  that window there -- second floor, third one from the right."

  Marlaina looked to the one she indicated. The lights were on in 
  the room, and there were no curtains. As they stood there 
  watching, a woman dressed in a maid's uniform came into view. 
  She held out her arms, and the boy Marlaina had been chasing ran 
  to her. The woman knelt and embraced him.

  "That's where they live, all right," Marlaina said, turning from 
  the window. "Good thinking, Kay."

  "You're not going to go over there, are you?" Kay asked. "I 
  mean, what are you going to say -- 'excuse me, but your kids are 
  thieves?' "

  "We came all this way," said Marlaina. "You yourself said how 
  important it was to get our passports back. That's what I'm 
  going to do." She started off down the hall.

  "Lainie," Kay called softly. Marlaina turned. "Take it easy on 
  them. They're just kids."

  "Wait for me here," Marlaina said.


Thanks for stopping by. But next time, don't bring the life-sized Abe 
Vigoda butter sculpture.

  The courtyard was silent as Marlaina made her way through the 
  archway. Her bootsteps echoed across the rough cobblestone. She 
  saw her sister waving from the hotel window; after a moment it 
  came to her that Kay was pointing out the door to the 
  apartments. After a few moments of exploration Marlaina found it 
  and made her way up a dimly lit flight of stairs. Strange odors 
  wafted down; the stairs creaked with nearly every step she took.

  She reached the second floor and went to the third door from the 
  far end of the hallway. She raised her hand to knock, but then 
  lowered it. What was she going to say, anyway? More importantly, 
  would she be able to say it? Her phrasebook French probably 
  wouldn't be sufficient.

  The impulse to just leave and forget the whole thing suddenly 
  gripped her. She fought it down. If you go at all, it may as 
  well be all the way, she thought. Steeling herself, she knocked 
  on the door.

  A dark-haired man in his early thirties answered. "Bonjour, 
  monsieur," Marlaina said quickly. "I, uh--"

  "What can I help you with, miss?" he said in accented English.

  "Oh -- uh, sorry to disturb you, sir," said Marlaina, relieved 
  that he spoke her language. "I have to tell you something -- 
  about your kids."

  The man nodded slowly. "Come in, mademoiselle," he said, holding 
  the door open for her.

  Marlaina entered the apartment. It was sparsely furnished: a 
  couch here, a couple of chairs there, a televison flickering in 
  the corner. The wallpaper was faded and coming off in places.

  She turned to the man and introduced herself. He told her his 
  name was Lucien. At that moment the woman in the maid's outfit 
  entered the room. Upon seeing Marlaina, she put her hand to her 
  mouth and ducked back into the room she had come from. "My 
  sister Jeanne," said Lucien.

  Marlaina gave a little cough. "I don't know how to tell you 
  this," she began, "but --"

  Lucien held up a hand. "I know why are you are here." He turned 
  and called out, "Jean-Michel! Isabella!"

  There was the soft sound of a woman's voice. A few long minutes 
  later, the two children crept into the room. They stood along 
  the wall farthest from Marlaina.

  Lucien motioned for her to sit on the couch. He sat next to her. 
  "My sister's children did not mean to steal from you," he said. 
  "They are not thieves." Turning his attention to the children he 
  said, "Explain to her."

  By turns, Jean-Michel and Isabella spoke in French. Lucien 
  translated.

  "They say they are sorry. Jean-Michel only wanted to sell you a 
  flower. Isabella says you spoke rudely to them when you did not 
  want to buy the flower. That made her angry, and so she stole 
  your purse. They were sorry afterwards, but too afraid to go 
  back and return it. They decided to first sell the rest of the 
  flowers, then come home and ask my advice. When they saw you in 
  the restaurant you looked very angry, so they ran. They were 
  going to return your purse to you in the metro, but you had said 
  you were going to call the police."

  Marlaina winced.

  Lucien continued. "Jean-Michel says that when you were almost 
  run over in the street, he felt very bad. He was about to give 
  your purse back but then he heard the police siren and again 
  became afraid. Isabella says that they never stole anything 
  before, and that they will give you all the money they have if 
  you will not call the police."

  Marlaina looked at the children huddled in the corner, and her 
  heart melted. Jean-Michel stood very still; Isabella looked as 
  if she was about to cry. Marlaina felt a wetness brimming in her 
  own eyes. She looked away and blinked.

  "I didn't realize," she said. "I'm sorry if I frightened them. I 
  just...." She shrugged and looked down. A moment later she felt 
  a small touch on her shoulder. She raised her head and saw 
  Jean-Michel and Isabella standing before her. "Je regrette," the 
  boy said. His sister echoed his words. Jean-Michel brought 
  Marlaina's purse out from behind his back; his sister took hold 
  of the strap and together they offered it to her.

  "Everything is there. Nothing has been taken," Lucien said 
  gravely.

  Marlaina accepted the purse. She looked into Isabella's eyes. 
  "Merci," she said. "Sorry about your coat, though." She gently 
  patted the girl's shoulder. A faint smile touched the child's 
  lips.

  "Merci," Marlaina said to Jean-Michel. She took hold of his 
  hand. "Ever think about becoming a track star?"

  Lucien translated this; Jean-Michel looked back at Marlaina and 
  grinned. For some reason, Marlaina felt like putting her hat on 
  the boy's head.

  "May I see you out?" Lucien said. "I have to go to work now."

  "Of course." Marlaina stood up and drew the purse strap over her 
  shoulder. She took one final look at the kids before she and 
  Lucien left the apartment.

  "I feel I must explain," said Lucien as they made their way down 
  the stairs. "After my brother-in-law died in an auto accident, 
  my sister had to move in with me. I was living by myself, and my 
  income as a tour guide was just enough. But it became 
  insufficient to support my sister and her children, so she works 
  now as a maid in the hotel. Isabella and Jean-Michel, they also 
  wanted to help. That is why they sell flowers."

  They walked out into the courtyard. "You must meet a lot of 
  interesting people, being a tour guide and all," Marlaina said.

  Lucien nodded. "Are you yourself here with a tour group?" he 
  asked.

  "Me and my sister, we're just kind of traveling independently," 
  Marlaina replied. "But we're planning to hit all the important 
  places."

  Lucien chuckled slightly. "One thing I have noticed about many 
  people, Americans especially, is that they visit the Eiffel 
  Tower, they see the Mona Lisa, then they talk as if they have 
  seen everything there is to see in Paris." He led Marlaina out 
  onto the sidewalk. "If you really want to see the city, go where 
  the crowds do not. Then you will discover the things that cannot 
  be seen from the window of a tour bus."

  Marlaina looked around at the gray buildings and dusty streets. 
  "They never mentioned this part of the city in the brochures," 
  she said.

  Lucien smiled. "Walk around a while, you may find it 
  interesting. For this, too, is Paris." He turned and strode 
  away.


  "Did you get everything straightened out?" Kay asked, meeting 
  Marlaina at the hotel entrance. Marlaina nodded and showed her 
  the purse. "Everything's here. Let's go."

  They started off down the street. "By the way," Kay said, "Who 
  were those people you were talking to on the train--that guy and 
  those girls?"

  Marlaina shrugged. "Tourists," she said.


  Carlo N. Samson (u25093@uicvm.uic.edu)
----------------------------------------

  Carlo N. Samson is 23 years old, and recently graduated from 
  college with a B.S. in Computer Information Systems. He is 
  employed by a software development company, and has been writing 
  fantasy/adventure for the Dargon Project (in both FSFNet and 
  DargonZine) for the past five years. "Parisian Pursuit" is his 
  first non-fantasy short story. Carlo plans to visit Europe again 
  next year, and will hopefully come back with inspiration for 
  more stories about Marlaina & Kay.


  The Piano Player  by Will Hyde
================================

  Jeremy Stoner was a honky-tonk piano player who had never really 
  had a significant moment in his life, until he went out in that 
  terrible storm and got hit by lightning.

  It was a Miracle.

  Jeremy Stoner was a honky-tonk piano player who got hit by 
  lightning, and survived it. But that wasn't the miracle. He woke 
  up with a dry feeling in his mouth and an electric tingling in 
  his hands --Êand the most incredible talent in a century. His 
  music grew another dimension.

  It became electrifyingly emotional, shockingly stirring. When he 
  played a sad song, everybody who could hear it would be touched 
  -- no, seized -- by a raging case of melancholia; strong men 
  grew tight of throat and wet of cheek, and the ladies wept like 
  newlyweds or new widows.

  It was awesome, but it was nothing compared to what a happy tune 
  would do. When Jeremy played an upbeat tune, every ear it 
  touched would tingle with pleasure; joyous laughter would fill 
  the air, and everybody would love, love, everybody else. 
  Everybody got high when Jeremy played a happy tune -- 
  enraptured, like the Pied Piper's mice.

  But the action didn't really get good until Jeremy played his 
  own favorite number, The Stripper.

  When Jeremy played that one, The Stripper, every woman who could 
  hear it was immediately overcome by the impulse to take off her 
  clothes, to do the dance of the seven veils and strip off every 
  stitch.

  That was the Miracle.

  And it only worked on the ladies.

  Too bad there was so little market for such a talent in 
  Goldenrod, Idaho. Life was simple in Goldenrod; working the farm 
  in the daytime, a big meal at home, a little television to end 
  the evening ... and church on Sundays. There were only nine 
  hundred souls in Goldenrod, and every one of them went to the 
  same church.

  Everybody lived the same life in Goldenrod, and everybody went 
  to church every Sunday, including Jeremy Stoner. In fact, it was 
  in church that Jeremy discovered his incredible new talent. He 
  found it in church, but he knew immediately, of course, where it 
  had come from; he knew he had been a little different ever since 
  his great electric moment in the storm.

  The parishioners though, were sure they had experienced a 
  miracle when Jeremy played a sad song and everybody cried until 
  tears ran down their cheeks. He took them to the bottoms of 
  their emotions with a sad tune, and then he took them soaring to 
  the heights with a happy one.

  Of course Jeremy didn't perform his favorite number in church. 
  He saved The Stripper for the amateur show tryouts in Pocatello. 
  He was planning to explode into Show Business, via the amateur 
  show route. This big event was held at the college in Pocatello; 
  the tryouts were on Friday afternoon and the show was on 
  Saturday night. The tryouts were shown by closed circuit 
  television to the college music class.

  If Jeremy had known what he could do, he probably would not have 
  bothered with the amateur show. When Jeremy played The Stripper 
  for his tryout, every girl in the auditorium and eleven more in 
  the music class, stripped off every stitch -- and each one did 
  so with another version of the lewd dance. It was sensational. 
  The eleven in the music class got caught by the dean of girls 
  and were suspended from classes, pending an investigation... but 
  nobody snitched on the happenings in the auditorium.

  And what's the first thing you would expect Jeremy Stoner to do, 
  after he discovered he had this incredible new talent?

  You'll never guess.

  The first thing Jeremy did was call the Sheriff.


  Actually, the Sheriff himself never came anywhere near 
  Goldenrod; but the only police force Goldenrod had was the 
  Flower County Sheriff's Department. The Flower County Sheriff 
  had a deputy on duty in Goldenrod. Just one, and she was only on 
  duty during the daylight hours.

  She. The incredible Charlene. Charlene Whatzername. Nobody 
  seemed to know her last name, she was just Charlene.

  Deputy Charlene, the Electric Bitch! That's what they called 
  her.

  Perfect.

  She was a fooler. She could pass for a small-town college girl, 
  or the farmer's innocent daughter, if she wanted to; even in 
  uniform, she didn't appear very threatening. On Sundays, when 
  she shucked the uniform for Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes -- 
  usually a simple skirt and sweater - - you would want to walk 
  along with her, protect her. That's what she looked like, but 
  she was something else. She was a dedicated student of some 
  obscure oriental philosophy. She had moves that could break 
  every bone or rupture every organ in your body. She could, and 
  she would, if you got out of line with her.

  She was not all that big, and she looked like sugar and spice, 
  but the incredible Charlene was one bad broad! The same day 
  Jeremy Stoner ended up struck by lightning, Deputy Charlene 
  finished her day by kung fu-ing the shit out of three 
  lumberjacks and a mechanic, who'd had the drunken bad taste to 
  have said: "And what's a sweet little thing like you gonna do 
  about it...?" It seems they got a little rowdy at the Golden 
  Inn, and the bartender had to call the Sheriff. Two of them went 
  directly to jail, and the other two went to intensive care.

  None of which had anything much to do with Jeremy Stoner's lust 
  for the Deputy. Jeremy had been in love with the incredible 
  Charlene for two years and thirteen days -- that's how long it 
  had been since she came to town and he saw her for the first 
  time.

  The first time Jeremy Stoner saw the deputy, he was a goner. He 
  teetered on the brink for fifteen seconds, and then he fell -- 
  Head- over-heels, ass-over-teakettle, libido-over-logic, and 
  I-don't-care-if- the-sun-don't-shine in love he fell -- 
  Hopelessly, helplessly, irretrievably in love he fell. He 
  thought about her by day, and dreamed about her at night, but he 
  kept his thoughts and dreams to himself. He didn't have the 
  balls to approach her. He was afraid. He was afraid she would 
  shoot him down, because she could have anybody, and he was just 
  a honky-tonk piano player. With no balls.

  She was indeed intimidating... but that was before. Now he had 
  the power of the piano, and it filled him with confidence.


  "I've written a sonata for you, my lovely," he told her on the 
  telephone. "It's called Sonata to a Fair Maiden," he was sure 
  she would like that. "And I want to play it for you, one time, 
  before the world hears it." He presented himself as an admirer 
  who only wanted to admire her, a simple artist who had written a 
  masterpiece, not because of his talent, but because of his 
  inspiration. He was grateful to her, for her beauty, because it 
  had moved him to magnificence; it had moved him to writing 
  Sonata to a Fair Maiden.

  His approach must have been a good one, because she went for it. 
  She said she had heard his music in church -- and had been moved 
  by it!

  She said he could pick her up at sundown, when she got off duty; 
  she said he could take her to dinner, and then she would be 
  pleased (pleased!) to listen to his masterpiece. She said she 
  loved the piano, but she warned him that he would be in big 
  trouble if he got out of line.

  Jeremy sat in his car for more than an hour, outside the 
  Sheriff's office, just waiting for the sun to go down. It seemed 
  it never would. It seemed to Jeremy that the Earth had stopped 
  its turning, just as the sun reached the tops of the mountains 
  west of Goldenrod. But of course it had not, the sun did go 
  down; and the moment it did, the incredible Charlene came out.

  He met her on the sidewalk and introduced himself, like a 
  peasant to the Queen, although it was not necessary. She had a 
  file on every one of Goldenrod's citizens, and she knew who 
  everybody was. She was as efficient as she was beautiful. And 
  beautiful she was, even in her uniform. The hat with the badge 
  did nothing to dull the golden shine of her hair, which now she 
  wore loosely tied at the back of her neck. Her eyes were a 
  startling blue, they seemed larger than life, like a child's. 
  And her body...

  God! her body took his breath away, he was breathing through his 
  mouth. Even in uniform, with the cartridge belt and gun, the 
  handcuffs riding behind, and that nasty black club they called a 
  baton, she didn't look like a cop. And anyway, she was off duty 
  now.

  "Do you want to change first?" was the only thing he could think 
  of to say to her, and that was hard because his tongue was dry.

  "No," she said. "I'm off-duty, but I am the only law in town." 
  And she didn't want to ride with him for the same reason. "I'll 
  follow you," she said.

  She looked at him as if he were nuts, when he opened the door of 
  her prowl car for her; but then she smiled at him -- and he was 
  destroyed. He had difficulty just getting into his own car, and 
  when he did the seat was too far back. He had difficulty getting 
  the key into the ignition, and when he did the car wouldn't 
  start because it was in gear. But these things work out, and he 
  was determined.

  It was barely a mile from the Sheriff's office to Flower 
  County's one truly elegant restaurant, the Golden Inn, but the 
  drive took a full three minutes. The speed limit on Goldenrod's 
  only paved street was twenty-five, and he was being followed by 
  the town's only police car. It was weird. he felt like the 
  spider leading the fly -- but this fly had a stinger!

  Dinner at the Golden Inn was weird too. Jeremy had never been 
  treated like a Superstar before, but when he walked in with the 
  Electric Bitch, he was. The Headwaiter, usually as staid and 
  stiff as an undertaker, was as fawning and eager to please as a 
  puppy -- if he'd had a tail he would have wagged it. He led them 
  to the best table in the room; in the back, by the fireplace, 
  where he would have seated the President. He snatched up the 
  Reserved sign, and then waved the approaching waiters away -- he 
  meant to serve this table himself.

  And serve them he did. He brought, with the compliments of the 
  house, a small bottle of white wine that was so good Jeremy 
  would have taken it home in a doggy bag, had the deputy not been 
  drinking... but she was, one glass. On the Headwaiter's 
  recommendation, they had the wild duck breasts and fresh 
  mountain trout.

  In all, the dinner was a huge success. the meal was delightful, 
  and the firelight sparkling in those big blue eyes was 
  intoxicating. When she smiled at the Headwaiter and then thanked 
  him for the excellent service, it did more for him than did 
  Jeremy's twenty-dollar tip (of course, a part of that may have 
  been because the Headwaiter had been on duty the night the 
  deputy cut down the three lumberjacks and overhauled the 
  mechanic).

  By the time dinner was finished, Jeremy was sure he had the 
  incredible Charlene's number. She wasn't so tough -- it was just 
  that she took herself and her job very seriously. By the time 
  dinner was over and they were chatting like old friends, a 
  stranger would have thought they were lovers, or newlyweds. And 
  Jeremy's confidence had returned.

  "Now let's go to my place," he said, when she laid down her fork 
  for the last time. "I have a piano," he added, when she raised 
  her eyebrows at the suggestion.


  Jeremy's apartment was back the way they had come; it was a mile 
  beyond the Sheriff's office, so the drive took nearly six 
  minutes. Six long minutes, but this time Jeremy felt more like 
  he was being escorted than followed by the prowl car. He felt 
  like she was with him now; he was sure he had reached her, 
  although he still had not touched her. He had been only the 
  perfect gentleman, so far.

  So far. But now came the moment of truth.

  "This is called Sonata to a Fair Maiden," he said, when he sat 
  down to his piano. She was settled on the couch with a cup of 
  coffee -- she wouldn't accept anything stronger than a cup of 
  coffee.

  "It'll sound familiar at first, but that's just to warm up the 
  fingers," he said.

  He played a few bars of a sad tune, to see if it would reach 
  her. It did. Her big eyes grew moist. He played a few bars of a 
  happy tune, to see if she would lighten up. She did. The big 
  blue eyes grew bright, and then she smiled at him.

  That did it. He couldn't hold it back any longer -- he launched 
  into The Stripper, with all the feeling he could muster.

  He didn't think it was going to work at first, but after a long 
  moment she got that distanced look in her eyes; and soon even 
  the incredible Electric Bitch began to dance to Jeremy Stoner's 
  music. She tossed the cap with the badge onto the couch, then 
  she took the little ribbon from her hair and let it fall. It 
  tumbled down over her shoulders in glorious golden waves.

  She took off the cartridge belt as if it were the first of the 
  seven veils. She held it in both hands for a turn, then dropped 
  it on the floor; it hit the floor with the heavy thud of gun and 
  baton, the handcuffs rattled. She danced around it a couple of 
  times, as if it were a sombrero and this was a Mexican Hat 
  Dance. And then, slowly, carefully, starting at the top, one 
  button at a time, she opened her shirt.

  She wore no bra.

  She dropped the shirt on the floor with the other stuff, and 
  pirouetted around the growing pile like a ballerina, her hands 
  together above her head. Her breasts were not large, but they 
  were exquisite. They jiggled just a little with her movements, 
  but the jiggle was a firm one. Her nipples were erect.

  Jeremy too, was erect, flushed with prickly heat; he was 
  sweating and his hands were moist, but he played on.

  And the incredible Electric Bitch continued to dance.

  She kicked off her shoes, both with a saucy little flip of her 
  dancing toes. First upon one foot and then on the other, she 
  went up onto her toes and into a delicate spin, a figure skater 
  now... and while she was turning, the foot that was not on the 
  floor worked the sock off the one that was.

  Could the incredible Charlene dance? Did Moses throw holy writ 
  around? She went into a swinging motion with her hips and belly 
  that would have sent Salome home, and began toying with the 
  buttons of her pants.

  And then...

  ...then the incredible Electric Bitch showed Jeremy Stoner 
  exactly how incredible she really was.

  She took off the pants.

  She wore no panties.

  "Sweet Lord," he said. And then it hit him! He was seized. He 
  was frozen. He was aflame. He was entranced, enraptured. He was 
  enthralled. Out of focus, out of control. His ears rang. His 
  eyes watered, mouth did not.

  His breathing stopped and his heartbeat paused; he quit playing 
  and dropped to his knees. He started toward her, walking on his 
  knees, unbuckling his belt. It wasn't a thought on his mind, it 
  was a vision -- and he meant to kiss it. You could have hit him 
  with a club, and he wouldn't have noticed.

  Which she did. And he didn't.

  The first time she hit him with her baton it was an off-balance 
  swing and a glancing blow, and he didn't even feel it.... But 
  the second time she hit him she rang his bell with a head shot. 
  His vision cleared and his hearing came back.

  "You Bastard!" She screamed, pulling back to give him another 
  one. "You Bastard!" She screamed again. "I'll turn your lights 
  out!" She screamed. "I'll hand you your head!" Then she fired 
  again, a long looping swing that might have taken his head off.

  It missed.

  He scrambled back to the piano. He couldn't think of anything 
  else to do. The only thing he could think of was The Stripper.


  It worked.

  The distant look came back to her big eyes, and she returned to 
  her dance. Now the baton was a baton, and she was a majorette, 
  twirling it. Now it was a broomstick horse, and she rode upon 
  it.

  Around and around the room she danced.

  And Jeremy Stoner played on...


  Will Hyde (why@kpc.com)
-------------------------

  Will Hyde is an 'Editorial Consultant' for a Los Altos, 
  California publisher of manuals and 'how to' books. Writing as 
  Justin Case, a well known (in the SF Bay Area) professional 
  gambler, he is the author of 'The Lowball Book' (a guide to the 
  popular casino/cardroom poker game) and is currently working on 
  a similar book about "Texas Hold'em," recently legaliced in 
  California. Recently out of print, an ASCII version of 'The 
  Lowball Book' is available on request (by e-mail) from Will.


  Peoplesurfing  by Jason Snell
===============================

  They were coming up Larry's street, shouting, moving closer to 
  his home with every passing second. The whole town was wearing 
  gray.

  Larry was watering the little patch of lawn in front of his 
  little ground-level apartment. When he saw the town coming, he 
  dropped the hose.

  Larry, they were screaming.

  The water from the hose trickled under his feet. He wiggled his 
  toes in the wet grass.

  Come on, Larry! they shouted.

  He ran out into the street in his bare feet. He was wearing a 
  bright yellow shirt with floral patterns on it-- one of his 
  weekend shirts. He always wore one when he watered his lawn, or 
  mowed it, or sat in his rusty lawn chair on it. In the summer, 
  he'd come out there with a portable radio and listen to Mariners 
  games in the afternoons-- American League baseball, with 
  designated hitters and astroturf-- that was how he loved to 
  spend his summer afternoons.

  Larry stood in the middle of his street, wearing his summer 
  shirt. The town came closer, all in gray. A cold wind began to 
  blow, and the wave of people overwhelmed him.

  For a moment, he was even with them, one flowery shirt in a sea 
  of gray. Buzz. Then he was smothered by them.

  I left the hose running, Larry thought.

  The gray wave continued on.

  Buzz. His buzzer was buzzing, of all things.

  Larry slapped at it, as if it were a bee, and it stopped.

  He had dreamed the dream again, the one where everyone wore gray 
  except for him. He didn't like the dream at all-- in fact, he 
  hated it. Especially the fact that he never remembered to turn 
  off the water hose.

  Larry tried to put it out of his mind. It was time to get ready 
  to work. He couldn't worry about a stupid dream. He had to sell 
  computers.

  They were gray computers, and they sat on gray tables in a gray 
  store. Almost all of the employees wore gray or black and white.

  Larry wore gray, too. The same gray as the computers, the same 
  gray as the walls. The gray of his dream.

  His first customer wore a wide plaid tie with a polyester suit. 
  His daughter wore thick black glasses, small pearl earrings, and 
  a bored look.

  "Now, listen," the man was saying. "Marsha here's gonna need a 
  computer when she goes off to college in the fall. What kind 
  should we get?"

  Great, Larry thought. He loved people who knew what they wanted.

  "Well, you could start off by using the--"

  "Daddy, I don't need a computer."

  It was the lovely and perky Marsha. Evidently she hadn't told 
  dad about her college wish list.

  "Of course you need a computer, pumpkin," he said. "You've got 
  to have a computer if you go to college!" He said it as if 
  college was a mystical place.

  "Don't call me pumpkin."

  Larry wanted to step back, flee from the father-daughter 
  confrontation that was ready to break out in the middle of the 
  store, and he was ashamed of it. None of the other guys ever did 
  things like that-- they just... well, charmed them.

  "Let me show you, uh, our finest model," Larry said, attempting 
  to sound convincing, like Jack always did. "And it's moderately 
  priced at about 2,000 dollars, too!"

  "Daddy, we could buy a used car for that much money," pumpkin 
  whined.

  Shut up, kid, Larry thought. You're killing me.

  "Why the hell would you need a car?" dear old daddy yelled. 
  "Where you're going, everyone lives at school. What you're gonna 
  need is some computerizin' power!" He said the last two words as 
  if he was referring to some sort of magical force.

  Marsha kicked and screamed for a few more minutes, but dear old 
  dad had made up his mind. Larry had a sale, an honest to god 
  whole computer system sale. No more printer ribbons and dust 
  covers for this guy, no sir-- it was the big time. Larry got to 
  write four digits (plus cents) on the carbon-papered sales slip. 
  He made sure to press extra hard, so the numbers would be sure 
  to go through.

  By the time Marsha and Plaid Dad had pulled out of the store 
  parking lot, all the other store employees were asking Larry 
  about his accomplishment.

  "Which system did they buy, Larry?" his co-worker Jack asked 
  him.

  "Oh... the BR-714," Larry said, trying to sound nonchalant about 
  selling the store's top-of-the-line system.

  "Wow! Not bad, Larry my man. What disk drives did they get?"

  Disk drives?

  Larry swallowed.

  "Disk drives?"

  "Yeah," Jack said.

  "Um -- the, uh, you know, the kind with the --" he made a 
  spinning motion with one finger. His hand was shaking.

  "The hard drive? Hey, good job!" Jack said, and slapped Larry on 
  the back. "Still, if you had just sold 'em the computer without 
  any disk drive at all, I doubt that geek girl and her old man 
  would've known the difference."

  Without any disk drive at all, their computer would be 
  completely useless.

  Gulp.

  "Something wrong, Larry?" asked Kim, another one of his 
  co-workers. They were never friends. Just co-workers. Larry 
  never seemed to find friends at work.

  "Nothing," Larry said. "Nothing at all."

  He frowned, moaned quietly to himself, and considered hiding 
  under the carpet. He decided that he'd be too noticable, and 
  made his way to the back of the store to cry.

  By lunchtime, Larry felt a little better. It wasn't as if it was 
  his first mistake, and it wasn't as if the others had never 
  goofed before.

  I didn't mean to do it was the phrase that always consoled him. 
  That, and lunch with the gang from work.

  They weren't a family, the workers at Computer Central, but they 
  ate together and tried to be civil to one another. They ate 
  together not out of any close ties but because there was only 
  one restaurant in the shopping center and all of them were too 
  lazy to drive somewhere else for lunch. The only other place for 
  food anywhere nearby was Burger King, so the gang usually spent 
  their time eating at the Stage Wheel Restaurant.

  Larry went because everyone else did. He ate a French Dip 
  sandwich, every day. It was the only thing on the menu that he 
  liked. He was a picky eater. He would eat a French Dip, and the 
  little crackers that come with the soup of the day.

  And it came to pass that, in the middle of a fascinating 
  conversation on something that Larry knew nothing about, he 
  managed to spill all of the au jus into his lap.

  The conversation stopped. They all looked at Larry.

  "You okay, Larry?" Kim asked.

  He tried to act as if it were nothing, speaking in the 
  nonchalant way that Jack always used.

  "Oh, I'm fine. Not too much of a mess. Just a little wet."

  Larry be nimble.

  "Maybe you want to clean yourself up in the bathroom?"

  It was a good idea. Larry nodded.

  "Sure. I'll be back in a second." He was completely 
  businesslike, not embarrassed in the least.

  Larry be quick.

  He stood up, and au jus that had pooled in his lap trickled down 
  his legs. Some of it fell on the floor, making a sound quite 
  similar to what a body might sound like when it hit the ground 
  after falling from a skyscraper.

  Little pieces of roast beef were stuck to the large wet area on 
  Larry's pants. The rest of the Lunch Bunch chuckled softly.

  Larry fall face-down on the candlestick, giving himself second- 
  degree burns over a good percentage of his body.

  He spent the rest of lunch hour standing in front of the hand 
  dryer in the bathroom, feeling hot air blow down his pants. It 
  felt kind of good, and almost offset his embarrassment and 
  shame.

  That night, he was watering his lawn again, still wearing his 
  hawaiian shirt. Au jus flowed from out of the hose.

  The whole town, wearing gray, ran up the street toward him. They 
  were yelling again.

  Larry turned off the hose and began to walk into the street. As 
  the people approached, he noticed that au jus was still flowing 
  out of the hose.

  The wave of people hit him, and became an actual wave, a roast 
  beef au jus wave. The au jus washed over him, drowning him, 
  filling his lungs. Little pieces of roast beef stuck in his 
  throat and attached themselves to his pants.

  I didn't mean to do it, he thought to himself, and swallowed a 
  soggy soup cracker.

  The wave kept rolling, leaving Larry behind, dying, in its wake.

  When he woke up, the sheets were damp with sweat. Another bad 
  dream.

  That morning at work was just like any other morning. Larry sold 
  printer ribbons to skinny adolescent boys with bowl haircuts and 
  glasses, boxes of disks to fat, pimply teenage girls, and dust 
  covers to blue-haired old ladies.

  All morning, Jack kept trying to pick up on women customers. 
  Larry was tired of it.

  Jack was slimier than Wayne Newton. He called all women "chicks" 
  when they weren't around, and called them "babes" when they 
  were. He wore a little skinny tie that looked more like a wide 
  shoelace, and kept his black hair slicked back -- very hip. He 
  was a combination of Pat Riley and a lizard.

  Larry hadn't had a date in months. His outfit was plain, and his 
  tie was a little bit too wide. His hair was straight as a board, 
  and mousy brown in color.

  Jack kept getting these women to go out with him. Almost every 
  babe he tried it on said yes to him.

  "Hey," Jack said, "you're kind of pretty. Would you like to go 
  out to dinner with me tonight?"

  They invariably said yes. Maybe it was the hair.

  About eleven o'clock, Jack was over in the corner of the store, 
  trying to sell a printer to a woman who had already agreed to go 
  out with him. A blonde walked in. Not a blonde, the kind you see 
  in movies or on television. Just a blonde woman, sort of plain, 
  but not ugly by any means.

  She wanted to see dust covers. Larry took her over to the dust 
  covers, and showed her a few different kinds.

  "Hey," Larry said, "you're kind of pretty. Would you like to go 
  out to dinner with me tonight?"

  She said no. But she did buy a lovely gray dust cover, to match 
  her computer.

  It must be the hair, Larry thought.

  "Nice try, stud," Jack said, and slapped him on the back. His 
  date with the expensive printer giggled a little.

  Larry began to re-think the under-the-carpet idea.

  When it came time for lunch, Larry darted out the door before 
  anyone could ask him where he was going. He knew where he wanted 
  to eat lunch, and it wasn't the Stage Wheel. He wanted to eat by 
  himself, away from Jack. And he didn't really feel like French 
  Dip au jus.

  He went to Burger King. He ordered a chicken club sandwich, 
  something he had never had before, and a vanilla shake. He ate 
  the chicken, and liked it. And the vanilla was a refreshing 
  change of pace from the chocolate shake he normally had.

  He ate his fast-food feast at an outside table, next to a little 
  children's playground that Burger King had set up. It had 
  statues of different little hamburger and french fry characters 
  set up in between plastic swings and slides. A few kids were 
  squealing as they slid down something that resembled a giant 
  pickle.

  The food tasted better outside, Larry thought, with a warm 
  breeze blowing in the fresh air.

  Much better than the stuffy air in the Stage Wheel.

  He went back in and ordered a Hot Fudge Sundae. The hot fudge 
  tasted like plastic, and so did the ice cream. Larry loved it.

  By the time he finished the sundae, lunch hour was over. He went 
  back to the store, and nobody asked where he had gone.

  One of the first customers after lunch was a fairly attractive 
  woman. Jack saw her coming, and began to make his way from the 
  back of the store. Larry, who was standing at the front of the 
  store, got to her first.

  "Hi there!" Larry said. "Welcome to Computer Central!"

  "Thanks," the woman said.

  Jack tapped Larry on the shoulder.

  "Don't you think I should handle this one, stud?" Jack asked.

  "That's all right, Jack. I've got it." He turned back to the 
  woman. "Can I help you with something?"

  "I'm looking for a computer for under fifteen hundred dollars," 
  she said.

  Larry led her into the corner and showed her around the 
  different units. He tried to impress her with his sense of 
  humor, and he tried to be creative with his sales approach. She 
  laughed at all the right places, and then bought one of the 
  computers -- with a disk drive.

  When Larry went up to the front of the store to get a sales 
  slip, he couldn't help smiling at Jack.

  Made a sale, slimeball, Larry thought.

  After the sales slip was signed and the woman had written her 
  check, Larry decided to try a different sales approach. Again, 
  he was going to avoid the Jack method.

  "You know, miss, I think you're very attractive and intelligent, 
  and I'd like to take you out to dinner sometime," Larry said.

  She looked up at him with her gorgeous blue eyes, and smiled.

  YES!, he shouted in his mind. Take that, Jackie-boy!

  "I'm sorry," she said. "That's very nice of you, but I've got a 
  boyfriend." She paused for a second.

  Larry eyed the carpet anxiously, hoping to find a place to slide 
  under.

  "Thanks for all your help. I appreciate it," she said.

  After she had left with her new computer, Jack came up to him 
  and slapped him on the back.

  "Nice try, stud," he said. "At least you sold something."

  Larry smiled back at him, and said nothing.

  That night, the gray people ran at him from down the street, 
  just as before. Still holding his water hose, he ran out into 
  the street.

  They came closer, and he could hear them shouting Come on, Larry 
  at him.

  He pointed his hose at the gray wave of people, and they all 
  began to melt away, becoming nothing but a gray wave of water.

  Larry dropped the hose, turned around, and began whistling a 
  crazy tune. He started to skip, like a child might skip. He 
  skipped off into the distance. Behind him, the wave began to 
  break.

  Larry woke up with a slight smile on his face. It had been a 
  good dream.


  Jason Snell (jsnell@ucsd.edu)
-------------------------------

  Jason Snell is a senior at the University of California, San 
  Diego, majoring in Communication and minoring in 
  Literature/Writing. He is the editor of this publication, the 
  editor in chief of the UCSD Guardian newspaper, and an intern at 
  KUSI-TV Channel 51 News in San Diego.


  The Damnation of Richard Gillman  by Greg Knauss
==================================================

  When Richard Gillman was killed, he was driving north through 
  Los Angeles on the Santa Monica-bound 405.

  Downtown Los Angeles is a confusing place, with twisting and 
  interlocking expressways, and a moment's hesitation will send 
  you sailing off in a direction you never intended, depositing 
  you in Pasadena or Torrance or Century City or just about 
  anyplace else.

  This, of course, costs time. The delay, depending on a number of 
  factors, can be anywhere from five minutes to several hours.

  Richard Gillman did not have that kind of time. He was on his 
  way to a meeting at Chiat/Day and could not afford to be late.

  Los Angeles is a low-lying city, spread out instead of up. 
  Though there are several very tall buildings in the center of 
  downtown, including one comically-shaped like an empty roll of 
  paper towels, the city is mostly a huge expanse of structures 
  below four or five stories. Unlike San Francisco or New York, 
  the sky is clearly visible straight ahead, even out of a car 
  window.

  This is what Richard Gillman was looking at when he missed his 
  exit. While Los Angeles is largely reputed to have unhealthful 
  air quality the majority of the year, there are certain times, 
  after a rare rainstorm for instance, where the sky is simply an 
  expanse of beautiful, majestic blue. The mountains to the east 
  are crystal clear, and in the winter their peaks are capped with 
  brilliant white snow. If Los Angeles had been built a little 
  further up the coast, instead of in a natural geographic basin 
  -- if Los Angeles could ever get a decent public transportation 
  system together -- if Los Angeles wasn't the destination of half 
  the people in the Midwest who leave their dying home towns, it 
  would be like this every day. Beautiful blue sky, shiny clean 
  buildings, the best city in the world.

  It was at this point, and with these thoughts, that Richard 
  Gillman realized he was going to miss his exit. He was leaning 
  just slightly forward, staring just slightly up, looking at an 
  oblong white cloud, when a huge green rectangle blocked his 
  vision. It said:

>                          Sixth Street        1/4

  "Damn!" Richard Gillman cursed. He craned his neck wildly to the 
  right, checking for a clear space next to him. If he missed this 
  exit, he would miss his meeting.

  Cars were packed tightly, half a length apart, up and down the 
  405 as far as he could see.

  Richard Gillman was still looking back, over his right shoulder, 
  twenty-five seconds later when his car plowed into the truck in 
  front of him. He was only going forty miles an hour when he hit 
  it and might not have been injured at all had he been wearing a 
  seat belt.

  Seat belts are required by law in California, and you can get a 
  fifteen dollar ticket if you're caught not wearing one. But 
  Richard Gillman found that they left large diagonal wrinkles 
  across his chest and lap whenever he wore certain types of 
  fabric. There was nothing more embarrassing that arriving at a 
  lunch or a meeting with large diagonal wrinkles across your 
  chest and lap.

  Anyway, Richard Gillman's car caught most of the force of the 
  collision. If you launch a small object, say a Fiat, into a 
  larger one, say a Vons produce eighteen-wheeler, the Fiat will 
  sustain most of the damage. In fact, what will happen is 
  something like this:

  At the moment of contact, even before any metal bends, the 
  driver of the Fiat will be shot forward. Normally in this 
  situation, his seat belt will snap tight and hold him back 
  against his seat. If the driver is not wearing a seat belt -- 
  and this happens to be the case in this particular instance -- 
  he will continue forward as the front end of the Fiat crushes 
  against the back of the truck.

  After about a tenth of a second, the unseat-belted driver's 
  chest will impact against the steering wheel and a short moment 
  later, his face will shatter the windshield.

  As the front of the car continues to collapse, the engine block 
  will transmit most of the shock wave past itself further back 
  into the car. The driver, by now, has left a crude impression of 
  himself in the dashboard. His pelvis has likely bent the lower 
  part of the steering wheel forward, as his rib cage has done for 
  the upper part. Because of the small amount of leg room in a 
  Fiat, his knees have likely found the underside of the dash, and 
  bones in either is thigh or lower leg have shattered, shards 
  pushing their way through the skin.

  As the initial push forward into the truck comes to an end, it 
  seems likely that both the hypothetical Fiat and the 
  hypothetical driver are both pretty much a total loss. But 
  Richard Gillman, however, lived not only through the initial 
  impact, but the reflection as well, as the Fiat pushed away from 
  the truck, glass and metal flying all about.

  It seems that Richard Gillman was a particularly healthy 
  individual, and he managed to continue living for a good two or 
  three minutes after the crash, right up until the his Fiat's gas 
  tank caught fire.

  The resulting explosion was so large that it caused a good dozen 
  periphery accidents, mostly shattering windows that faced the 
  collision, and closed the 405 for almost ten hours.

  It took fire fighters and rescue personnel half that time just 
  to remove what they could identify as the remains of Richard 
  Gillman from the wreckage. As his rear license plate was thrown 
  clear during the explosion -- it was found later embedded in the 
  empty passenger seat of another man's car -- the identity of 
  Richard Gillman was quickly known, but withheld from the media 
  pending the notification of his family.


  Saint Peter knew what to expect when people arrived; he'd been 
  at this job for quite a while.

  Usually, Christians were the most passive. This, after all, was 
  what they had been told to expect. They would normally stagger 
  up to Peter, their faces blank and shiny with bliss, and mutter 
  their names. He would check his list, make a small mark, and 
  send them off, either up or down. Most people didn't like to get 
  the news that they were going down, but they never had much time 
  to complain before they were whisked off.

  Sometimes, they were worried when they showed up. They would 
  drop to their knees and begin to cry and wail and screech for 
  atonement as soon as they appeared at the Gates. Usually Peter 
  would delicately pry their name out of them and then send them 
  off in the appropriate direction. They really didn't have all 
  that much to worry about. God had become pretty calm lately; 
  he'd mellowed as he'd gotten older. How could he blame humans 
  for being nasty when they were created in his own image?

  Occasionally, however, Peter liked to have a little fun. The 
  crying petitioner would be kneeling at the base of his podium, 
  tears streaming down his face, and Peter would look at him 
  gravely. He would scan down the long pages of his book, stop 
  suddenly and then shake his head. Once in a while, he would gasp 
  in horrified astonishment -- the petitioner would collapse into 
  a heap, sobbing helplessly -- and he would have to bite his lip 
  to keep from laughing.

  Yes, the Christians were the easiest, and easily the most fun.

  Next came Jews. Jews took it pretty well, the concept of a 
  Christian God, usually with much more stoicism than Christians 
  themselves. Peter himself was a Jew and Judaism, really, just 
  amounted to Christianity one-point-oh. They didn't have much 
  trouble with the concept of a Christian Heaven, though as Peter 
  understood it, they tended to avoid Christ for their first few 
  decades here.

  The non-Judeo-Christian religions produced people who varied in 
  degree. Buddhists were even more stoic than the Jews and simply 
  nodded as Peter let them pass or turned them down. Hindus didn't 
  like the idea of heavenly burger palaces, but seemed to cope 
  with the rest all right. Moslems often took it badly at first -- 
  Peter smiled at the concept of a jihad against God -- but then 
  settled down. Monotheistic religions are all basically 
  compatible and anybody who showed up at the Gates believing in A 
  god could usually cope with believing in THE God.

  But woe to the atheists. Atheists were the worst. Far and away 
  the worst.

  When atheists arrived, they would blink a few times in confusion 
  and begin to jerk their head around, trying to take it all in. 
  Peter would beckon them over and the atheists would walk slowly 
  towards him, often stumbling over their own feet.

  When they arrived at the podium, the fifty feet or so often 
  taking them upwards of five minutes to cross, their brow would 
  wrinkle and they would say something stupid like, "Saint Peter?"

  Peter would smile softly and say, "Yes?"

  Atheists couldn't stand that, all the calmness and regularity of 
  it. At that point they often exploded, backing away from the 
  podium, saying "Oh, no. Oh, no. I don't believe this."

  Peter would say, "I know."

  The atheists would usually ignore him and start to stamp around, 
  shouting curses, screaming "This is not happening! This is not 
  happening!" when it obviously was.

  But, Peter thought, this guy here is different. Outright odd, 
  even. He had appeared in the flash of white light like normal, 
  but he hadn't reacted to what he saw at all. Not the the 
  towering clouds, the huge gate, nothing. He looked around for a 
  moment, blinking occasionally, and finally wandered over to 
  Peter.

  "Hi," he said.

  "Hello," Peter replied, slightly startled. This person had the 
  first neutral expression he had ever seen on anybody who 
  appeared at the Gates. "Your name?"

  "Oh, Richard Gillman," said Richard.

  Peter glanced down at the book on the podium in front of him, 
  half expecting to find some indication that this guy was a Zen 
  master. He started. No, not a Zen master. "Richard Gillman," the 
  line read. "Atheist." And like all the atheist listings, it had 
  a little down arrow after it.

  An atheist. But an atheist who apparently didn't care that he 
  was in the after-life. Weird. The demons weren't going to like 
  this.

  "Can you tell me where I am?" Richard asked. He glanced down at 
  his watch.

  Peter looked up from his book in surprise. "You don't know where 
  you are?" he said.

  "Well," Richard said. "I... Uh... Well, no, actually."

  Peter rechecked the listing in his book. Occasionally he wished 
  that they had a little more to work with than just a petitioners 
  religion. The line still said, "atheist," and Peter narrowed his 
  eyes at Richard. The demons weren't going to like this at all. 
  "You're at the Gates of Heaven."

  "Oh?" Richard asked. "I am?"

  Peter nodded. "Yes."

  "Oh." Richard glanced at his watch again.

  Saint Peter knit his brow, pulling his eyebrows together. This 
  wasn't good. The guy was obviously an atheist -- the book said 
  so -- and so he was going to Hell. But Peter would be damned if 
  he could figure out how the demons were going to work with him. 
  He, apparently, didn't have much of a reaction to anything. 
  There was a sort of glaze over his eyes.

  "You're going to Hell," Peter offered.

  "I am?" Richard asked.

  "Yes."

  "Oh."

  Peter shook his head in amazement. Absolutely no reaction at 
  all.

  "That's bad, isn't it?"

  "Yes," Peter said. "That's bad."

  "OK," Richard said. "Just checking." He looked at his shoes for 
  a moment, then said, "I'm going to miss my meeting, aren't I?"

  Peter muttered, "Geez," and Richard Gillman was dropped into 
  Hell.


  Hell wasn't what Richard Gillman had expected at all. First off, 
  there were no flames anywhere. Growing up in the United States 
  in the late twentieth century, it would have been impossible for 
  him to NOT have an image of Hell, even if he didn't believe in 
  it, which he didn't. He had pictured it pretty much like he 
  thought everybody else pictured it: Like the inside of a cavern, 
  with flames leaping everywhere and large boiling craters of lava 
  and demons jumping out of hiding places and stabbing you with 
  pitchforks and stuff. Like Mr. Boffo.

  That's what Hell was supposed to be like. Not at all like this.

  He remembered reading, somewhere -- the reference understandably 
  slipped his mind at the moment -- that flames were a more recent 
  invention for Hell. That Hell had been originally been conceived 
  of as metaphysical suffering, not physical discomfort. Or 
  something like that. He didn't have a head for those kinds of 
  details. Plus he never really understood what the word 
  "metaphysical" meant. He had misused it in paper in a general 
  education philosophy class several years ago and had never 
  gotten around to looking it up.

  Dante, he recalled, had pictured Hell with ice. On the lowest 
  plane of Hell, people were supposed to be frozen in a lake of 
  ice, trapped forever, with just the top half of their heads 
  peaking out. He had seen a picture of Dante's description at a 
  show that some girl had dragged him to. He had made a what he 
  thought was a clever remark and she had stopped returning his 
  calls.

  But not in all his life -- he was college-educated after all, he 
  should have heard about things like this -- could he recall 
  having been told that Hell was a bus station.

  Oh, he supposed, a bus station is probably its own little kind 
  of Hell -- he noticed with distaste a bum sleeping under 
  newspaper on a bench -- but this certainly isn't as bad as it 
  could be. Both fire and ice seemed as if they had the potential 
  to be a lot worse than this.

  Hell was a particularly drab bus station. It was small, just an 
  annex, with five or six rows of wooden benches. A ticket window 
  was centered in one wall, half way between a cigarette machine 
  and a drinking fountain. The other wall listed schedules for 
  when buses would be departing. Or not departing, he noticed:

>               Heaven                        Delayed
>               Valhalla                      Delayed
>               Satori                        Delayed
>               The Happy Hunting Ground      Delayed 

  The list continued along, hand-chalked for two decaying 
  blackboards, with the names of dozens of places followed by the 
  word "Delayed."

  The wall that the benches faced was divided into two glass 
  doors, labeled "To Buses," and the opposite wall was blank, save 
  for smudged and aged institution-green paint.

  Richard walked to the ticket window and tapped on the glass with 
  his finger. There was no one in the small office beyond, but 
  long rolls of tickets were laid out on a desk. He could see the 
  names on the wall also printed on the tickets.

  "Hello?" he called.

  There was no answer. The bum on the bench rustled slightly and a 
  page of a newspaper fell off of him.

  Well, Richard thought, this is pretty dumb.

  He turned from the window and walked quickly to the glass doors. 
  He peered out into what looked to be a starless night, but he 
  really couldn't see much beyond the concrete curb that jut out 
  from the bus station. Or Hell. Whichever.

  He pushed on the door, but it didn't open.

  "You can't get out that way," said the bum.

  Richard spun to find the battered man now sitting up on the 
  bench. He had deeply lined, suntanned face, and a few days of 
  beard covered his chin and crawled up his cheeks. His clothes 
  were beaten and dirty, and a greasy tangle of hair fell into his 
  eyes and over his ears.

  "What?" Richard said.

  "You can't get out that way. Trust me."

  "Who're you?"

  The man rose and ambled towards Richard, a lose sole of his shoe 
  flopping as he walked. "I'm your demon."

  "My demon?"

  The man reached Richard and leaned towards him, poking his nose 
  forward. "Your demon. Sent here to torment you."

  Richard grimaced and pulled back. "With your smell?"

  The old man scowled. "Look, buddy. This isn't MY doing. I just 
  work here. You're the one who's damned."

  "Oh." Richard wasn't quite sure how to deal with this.

  "This is your Hell. Your own private Hell. I'm your own private 
  demon."

  "Oh."

  The demon nodded curtly. "OK."

  Richard nodded back. "OK."

  "OK."

  "OK."

  There was silence for a moment.

  "Not what you imagined, is it?" asked the demon.

  Richard scanned the bus station. "To be honest, no," he said. "I 
  hadn't really imagined anything."

  The demon eyed him, pushing his chin against his chest and 
  looking up. "Uncomfortable yet?"

  "Well, yeah," Richard said.

  "Good," the demon replied. He spun on his heel and walked back 
  to the bench -- flop, flop, flop -- where he had been sleeping 
  before and lay down. He pulled the newspapers over him again 
  and, apparently, fell asleep.

  Richard stood unevenly for a moment. He blinked.

  "Hey."

  The demon stirred, then rolled so his back was facing Richard.

  "Hey," Richard said. He walked to the demon and tapped him on 
  the shoulder. "Hey, get up."

  With a groan, the demon slowly sat up. He looked at Richard from 
  the bench and said, "What?"

  "There's a few things I don't understand," Richard said.

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. I think there must have been some kind of screw-up. I 
  don't quite get what's going on."

  The demon looked surprised. He leaned back against the bench and 
  scratched his cheek. "You don't get Hell?"

  "Well, yeah," Richard admitted sheepishly. "I don't see that 
  there's much to get."

  The demon narrowed his eyes at Richard and ran his tongue over 
  his front teeth. "You're not writhing in metaphysical torment?" 
  the demon asked.

  "Not as far as I can tell," Richard said. "I don't really know 
  what it is."

  The demon slid to the side and pushed the scattered sheets of 
  newspaper to the floor. "Have a seat," he said. "This is going 
  to take a while."

  Richard sat, slightly away from the demon.

  The demon pushed his hair back and took a deep breath. "OK," he 
  said. "Now:

  "Metaphysics deals with realms beyond the physical. It is 
  philosophy of the senses, and of interpretation of the senses. 
  It deals with things that are not here, but here. It deals with 
  the soul instead of the body, with the mind instead of the 
  brain. Metaphysics is everything that you cannot touch, but that 
  you can feel. Your 'sixth sense' is metaphysical in nature. Deja 
  vu is metaphysical in nature. God, Heaven, me, Hell and now you 
  are all metaphysical in nature. Metaphysics is everything that 
  not only is, but just is. Got it?"

  "Oh," Richard said, slightly stunned. "I thought it had to do 
  with aerobics."

  The demon continued, ignoring him. "To be in metaphysical 
  torment is to go beyond the simple pain of the body, to the pain 
  of the soul. If God were to try to make you atone for your sins 
  by, say, poking out your eyeballs" -- Richard made a face -- 
  "there would be a limit to how much you would suffer. If he made 
  you atone by having worms eat through your flesh, there would be 
  a limit to how much you would suffer. If he--"

  "All right! All right! No need for the theatrics."

  The demon looked impatiently at Richard for a moment, then 
  continued. "Metaphysical torment is unending. It's like constant 
  pain that never moves you towards your death. It's like 
  everything that's ever made you feel bad, all remembered 
  simultaneously, all magnified by a thousand. It's--"

  "You're doing it again."

  "Stop interrupting me!" the demon shouted. "You're ruining the 
  effect!"

  Richard looked down at his hands as they pulled at each other in 
  his lap. "Sorry," he said.

  "It's a little late for that. Anyway. Are you in metaphysical 
  torment?"

  Richard looked up at the demon and raised his eyebrows. He 
  pulled a corner of his mouth back and made a small clicking 
  noise by separating his lips. "Actually," he said, "I don't 
  think so."

  The demon looked at him sternly. "Are you sure?"

  Richard considered for a moment longer, then said, "Well, yeah."

  The demon stood and paced across the room. "You're right," he 
  said. "Something is screwed up."

  "Told you."

  The demon began stride quickly back and forth in front of 
  Richard. Occasionally, he would pause, shake his head, and move 
  on. This guy, he thought, is an idiot. Why do I always get 
  assigned to the idiots? Why can't I ever get a pope? They've 
  done all the reading. Where should I start? First principles.

  He stopped and looked down at Richard. "Here," he said. "Do you 
  find this place unpleasant at all?"

  "Well, yeah," Richard said. "I mean, it's pretty filthy. I went 
  to Union Station once and it was much nicer than this. They have 
  that wonderful old archi--"

  "No, no! You're missing the point. Think about it for a minute. 
  This is Hell."

  Richard leaned back on the bench, and stuck his lower lip out 
  slightly. "So?"

  The demon scowled. "You're here forever! For all eternity! With 
  absolutely no hope for escape. You simply can't get out."

  The thought apparently hadn't occurred to Richard before. "Oh," 
  he said.

  The demon pointed to the chalkboards along the wall. "Those 
  buses will never come," he said. "And even if they did, you 
  can't get outside to meet them. And even if you could, you can't 
  get the tickets to get on them! Don't you see?"

  Richard hesitate for a moment then said firmly, "Um."

  "They offer futile hope, you geek! You're supposed to get down 
  here and have a tiny suspicion that if only you were smart 
  enough, if only you were clever enough, you could figure out how 
  to get out!" The demon whirled towards Richard. "But you can't! 
  There is no hope! You are trapped here forever! Don't you get 
  it?"

  "Trapped?" Richard asked.

  "Trapped," the demon said firmly.

  "Forever?"

  "Forever."

  Richard considered the concept for a moment. "Oh," he said.

  The demon grit his teeth and sat down heavily on the bench. He 
  sighed and looked at Richard.

  "Look," he said, "do you even know why you're here?"

  Richard thought hard for a moment. He shook his head. "I hadn't 
  really considered it."

  "You hadn't considered why you were sent to Hell?"

  "Well... No."

  "OK," said the demon. "Maybe that's what we're missing."

  "I committed adultery," Richard offered. "That was supposed to 
  be bad, wasn't it?"

  The demon waved his hand dismissively. "God doesn't really care 
  about that much any more."

  "Oh. Well. I, uh, I disrespected my elders."

  The demon grimaced. "This is the nineties."

  "I used the Lord's name in vain."

  The demon only gave him a sour look.

  "What then?"

  "You don't know how the Ten Commandments start, do you?"

  Richard shook his head.

  "No."

  "'I am the Lord, thy God,'" said the demon. "That's how they 
  start."

  "I thought it was, 'In the beginning...'"

  "That's the Bible. The Ten Commandments are a different thing."

  "Oh."

  "You didn't believe in God, see? That's pretty much the only 
  major no-no left. God doesn't like killing all that much and 
  stealing isn't considered a GOOD thing, but he's really mellowed 
  out lately. You can do pretty much all you want in the previous 
  life and get away with it. But he still has a HUGE ego."

  "God has an ego?"

  "Wouldn't you? I mean, he's the Creator. He's omnipotent. You'd 
  feel pretty damn proud of yourself if you could make a rock that 
  even you couldn't pick up."

  "Well... I suppose."

  "Suppose? Of course you would." He demon turned towards Richard 
  on the bench. "Here, look. You led a pretty morally upright 
  life. You never killed anybody. You didn't steal much. You were 
  a pretty good neighbor. You did unto others once in a while. You 
  even turned the other cheek occasionally. Remember Harvey 
  Wellman? You lent him your coat once."

  Richard blinked slowly. "So why am I in Hell?"

  "Because you didn't believe in God! That's the big thing. You're 
  in Hell because you're an atheist."

  Richard's brow furrowed for a moment and his mouth hung slightly 
  opened. "But..." he started, stopping with his mouth further 
  open.

  "Hmm?" said the demon.

  "But I never really gave it all that much thought."

  "So?"

  Richard began to speak again, launching into words and then 
  pulling up short. He paused for a moment, concentrating. 
  Occasionally, he would let out an exasperated breath and tilt 
  his head to the side.

  "I'll wait," said the demon, his eyes wandering away from 
  Richard and around the bus station.

  Richard sat silently for three or four more minutes. 
  Occasionally, he would grab hold of a concept only to have it 
  skitter away when he tried to hold it too tightly. It was like 
  trying to carry a dozen really big trout.

  "But--" Richard finally offered. "But that's not fair!"

  The demon suddenly turned towards Richard. "What?"

  "That's not fair," Richard said.

  A small smile broke across on the demon's face. "Not fair?" he 
  asked.

  "Yeah," Richard said. "Not fair. Not fair at all."

  The demon was leaning eagerly towards Richard. "Why?" he asked. 
  "Tell me why."

  "Well, I led a good life. You even said so yourself. I was a 
  good person."

  "Let's not go overboard here."

  "No, no. I was a good person. A decent, caring person. People 
  loved me!"

  "So?"

  "Well," Richard said, counting off his fingers. "I was a good 
  person. People loved me. And now I'm in Hell."

  "So?" the demon said again.

  "That's not fair!"

  "But why?" The demon strained even further forward.

  Richard paused. "Well. Well, I'm only here because I didn't 
  believe in God. I followed all the rules. Even if I didn't know 
  they were the rules, I followed them. I ended up losing anyway. 
  That doesn't seem very fair."

  The demon looked at him with a pained expression. "'Seem very 
  fair?'" he said.

  Richard gathered himself and shook his dead vigorously. "No. No. 
  In fact, it's not fair at all. It's not even a little fair."

  "So what you're saying," said the demon, "is that you're a 
  political prisoner."

  "What?"

  "A political prisoner. You're here simply because of your 
  beliefs. Because you didn't think what the powers-that-be wanted 
  you to think."

  Richard's eyes opened wide and he nodded his head. "Yeah!" he 
  blurted. "Yeah. Exactly. That's exactly what I mean. That's not 
  fair."

  The demon crossed his arms across his chest and leaned 
  comfortably back. "Bummer," he said.

  Richard looked confused for a brief moment. "What do you mean, 
  'Bummer'?"

  "Bummer," said the demon again.

  Richard's shoulders slumped and he let out a sputtering breath. 
  "Well, this sucks!" he said. "This really sucks!"

  The demon smiled. "Good enough," he said to himself.
   

  Greg Knauss
-------------

  Greg Knauss is loopy as a loon, and has a Political Science 
  degree from UC San Diego. He has no job, no life, and nothing to 
  do. In the meantime, he has written two "Star Trek: The Next 
  Generation" scripts, one of which has been roasting in the fires 
  of the ST:TNG production office for four months with no 
  response. Greg has also written for numerous Atari computer 
  magazines, all of which have since been driven out of business. 
  A connection? You be the judge.



  FYI
=====

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