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The Return of Jack Collier (Chapter Ten)

The Return of Jack Collier

A Jack Collier Story

By Brett N. Lashuay

 

 

Last week’s entry can be found here.

 

 

Chapter Ten: When Men Talk Beauty

 

            If you’re going to say something like I had, that bisexual women are the most beautiful in the world, you’d better have some good reasoning behind it. Of course all men understand that bisexual woman are hot, but not all women get why, beyond thinking that we’ve only got three ways on our minds. It’s not that, although it’s obviously part of it. So I explained to Alice why I’d said it.

 

            “Movies and TV have taught me nothing if they haven’t taught me that the most beautiful women in the world are bisexuals,” I told her.

 

            “Really?” she asked.

 

            “We’re children of the nineties,” I said. “When lesbians were first becoming popular they put some really pretty actresses in the rolls, right? Either because they were trying to combat the bull dyke stereotype or because they liked watching hot chicks make out.”

 

            “Yeah,” she said, “I remember.”

 

            “Right,” I said. “But when lesbians became a little passé they started to mix it up with bisexuals, who were played by genuinely gorgeous women. Thus, the most beautiful women in the world are bisexuals, followed by homosexual women, straight women come in at a respectable third.”

 

            “Are you still saying I’m beautiful?” she asked.

 

            “Yes,” I said, “yes I am.”

 

            “Because I’m bi?”

 

            “Because you’re you,” I told her. “A photograph wouldn’t cover it, not all of it. You’d need to see and talk to you to see everything. Then you’d need to be able to touch you, just so you could be sure that you are real. What I’m saying is you’re obviously too beautiful to be anything else.”

 

            “I like that,” she said. “You know. You said you’re only good at women, but if you’re only going to be good at one thing it’s good that you’re this good.”

 

            “Thanks,” I allowed. “Although, I should tell you that I have subsequently found out that TV was a lying whore instead of a gentle motherly teacher and that movies were not to be trusted at all.”

 

            “Well, that spoils the whole thing,” she said.

 

            “Not really,” I said. “You’re still the most beautiful woman I know.”

 

            “Oh, well that’s okay then,” she laughed. “You’re pretty cute too. No wonder all those girls over there are fawning over you.”

 

            “But you see, that’s the reason why I’m nervous about things,” I told her.

 

            “You’re in love with Karen and Debbie,” she said.

 

            “Sort of, but I would really like to try and have a go with you,” I said. “I mean, try at a relationship.”

 

            “You’re not interested in fucking me then?” she asked, and the word sounded so obscene and disgusting from her voice that it somehow went all the way around and came out incredibly alluring. “I mean I was hoping you’d like to have a try at that.”

 

            “I’m very weak at the moment,” I said. “I’ll probably have some strength together by November. If I’m going to do it right I need to have my full strength.”

 

            “I don’t want to wait until November,” she said. “If I wait until November, you might decide you don’t want me, or you’ll be struck by lightning or choke to death on a turkey sandwich or something. You know how dry Thanksgiving turkey can be sometimes.”

 

            “I’m telling you,” I warned, “skinnier than you.”

 

            “I don’t care,” she said. “I saw you in the hospital a couple of days after you came out of that coma, I’m sure you’ve improved from that state.”

 

            “Well I can sit up and wipe my own butt for one.”

 

            “Well there you go,” she said. “I don’t think you get it. I’m not the only one you need to touch to see that they’re real.”

 

            “You know, I want to see you too,” I admitted. “I just want to be strong enough for you to visit.”

 

            “You want to be good enough, you mean,” she said. “But thank you for couching it in a way I haven’t heard a million times before.”

 

            “Did I say I wasn’t good enough for you?” I asked.

 

            “Yes,” she said. “Your confidence is shit, which is surprising when you consider how we women can’t seem to stop ourselves from leaping at you. I mean I’m ready to come over there so I can literally fling myself at you, and you’re busy trying to deflect me with talk about being weak. What do you think that does for a girl’s self-esteem?”

 

            “I don’t know how I feel about anyone or anything.” I said. “Or rather, I know how I feel, but I don’t know what to do about those feelings. No, I’m trying to sort out those feelings so I don’t hurt someone I care about.  I’m just trying to make sure I don’t do things wrong. I fucked things up in the past, I don’t want to do that again.”

 

            “Well, you’re not doing anything right now,” she admonished. “You have to risk getting things wrong if you hope to even try to get them right.”

 

            She had a point. So, what the hell? If she wanted to come see me, why not invite her? I wanted to see her, I wanted to kiss her, I wanted to be with her. I couldn’t bear the idea of not being with Debbie, and I loved Karen, but I also very much wanted to be with Alice. And to think all it took to get here was to be shot four times in the chest. Try it sometime, let me know if you get similar results.

 

            “You want to come over and see me for a few days?” I asked. “Maybe next week, if that’s not too early?”

 

            This time her laugh did resemble the clear tones of a set of small silver bells, but at least she accepted. You will excuse me though if I decide to keep that week to myself. It was not a week of sexual excess, orgies did not happen. It was nice though. The closest to a group thing that went down was when Debbie came over and the three of us went out to dinner. I noticed they spent a lot of the evening talking to each other like old friends, but that was as far as it went. It was a healing visit though, sometimes spending time face to face is important.

 

            At the end of a week though, she had to go back to D.C. and get back to work. I drove her to the airport, and while we were on I-94, she started trying to decide what had happened that week. I was still trying to work things out myself, so it was helpful to have her there.

 

            “Debbie and I talked for a while when you were sleeping,” she said as I pulled the Hudson onto the ramp.

 

            “Oh yeah?” I asked, almost wanting to say that I wasn’t sleeping, I was listening to girls giggle for five hours. “And did either of you tell the other to back off?”

 

            “No,” she shook her head and laughed in a way I wasn’t sure I liked. “It wasn’t like that. I asked her some questions, and she asked me some questions.”

 

            “Oh,” I said, and then started being a detective. “What sort of questions?”

 

            “It was girl talk,” she smiled. “Even if I told you, it would be meaningless because it was all in code.”

 

            “What sort of decisions did you come to then?” I asked.

 

            “That’s the problem,” she said. “We didn’t. She said she loves you, and that you love her. Then she said you two aren’t together.”

 

            “No,” I said,  “not right now.”

 

            “Are you going to be?”

 

            “What did she say?”

 

            “She said to ask you.”

 

            “Ah,” I said. “She would.”

 

            “Are you going to be together?” she asked.

 

            “I don’t know,” I said. “Are we going to be together?”

 

            “One of us would have to move. Quit our job or something,” she sighed and looked out the window. “I like my job.”

 

            “I wouldn’t ask you to move,” I said.

 

            “What are we going to be then?” she asked.

 

            “Oh shit,” I said glancing at her. “You’re going to ask me? I don’t even know what I am on my own.”

 

            “I mean this is either a kiss off, or you need to ask me to go steady.”

 

            “Steady?” I asked. “I haven’t heard steady since high school.”

 

            “It’s a time for high school things,” she looked at me with a meaningful glance I was supposed to interpret, but was completely inscrutable.

 

            “Would I move in with you?” I asked. “And what would I do for money?”

 

            “You’re a half-owner of a private detective company.” She said.

 

            “No,” I shook my head. “I signed it all over to her. It’s her company.”

 

            “You’re going to have to tell her that then,” she told me. “She said it’s half yours.”

 

            “She’s going to keep saying that I suppose,” I said. “And I guess she’ll keep acting like that’s how it is, but it isn’t.”

 

            “Okay.”

 

            “The point is that I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

 

            “When you do,” she said, “will you tell me?”

 

            “When I know,” I said, “I’ll call you and ask you out for drinks so we can talk about it.”

            “I thought you don’t drink,” she said.

 

            “I’ll take you out for one though,” I smiled. “Get you that screaming orgasm I promised when we first met.”

 

            “You still talking about drinks?”

 

            “Maybe,” I smiled.

 

 

Ta-freeking-da

Una Merkle's Photo shoot

A few more pictures

Ancient Greeks Were Hipsters

I’m gratified to learn that ultraviolet light is showing off what Greek and Roman statues really looked like. Although, those photos in that story are at least two years old, so I’m wondering why it’s being treated as a new story… but never mind that! I’m happy to have the information because it’s one more nail in the coffin of how we used to have Rome presented to us.

You know, white guys, in white robes surrounded by white columns and white statues saying to each other “I say Whiteonius, isn’t wonderful that you and I are white and the only people with any color to their skins are slaves?” to which the other replies. “Yes Whiteicus, I am also glad that the Roman Empire is so obsessed with whiteness they only allow white people into the empire and only have white clothing and décor! It’s so wonderful ruling the world and being white!” Also, they’d be played by Brits. Later, they’d be played by (white) Americans, but half of them would affect a British accent.

Now though, we know that the Roman were more multi-colored a population than New York City is today. Not only that, but they drank beer, wore lots of colors, and their statues had all the style and sophistication of a Putt-Putt Golf course. I SO want a time machine so I can go back to Ancient Rome with some teachers from High School and keep prodding them with questions like “Sooo… these are the sophisticated Romans, huh? With the painted statues, and the whores who have shoes that lead you to the whore house, and the guy taking a leak right there in the street? WOW! What style, sophistication, and panache! Gosh, maybe we can go hear one of those classy poetry readings! You know, where the Emperor talks about how lovely it is to sodomize his wife’s horse!”

I just resented having THE CLASSICS rammed down my throat as if they were somehow better than today. Like no one in Ancient Rome ever committed adultery, robbed a friend, or murdered their wife so they could marry the wife of their best friend who they also had murdered. I was told that comic books and pulp novels, stories about super powered people who had adventures, were stupid and that Classic Myths about Herculeese and The Knights of the Round Table were SO MUCH BETTER… despite being storied about super powered people having adventures. If anything The Knights of The Round Table had a worse motivation than say Superman. Superman was a goodie-goodie who wanted to do right because doing right was the right thing to do. The Knights, on the other hand, did great deeds of valor to “Prove their courage” and so they could brag about it later. Seriously, it makes them sound like those assholes you hear in trendy bars. “Yeah, so I found this fabulous deal this week. All you have to do is kill a dragon, and you get a maiden for free! So, I killed the dragon and took her to this new Italian Bistro that just opened up down the road. Got her drunk and took her back to my place, you know? Played some old vinyl. Explained my important role in Arthur’s court. She totally did me.” Fuck off Lancelot, you’re a yuppie twat!

And the best bit, the best bit of all, was learning that he Greeks, the philosophical Greeks, the inventors of math and learning and all that shit… painted their sails with heads and things. They had all the restraint of a red neck who just won the lottery. “Dude! Check it out! I got my new ship sail in, I totally painted the head of Medusa on it!” to which his buddy said, “Man! That is BAD-ASS dude, we should totally go cruising together. I just put a bull’s head on my sail. It’ll look like two massive heads are sailing in to fuck some people up!” and that leads to “I know, right? That’ll be awesome! Hey, my four gallon, two handed beer mug is running low, I’m gonna get a fill up, you want?” Because… yeah, they drank beer in massive four gallon, two fisted, all day sucker style beer mugs. And they had very liberal sodomy rules.

Fucking Greeks were so… sophisticated! Fuckin’ classy motherfuckers. Also, the Greeks wore old clothes, were obsessed with youth, and thought it was cool to have bad haircuts. And they invented cynicism. The Greeks were fucking hipsters dude. Put a Mac store in ancient Greece and they’d clean up!

I just enjoy it any time they poke another hole in that idea that the Greeks and Romans were somehow morally, ethically or even intellectually superior. I’m sorry, but WE are better. The modern world kicks all kind of ass and you wouldn’t really want to live way back when. If for no other reason, the toilets were… unspeakable.

Zoo Photos (something of something in a series.)

z

PICTURES!

Holy crap! I haven't post any pictures for today. Let's get on that, huh?

I need a word for it.

I need a word for it.
I’ve been thinking about an issue that’s been bugging me for a few days, or years, whatever. It’s a big issue, and lots of people fall prey to it, but I don’t have a single term for the effect.

That thing, where someone acts like they love something, but obviously have never actually consumed any of it. The guy who claims to love Spaghetti Westerns, and then says “You know, John Wayne made the best Spaghetti Westerns!” Just to lay a spoiler on you, he never made any. Not one. He didn’t need to, he was a big star and never had to go to Italy just to find someone willing to put him in a movie. Fortunately, that is a made up example. It will be the last one.

It goes deeper than that though, much deeper. Like the people who claim to love The Beatles, but would never actually sit down to listen to any of their music. They know they’re supposed to say they love The Beatles, but that’s all they know about it. They couldn’t even tell you if “Can’t Buy Me Love” is an original Beatles song or not. They might even mistake a Beach Boys song for a Beatles song and vice versa. Actually, I should take might out of that sentence, I know someone who thought Sloop John B was a Beatles song. When shown the Beach Boys album it came from, he demanded that McCartney and Lennon wrote it.

You get this a lot with semi-popular niche things. People who want to appear knowledgeable, but either have only looked things up on wikipedia or are just bluffing the whole way. They’ll get very unspecific when asked for specific examples. I’ve found people will do this with… what do you call it… Regency fiction? You know, that period with Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters. You know, what I mean? They’ll claim that it’s their favorite set of novels, and then you ask them which is their favorite book and they’ll say something like “Oh, you know, that romance where the girl likes that rich guy.” and you’re forced to look at them, wave your hand and say “Yeah…?” To which they’ll add, “Oh, you know! The one with the plucky heroin! She’s got to do lots of plucky things to get her man!” And again you’re just looking at them and rolling your hand in a “Go On” gesture. And they just burst out “That one by Jane Austen! You know! About the plucky girl who hooks people up while trying to getting Mister Darcy into bed! Jane Eyre!” And then you’re forced to explain that Charlotte Brontë wrote Jane Eyre, that the girl who hooks people up is Emma and that Mr. Darcy is from Pride and Penetration. I know that much and I haven’t even read the bastards.

This gets really annoying though when talking about books and movies that I have watched. Hearing someone describe their favorite Film Noir as “You know, that black and white one. The one with lots of shadows, and the girl who gets people into trouble. The one with the detective!” At which point I’m forced to look at them and demand “Have you ever watched a single film noir movie?” And they look and say stupid things like “I’ve seen Chinatown and Who Framed Roger Rabbit, so yeah.” and then, after a brief period of shouting they go all quite and never talk again and that judge goes on about how it’s a stain on the community to kill someone just because they pretend to be versed in movies but aren’t or some bullshit. I don’t know. I never listen to them when they go on like that. I’m already planning the escape and new identity by that phase of the proceedings to be honest. I get on the same kick with people who claim to know all about Saturday Morning Serials because they watched the Indiana Jones movies or Avant Garde Comic Books because they once looked at the cover for Watchmen.

We won’t even go into all the Christians who have clearly never once cracked open the bible they carry around with them everywhere. Those fuckers… I just… just read the damn thing! It’s really interesting and you’ll find Jesus actually was a pinko, liberal, socialist motherfucker. Maybe that’s why they avoid reading, they don’t want to know that their hero would have run (not walked) the fuck away from them.

It’s okay to be enthusiastic about something that you’re just learning about. I don’t mean to suggest that you can’t be. It’s even okay to be wrong about things, just admit where your education level is. Tell me ahead of time that you haven’t watched as many movies or read as many books as you could have. Don’t go talking about shit like you know when clearly you do not. That’s all I ask.

Well, also, I ask for a term for this phenomenon.

And a pony.

I would also like a bowl of ice cream… yeah.

I also own a cat

I've got a real problem with books like this one, and not just because it says men who own cats are undatable.

No my problem is that it's dating advice* and we don't know anything about the advisor. Every time I see one of these things, particularly when written by a woman, I keep having the same question creep into my mind.

“And how long have you and your husband been married?”

Because, being such an expert, they must be married, right? Can’t be some group of bitter, single, angry women who can’t actually find anyone because their rigid standards have excluded all male on the planet, right? And their husbands do fit all the criteria in this book, right? I mean, they didn’t have to knock down their standards to find a guy, did they? Found the perfect man that fit each and every one of their little hints?

…

They don’t even have boyfriends, do they?

The point is, we don’t know and that’s the problem I always have with relationship books. I wouldn’t give my car to a mechanic that wasn’t experienced and certified, nor would I get computer advice from someone who had never displayed ability to double click a mouse. And yet, people will take relationship advice from any idiot who can get a book deal because they wrote more than three articles in Cosmo. You have no idea if this person has working relationships, no idea if their ideas are even their own or just some wishlist of features they’d like to have, and no idea if they’ve ever found out they were dumped because their stuff was piled up on the lawn with a note pinned to it reading “Fuck off, you vicious bitch!” in sparrow’s blood. That happens more often than you’d think.

That’s my problem, who the hell are these people? We don’t know. What is their relationship status? We don’t know. Have they ever been dumped via sparrow’s blood note? Yeah, probably. They don’t think men should own cats, they’re probably fired by sparrow’s blood notes. They probably get sparrow’s blood notes from their mothers for their birthdays.

After all, they don’t like cats, they’re likely (and rightly) shunned by all decent members of society. They don’t think cats are just for girls, don’t give me that shit, they just don’t like them. People who don’t like cats should be shot on sight, because they aren’t human. It’s one thing to like dogs better, or not to have pets at all because of allergy, lease, or lifestyle difficulties, but to just plain claim a man shouldn’t have a cat? Put a stake in its heart because it isn’t human. It may look human, but the cat thing was a bit of a giveaway.

In the end though, really, I come back to qualifications. Have these women formed stable relationships? Have they found men who are willing to treat them well? Have they found men at all? Do those men treat them like trophies in the same way they seem to treat the men? Are they just abject losers sitting on the edge of the internet making snarky comments at passersby who couldn’t care less what some silly bitches like them think?

See, I don’t like everything that someone like Mystery says, but I do know his methods work. For a given value of "work", you understand. He at least gets the results he claims you'll get if you use his methods.

I can get behind his idea of peacocking at any rate.






*Well, actually it seems to be a shopping list of arbitrary things that will exclude a man from these chicks' beds.

Fountian

Special BONUS!
Edgar Allan Poe's The Raven
[First published in 1845]

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Seven Shots

Ten More Photos

Ten Photos

The Return of Jack Collier (Chapter Nine)

The Return of Jack Collier

A Jack Collier Story

By Brett N. Lashuay

 

 

Last week’s entry can be found here.

 

 

Chapter Nine: Personal History

 

            “This was years ago, when you were still in college probably,” I said.

 

            “I’m not that young,” she complained.

 

            “But I never went, and this was when I was much younger. Let’s see, adjusting my age, I am now thirty four,” I told her. “So it was probably nine years ago now.”

 

            “Yeah, I was in school then,” she agreed.

 

            “A woman named Char Webber has a niece who was engaged to a guy who vanished in the Balkans,” I told her. “The guy I was working for at the time offered to poke around a little, but when it got to sending people to Europe to look a little deeper he dropped the case. By that time I had gotten to liking Willie and decided that I’d go with her and a couple of other people. Bascome said if I went I was fired. By that time my buddy Chuck had already left to form his own company and I was thinking of leaving anyway so I quit. Turns out her beau had been kidnapped and we followed the kidnappers into Romania, and then we... uh, we dealt with them.”

 

            “Dealt with them?” she asked.

 

            “A few people got killed,” I said. “They decided to kidnap Willie too and we ended up having to rescue both of them.”

 

            “You killed someone didn’t you?” she asked.

 

            “A couple someones,” I said. “It was a mess, a pretty big one by the time we were done. Not a huge international story, I don’t think it got to America, but it made a lot of papers in Europe. A lot of things happened on that trip and I was pretty raw afterward, as a reward for saving her niece and soon-to-be nephew Char set me up in business. She felt responsible since I’d initially only taken up the whole thing as a favor to her.”

 

            “Why did she rate?” she asked.

 

            “Oh, we were good friends,” I said. “Yes. That’s it. Friends is a word we can use.”

 

            “Isn’t she like fifteen years older than you?”

 

            “Twenty actually,” I said, “yeah.”

 

            “And Christmas and Liberty too,” she said. “I didn’t realize the problem was I’m so much younger than you.”

 

            “It just looks that way when you clump them like that,” I told her. “I’m just good with women.”

 

            “Are you?” she asked.

 

            “Excellent,” I said. “It’s about the only thing I’m good at. Getting girls to go to bed with me and giving them a good reason to let me have a return trip with them is pretty much my one marketable skill.”

 

            “No it isn’t,” she said. “I can’t do this whole mirror thing you did, which I think was an unfair trick by the way, but I can tell you that people don’t see you the way you do.”

 

            “That’s nice of you to say,” I said. “But I should tell you that while I can get the bed part right, I screw up everything else.”

 

            “You do not.”

 

            “I’ve screwed up most things in my past,” I told her. “Have not had a relationship that’s worked out well for me yet.”

 

            “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

 

            “I’m trouble Alice,” I said. “I’m nothing but trouble for everyone. Every time someone comes near me, they get killed or hurt, or their life is turned upside down.”

 

            “I don’t know,” she told me. “Can you back that up with anything?”

 

            “Do you have time to listen to a long story?” I asked her.

 

            “Yes,” she said.

 

            “Okay,” I said, and I told her the story.

 

            I told her everything. When I met Debbie, when I met Karen, how Becky figured into things. I told her all about our summer of love and about how I screwed it up. I explained how I met Liberty and how I ended with Liberty. I even explained how Jen figured into that story. I told her about Char and about Char giving me the money to start up. I explain about how Debbie needed a job after school and how I was able to give her one. I told her about Christmas and the bits she didn’t know about Columbia and what eventually happened to Becky and her father. After that I skipped right to the adventure with Jill and what happened there. Finally, I explained the situation as it currently stood. When I was done I felt like I’d told my entire life story to her, or at least enough of it for a good sized book, but I felt she deserved it. She needed to know what she was getting herself into.

 

            “And, I think that’s everything,” I said as I came to a close.

 

            “That’s a lot,” she said. “It’s going to take some time for me to digest all of that. Going to have some questions too I think.”

 

            “That’s understandable,” I said.

 

            “Did you notice something about your story?” she asked.

 

            “A lot of people died in it,” I said.

 

            “The other thing,” she said. “About the women?”

 

            “That most of them were killed?”

 

            “I meant the other part.”

 

            “Other part?”

 

            “You don’t have to play the innocent with me Jack,” I could just about hear the smile on her face. “If you’re going to tell me secrets, why try to keep that one?”

 

            “I have no idea what you’re referring to,” I lied like a badly placed rug.

 

            “The sexual preference of all your play partners,” she said, and my ears pricked up.

 

            That was some specific language coming from a nice suburban girl like her. Her biggest flaw is that she doesn’t reserve herself very well. She has no idea how good looking she is, or how the things she does attracts men’s gazes. Either that or she’s so adroit that she’s been screwing with me from day one. Either way, the phrase ‘play partners’ was either an interesting slip or a careful insertion.

 

            “You mean how every woman I’ve been to bed with was bisexual?” I asked

 

            “You did notice that then,” she said. “Now I’m going to be really worried about telling you what we talked about in the hospital.”

 

            “What, are you going to tell me you’re a bisexual who’s into this poly thing? You’ve been dying to join a group and you think Debbie is just the cutest thing?” I asked, and in many ways I should stop trying to be sarcastic because it only causes trouble.

 

            “Not exactly,” she laughed at that, which was nice to hear. It wasn’t exactly the tinkling of silver bells, but it was a nice sound.

 

            “Alright then…” I said.

 

            “I mean, I’ve never actually done the group thing,” she said. “I don’t know how into it I’d be.”

 

            “Huh,” I said, because I noticed something about that sentence. “I don’t hear you denying the bisexuality or the wanting to join a group grope or anything like that.”

 

            “No,” she agreed, despite the negative connotation of that word. “You don’t. And Debbie is pretty hot.”

 

            “Do you want to come out and say it, or do you want to play coy while I assemble the pieces?”

 

            “You’re a detective,” she said.

 

            “Yes,” I said, “I am.”

 

            “I’ve spent most my life not being definite about it,” she said. “There are enough problems with being me.”

 

            “Okay,” I said, “but you need to understand two things.”

 

            “Okay,” she said. “What are they?”

 

            “I will never make you feel bad for being who you are,” I said. “And I value honesty in a person.”

 

            “Do you?”

 

            “I value anything rare,” I told her.

 

            “Okay,” I heard her take a deep breath and release it. Then she took another. “Okay, I’m... ah. I’m bisexual, and I’d like to try the poly thing out sometime, if I found the right group. Is that honest or is that blunt?”

 

            “I think it’s blunt,” I told her. “That’s okay though. I like bluntness too.”

 

            “Is this where I start telling you a story?”

 

            “Do you want to tell me a story?” I asked. “I’ll listen to a story.”

 

            “Yeah, I think I want you to know,” she said. “I started dating a girl in high school. I identified as lesbian for about five years or so. I never went in for buzzed hair or wife beater shirts or anything like that, but I dated a girl who did in my freshman year of college. I started considering the idea of bisexuality when I was about twenty and started noticing that I thought boys were cute too. I lost a few friends that way. They thought I was just playing around like a lot of girls were at the time. It doesn’t help that I was always a very femmy sort, you know what I mean?”

 

            “I think I may have spotted a certain amount of femininity about you,” I said.

 

            “Well, lots of other people did too,” she complained. “Everyone sort of labeled as someone who had been just going through a phase when I started dating a guy. I didn’t wear lipstick for three years because I feared the label of lipstick lesbian. Pretty girls aren’t supposed to date girls unless they’re just playing around you know.”

 

            “I’ve heard that fiction,” I said.

 

            “Yeah, you’d know all about that one,” she said. “I’ve seen your secretary.”

 

            “Debbie,” I said. “You used her name a little while ago.”

 

            “Yeah,” she agreed. “Debbie, she’d know all about it. Well, the point is that I quickly learned to be underground about it. I’ve kept my private life very separate from my professional lifw. I don’t talk about it, and I keep harassment about my sex life to a minimum.”

 

            “So, you don’t date anyone from the office?”

 

            “No,” she said. “Never. Then they’d start talking about how pretty girls aren’t supposed to do certain things.”

 

            “The main problem with that is that a woman that looks like you can only be bisexual,” I said. “Your looks preclude you from being anything else.”

 

            “Can you explain that?” she asked.

 

            “I can.” I said.

 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

“Movies and TV have taught me nothing if they haven’t taught me that the most beautiful women in the world are bisexuals.”

 

            “Really?” She asked.

 

            “We’re children of the nineties.” I said, “When lesbians were first becoming popular they put some really pretty actresses in the rolls, right? Either because they were trying to combat the bull dyke stereotype or because they liked watching hot chicks make out.”

 

            “Yeah.” She said. “I remember.”

 

            “Right.” I said. “But when lesbians became a little passé they started to mix it up with bisexuals, who were played by genuinely gorgeous women. Thus, the most beautiful women in the world are bisexuals, followed by homosexual women, and straight women come in at a respectable third.”

 

            “Are you still saying I’m beautiful?” She asked.

 

            “Yes.” I said. “Yes I am.”

 

            “Because I’m bi?”

 

            “Because you’re you.” I told her. “A photograph wouldn’t cover it, not all of it. You’d need to see you and talk to you to see everything. Then you’d need to be able to touch you, just so you could be sure that you were real. What I’m saying is you’re obviously too beautiful to be anything else.”

 

            “I like that.” She said. “You know. You said you’re only good at women, but if you’re only going to be good at one thing it’s good that you’re this good.”

 

            “Thanks.” I allowed. “Although, I should tell you that I have subsequently found out that TV was a lying whore instead of a gentle motherly teacher and that movies were not to be trusted at all.”

 

            “Well, that spoils the whole thing.” She said.

 

            “Not really.” I said. “You’re still the most beautiful woman I know of.”

 

            “Oh, well that’s okay then.” She laughed. “You’re pretty cute too. No wonder all those girls over there are fawning over you.”

 

            “But you see, that the reason why I’m nervous about things.” I told her.

 

            “You’re in love with Karen and Debbie.” She said.

 

            “Sort of, but I would really like to try and have a go with you.” I said. “I mean, a try at a relationship.”

 

            “You’re not interested in fucking me then?” She asked, and the word sounded so obscene and disgusting from her voice that it somehow went all the way around and came out at incredibly alluring. “I mean I was hoping you’d like to have a try at that.”

 

            “I’m very weak at the moment.” I said. “I’ll probably have some strength together by November. If I’m going to do it right I need to have my full strength.”

 

            “I don’t want to wait until November.” She said. “If I wait until November, you might decide you don’t want me, or you’ll be struck by lightning or choke to death on a turkey sandwich or something. You know how dry Thanksgiving turkey can be sometimes.”

 

            “I’m telling you,” I warned, “Skinnier than you.”

 

            “I don’t care.” She said. “I saw you in the hospital a couple of days after you came out of that coma, I’m sure you’ve improved from that state.”

 

            “Well I can sit up and wipe my own butt for one.” I said.

 

            “Well there you go.” She said. “I think you don’t get it. I’m not the only one you need to touch to see that they’re real.”

 

            “You know, I want to see you too.” I admitted. “I just want to be strong enough for you to visit.”

 

            “You want to be good enough, you mean.” She said. “But thank you for couching it in a way I haven’t heard a million times before.”

 

            “Did I say I wasn’t good enough for you?” I asked.

 

            “Yes.” She said. “Your confidence is shit, which is surprising when you consider how we women can’t seem to stop ourselves from leaping at you. I mean I’m ready to come over there so I can literally fling myself at you, and you’re busy trying to deflect me with talk about being weak. What do you think that does for a girl’s self esteem?”

 

            “I don’t know how I feel about anyone or anything.” I said. “Or rather, I know how I feel, but I don’t know what to do about those feelings. No, I’m trying to sort out those feelings so I don’t hurt someone I care about.  I’m just trying to make sure I don’t do things wrong. I fucked things up in the past, I don’t want to now.”

 

            “Well, you’re not doing anything right now.” She admonished. “You have to risk getting things wrong if you hope to even try to get them right.”

 

            She had a point. So, what the hell? If she wanted to come see me, why not invite her? I wanted to see her, I wanted to kiss her, I wanted to be with her. I couldn’t bear the idea of not being with Debbie, and I loved Karen, but I also very much wanted to be with Alice. And to think, all it took to get here was to be shot four times in the chest. Try it sometime, let me know if you get similar results.

 

            “You want to come over and see me for a few days?” I asked. “Maybe next week, if that’s not too early?”

 

            This time her laugh did resemble the clear tones of a set of small silver bells, but at least she accepted. You will excuse me though if I decide to keep that week to myself. It was not a week of sexual excess, orgies did not happen. It was nice though. The closest to a group thing that went down was when Debbie came over and the three of us went out to dinner. I noticed they spent a lot of the evening talking to each other like old friends, but that was as far as it went. It was a healing visit though, sometimes spending time face to face is important.

 

            At the end of a week though, she had to go back to DC and get back to work. I drove her to the airport, while we were on I-94, she started trying to decide what had happened that week. I was still trying to work things out myself, so it was helpful to have her there.

 

            “Debbie and I talked for a while you were sleeping.” She said as I pulled the Hudson onto the ramp.

 

            “Oh yeah?” I asked, almost wanting to say that I wasn’t sleeping, I was listening to girl giggles for five hours. “And did either of you tell the other to back off?”

 

            “No.” She shook her head. “It wasn’t like that. I asked her some questions, and she asked me some questions.”

 

            “Oh.” I said, and then started being a detective. “What sort of questions?”

 

            “It was girl talk.” She smiled. “Even if I told you, it would be meaningless because it was all in code.”

 

            “What sort of decisions did you come to then?” I asked.

 

            “That’s the problem.” She said. “We didn’t. She said she loves you, and that you love her. She then said you two aren’t together.”

 

            “No.” I said.  “Not right now.”

 

            “Are you going to be?”

 

            “What did she say?” I asked.

 

            “She said to ask you.”

 

            “Ah.” I said. “She would.”

 

            “Are you going to be together?” She asked.

 

            “I don’t know.” I said. “Are we going to be together?”

 

            “One of us would have to move. Quit our job or something.” She sighed and looked out the window. “I like my job.”

 

            “I wouldn’t ask you to move.” I said.

 

            “What are we going to be then?” She asked.

 

            “Oh shit.” I said and glanced at her. “You’re going to ask me? I don’t even know what I am on my own.”

 

            “I mean either this is a kiss off, or you need to ask me to go steady.” She said.

 

            “Steady?” I asked. “I haven’t heard steady since high school.”

 

            “It’s a time for high school things.” She said, looking at me with a meaningful glance I was supposed to interpret, but was completely inscrutable.

 

            “Would I move in with you?” I asked. “And what would I do for money?”

 

            “You’re a half owner of a private detective company.” She said.

 

            “No.” I shook my head. “I signed it all over to her. It’s her company.”

 

            “You’re going to have to tell her that then.” She told me. “She said it’s half yours.”

 

            “The point is that I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

 

            “When you do.” She said. “Will you tell me?”

 

            “When I know.” I said. “I’ll call you and ask you out for drinks so we can talk about it.”

            “I thought you don’t drink.” She said.

 

            “I’ll take you out for one though.” I smiled. “Get you that screaming orgasm I promised when we first met.”

 

            “You still talking about drinks?” She asked.

 

            “Maybe.” I told her, and smiled.