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Of course they would follow, since that’s what those people do. After walking a few blocks down the road, the woman turns from a light tan to a pale gray. Her chameleon like skin has let me know that she wants nothing to do with me, but I can’t resist. I must question her, finding out more about her friend, the beautiful woman that I danced with at the drug store. Did her friend dance with everyone? What was her friend’s name? How would I begin to ask her these questions? While attempting to understand the point of view of the excessively religious, I was able to see beautiful trees, a flowing river, and sharp jagged rocks, protruding from soft, round hills. The river flows low, under a road bridge, in a secluded enough area that nobody would care what you might be doing, even if they did happen to notice you. Under the bridge, I quickly disrobed then immersed the lower half of my body in, rather cold, flowing water. All I could say at this moment was: “I didn’t catch your name.”

“My name is Derek.”

“They call me Ann.”

Derek looks at me with disgust in his eyes, as though I were a cockroach playing in a bowl full of maggots. Standing on the bank, I can see that Derek is noticeably covering his pant area, in a very vain attempt to hide his true feelings for me. He says, in a teenager going through puberty sort of way, “I gotta go; this just isn’t for me.”

Hands now in his pockets, he awkwardly walks away and has a very difficult time doing it.

“So, Ann,” I say, in an accusatory/sarcastic tone, as if to note that we both know Ann is not her name.

She says nothing while removing her shoes and socks. Her demeanor towards me was indifferent. I was neither a flower nor a cactus to her. I am but a simple blade of grass.

I continue with: “what sort of door to door religion would allow you to stay here with a naked stranger?”

Her emotions seem unchanged while she removes her shirt. This feels like a game of strip poker, her face unaffected, her clothes coming off. Although I am not getting any answers, each question seems to be worth an article of clothing.

“Why did you falsely join that religion?”

Off come her pants.

“Was it really a coincidence that you were at my house?”

Say goodbye to the bra.

“Who is the girl from the drugstore?”

For a brief moment, Ann’s poker face is lost. She is thrown off by this question, as she fiddles with the elastic on her panties. Slinking out of that last article of clothing, she steps down from the bank into the river, looking fiercely into my eyes while she walks towards me. Her body is incredibly beautiful. She is slender but has no bones protruding. Her average sized breasts look massive on her petite frame. Yet, I barely notice her nudity, as it’s difficult not to stare at her gorgeous face.

Buzz … buzz … buzz

Bloody door bell; why do so many things in my house make noise? My phone makes noise, my e-mail makes noise, and my door makes noise, all because people who are not in my home want to talk to me. Some of them want to discuss drugs to stop impotence or start weight loss; some of them want me to switch phone plans or get my ducts cleaned. Some of them want to see my heating bill . . .

“Hello,” the 2 of them say in unison.

A man stands in front of me, so disgustingly beautiful that I could forget about women altogether if it weren’t for the gorgeous woman standing next to him. Although the man was looking at me, to look in his eyes, I would think that he is looking directly at his god. There is not an obvious thought in his head; he is simply in awe. He has found his place in this world, even if it includes delusional visions of a god that constantly floats in front of his face, only turning semi-transparent so that he might see the world in front of him long enough to be able to preach to it. They are wearing similar looking outfits, one made for a woman and one for a man. They seem like modern puritanical outfits. The woman looks familiar; her eyes are not void; instead, they are alert, awake, and alive.

“I don’t suppose you two are selling chocolate bars for a good cause, huh?”

The man looked directly into my eyes to tell me that “we are not here to sell anything.”

That was obviously the woman’s cue to hand me a pamphlet. Her hand was shaking furiously while she glared at me, the same glare she gave me from across the drug store, while I was dancing. That’s where I know her from. I have a million questions for her, but the way she’s shaking concerns me. Clearly her religious ‘partner in crime’ had no idea about her drug store friend.

“Thank you,” I say, while gently grasping the pamphlet, discreetly tapping her knuckle and raising my eyebrows, as if to say: ‘I know you too.’

She swallows deeply, barely able to breathe, and her theological equal simply looks at me and says: “we’re here to give you something.”

My quick response of “that sounds most enjoyable” was either not received well or completely misunderstood by these god freaks.

Stepping outside and locking my door, I say: “I’m going for a walk; you cats coming?”

Ring … ring … ring

I just fell asleep; what the hell is that noise? Ah, no, bloody phone.

“Hello?”

“Sam; it’s your sister.”

I know that I’m expected to say something else here, but she called me. I don’t even want to talk to her. I’m trying to sleep. I’m not going to carry on with words about how happy I am that she called or how I’m aware that she exists. If she wishes to speak to me, she can talk. I have no problems waiting out an awkward silence.

“Sam, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Look, I just called about Dad.”

I hate hearing about my father.

“Sam?”

“Yeah, sure, Dad . . . I got the news yesterday.”

“What can we do for him?”

“Tammy . . .”

“What?”

“Do you really think it makes a difference at this point?”

“I think it makes a huge difference; he is . . .”

I hang up the phone, killing the connection. Really, how am I supposed to act? Some father he was. What difference should it make to me. It won’t do me any good to shed tears on top of a bacteria filled corpse while people lie about what a kind and generous person is about to be buried. I close my eyes again.

Ring … ring … ring

Damn phone. Last time someone called it annoyed me; I’m not taking that chance again. A trip downtown always makes me feel more sane. Walking among the bizarre crazies, from those pushing shopping carts to those wearing suits, they all have that look in their eyes. They are blank and distant, and they’re on the edge. There are those who push around their buggies wreaking of human fluids, while the uniformed commerce servants smell of excessive alcohol and plant oils, splashed about their necks and faces, all in a sad attempt to cover up the stench of who they almost are. It’s difficult for me to see who is better off, the automatons or the poor. I just keep going downtown, trying to understand why advanced primates do what they do. It’s a good day for a walk; it’ll take about 3 hours to make my way downtown, but it’s a good day for a walk.

“I just wanted to tell you that I . . .”

She is looking at me in a completely different way; she’s terrified. She doesn’t want to hear that, not from me, some guy she met 5 minutes ago. I don’t have to say anything more. She knows how I feel, but it doesn’t have to be “out there.” She’s not moving, not blinking, barely breathing; she’s just staring, looking through me. She doesn’t have feelings for me, how could she? With a hand placed gently on my face, she nervously utters: “Sam, you have to go.”

I’m not the type of person who won’t take “no” for an answer, but I am honest.

“I love you.”

“Sam, you don’t even know my name.”

“I know that I love you, and I know that it’s always worth taking a chance on something you believe in.”

She’s looking at me with a confused and almost hurt look in her eyes. I think she’s holding back tears, but all she says is: “you need to go, right now.”

I just remembered that I’m in a drug store, but I can’t remember why. I look across the store to see a woman shooting vicious glances at the woman I had just danced with. Are they friends, lovers? She looks back at the angry woman with an apologetic look; they must be lovers. I’m leaving. This has been bizarre, very bizarre. I can’t stop sneezing; stuff is coming out of my face, and my eyes are watering. I’m going to skip work today and go to sleep, sleep.

Sleep. It’s the most harmful daily occurrence that the human mind could go through. The cosmic joke is that 16 hours is only enough time to begin to question our lives, our problems, our existence. Suddenly, we pass out in an 8 hour haze of distraction, and like a whore’s dignity, our thoughts are destroyed.

People who can’t sleep shamefully take pills and see doctors, but they’re awake because they need to be, need to think, do, and live. Why won’t they wake up?

I stopped sleeping 24 hours ago, when I got the news . . .

“Sam?”  I hear a voice next to me say.

“Sam!”  The voice repeats.

Great, now I am obligated to acknowledge the existence of this strange person standing next to me. Not only do I have to acknowledge the person’s existence, I’m forced to try to remember where we met, the last time we saw each other, and the things we used to do together. I’m now staring with my usual blank expression, waiting for the “hamster wheel” in my mind to make a full revolution, but the awkward silence is broken by: “you look exactly the same as you did in high school; you haven’t changed at all.”

Right, I’m not drastically different looking than I was. I haven’t gone gray, lost my hair, or gained weight, but something about me must be different. I must gently say: “I don’t know you.”

“You do. We had classes together.”

“I’d remember you.”

“Well, I remember you Sam.”

“I’m not good at this.”

“You’re doing fine.”

She’s a little bothered that I don’t remember her, but she’s completely turned on by the fact that she has an advantage over me. She has me squirming to remember who she is.

All I can mutter is: “um, ah, yeah; damn you’re beautiful.”

With a ballerina’s half pirouette and the most beautiful smile I have ever seen, she turns away from me, stands on her toes and bends all the way over to touch the ground. Her short, red skirt taunts me, as it waves in my direction. I feel drawn to that waving red piece of cloth. An uncontrollable feeling is coming over me, but her simple, white panties are revealing the truth. I bet she forgot that she put those on this morning. Unbelievable; she’s the type of woman who makes a poet cry over his verse. Turning back around, she grabs my hands, puts them around her waist and stares. Her arms are softly placed around my neck. I sing Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World,” while we sway our hips and move around in a circle.

I’m short of breath as I clench my hand to my chest. I feel my life escaping. I see the phone, still dangling off the hook. Is Jessica still on the phone? Has she heard everything that was said? My eyes gaze away from the fallen goose, towards the windows near the office door. Jessica has heard everything; she is still on the phone, gazing through the office window.

“Jessica, I . . .”

I speak but it’s not even audible. Deyja’s hand shakes, and she drops the gun. I can barely breathe. I yell, the loudest I can.

“Jessica, I l . . .”

I start coughing and sputtering. Jessica is at the door, screaming, crying, scratching, and pounding. I can hear her through the phone and through the door.

“Matt, Matt, no. Let me in. Matt, Matt, Matt.”

Jessica makes a screeching noise that sounds like a cat being tortured. Every lesson that I could possibly learn in life has been learned. I know that there is always a second chance, until you die.

Deyja drops down to her knees and buries her face in her hands. She misused her second chance, and she is guilty. Jeff smugly looks at me. He won’t be charged with this murder either, but if he had never killed his partner, I would still be alive, and he is guilt. Jessica is still screaming and pounding to get in, but if she had never defended Jeff, I would still be alive, and she is guilty.

I’m losing my vision as the room begins to look so bright that I can’t see anything at all. I can’t breath anymore.

Darkness, Deyja, then the White Goose.

“I have a civil suit against Jeff, and you show up at my restaurant asking about a white goose. Now, I see you here, with Jeff. Jeff sent a ton of people over to convince me to call off the lawsuit, but you’re the first guy who was ever successful,” Deyja says to me.

“I just met Jeff yesterday for the first time. He called me back for a second interview today. I was at your restaurant, but that was just a coincidence.” I say.

“If it was just a coincidence, how did you know the name of the robber?” Deyja asks.

“Look Jet, last night I . . .”

Kayla was coming back in with two cups of tea. Deyja sees her and kicks the door shut on her, locking it behind her.

“Jet, that was just mean. Kayla is a very sweet . . .”

“Shut up. I’m tired of your lies, and I’m tired of hearing you talk,” Deyja says.

Deyja points her gun towards Jeff. Her finger begins to tense up on the trigger, so I quickly move in between her and Jeff.

“I won’t let you kill Jeff. This isn’t your second chance. Jet, Jet,” I say.

Deyja looks distant, as though she is looking through me.

“Deyja,” I say.

Saying her actual name grabbed her attention, and she focuses in on me.

“If I’m wrong, there’s always a second chance,” Deyja says as she shoots me, putting a bullet through my chest.

I fall to the ground, looking the goose in the eyes.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you Jeff, why would you kill a business partner and a lover?” I ask.

“Lover? They weren’t lovers; my brother wasn’t gay,” Deyja says.

“Not gay? Are you serious? Your brother was the gayest guy in the city. Where have you been living?” Jeff asks.

“I’ve been living on the other side of the country, up until I launched the civil suite against you, on behalf of the family,” Deyja says.

“So, that was your mistake?” I ask.

“Of course. I dropped the suit. Jeff’s money isn’t going to bring my brother back. Dead is dead, and I don’t want to benefit from his death,” Deyja says.

Deyja’s eyes scan the room. She stares off at the white goose, and I start in with some meaningless conversation to try to cut a bit of the tension.

“Kayla hasn’t come back with that tea I asked for. It’s been quite a while, in fact,” I say.

Deyja starts anxiously pointing her gun at the goose.

“So, Sam, what does a white goose with a dollar bill around it’s neck mean?”

“I was told that it’s a symbol of . . .”

I was interrupted by the sounds of Deyja’s gun going off. I see the goose go flying off his pedestal, as he quickly falls to the floor.

“Jet, this is a weird coincidence,” I say.

She’s holding a gun by her side as her angry, angry eyes scan the room.

“Who the hell are you?” Jeff asks.

“Deyja,” she says.

“Deyja?” Jeff asks.

“What are you doing here Sam?” Deyja asks me.

“I have an interview with Jeff. What are you doing here Jet?”

“I think you know why I’m here,” Deyja says.

“Why are you calling each other Jet and Sam? Aren’t your names Matt and Deyja, and who the hell is on the phone?” Jeff asks.

“I’m guessing it has something to do with Jim Sunderson.”

“Who is Jim Sunderson?” Deyja asks.

“He’s the guy that robbed the restaurant.”

“I see,” Deyja says.

Deyja isn’t moving. She looks very angry. How does she not know who Jim is? I assumed that her and Jim planned on robbing the restaurant together. It makes sense. She kept talking about a mistake that she made. Within the same moment she was saying it was too late to fix things, the restaurant got robbed. She must be here because of Jim, but it really, genuinely seems that she doesn’t know who Jim is.

“Why are you here,” I ask Deyja.

“I’m here for Jeff. He killed my brother,” Deyja says.

“Matt, I’ve heard the recommendations, and I know your credentials. I gotta say too, you make one hell of an argument,” Jeff says to me.

He’s slowly pulling his hand out of his pocket, as if to build some suspense before he grabs my hand and shakes it, but the phone rings right at that moment, and of course, he answers it.

“Jeff here . . . Matt? Ah, yeah Matt’s here, but . . . ah, k.”

Jeff hands the phone to me.

“It’s for you,” he says.

“Hey, Ren, not really the best time man,” I say.

“It’s not Ren. It’s me.”

“Jessica?”

“Yes, it’s me,” Jessica says.

“How did you get the number?”

“I was Jeff’s trial lawyer. I have his number,” Jessica says.

“Right, what’s up?”

“I love you. Please leave there now. Don’t take the job. It’s a mistake. Take your clothes off or do whatever you have to. I don’t care if you come out of there completely naked, I’ll be right here waiting for you,” Jessica says.

“All right.”

“Really?” Jessica asks.

“Really.”

“See you soon?” Jessica asks.

“Very soo . . .”

I drop the phone. I can hardly believe my eyes. After the crazy sleepless 24 hours that I have spent. I go through this extreme whirlwind and now this.