Chapter Fifteen - Enter Louis

Enter Louis is the fourteenth chapter of Alistair A. Vogan's novel How To Lose Your Voice Without Screaming.

One leg ahead of the other, she said to herself. Don’t blow it. Smiling into the room, she closed the door behind herself gently and walked down the long hall, passing the seated girls. She held her breath, her chin up, her back straight. The tap tap tapping of her heels echoed around the hall, inadvertently hammering at their crumbling self-confidence. Some of the girls peered up from their scripts and, nearly defeated, tried to guess what Martha knew. (If they knew, then maybe, it would be easier for them.) Or just to somehow absorb a bit of that confidence, use it... Martha caught the eye of a girl sitting along the wall and gave her an encouraging smile, not presumptuous, not with too much confidence. You can do it her look said to the seated girl. The girl shrugged and smiled, embarrassed at being so vulnerable. 

As Martha walked passed the others they all, first surreptitiously, then overtly, watched her. The sign above their heads said, ‘Please wait to be called.’ Earlier in the day they’d eagerly listened for their name, their ears pricking up each time the man came out, but now they dreaded that moment, hoping maybe the fire alarm would go off, or the city would be hit by an earthquake. Anything... To have passed through from the other side, dead or alive, was what most wanted at that moment. To be that woman, Martha, that young, beautiful, and talented woman walking down the hall without a care in the world, with the confidence that everything would be simply, naturally, …fabulous. Oh, to have that grace… 

The door to the audition room opened and a small, unattractive man whose look said he’d seen it all before stepped into the hall with a clipboard. Through the opened door, several men in suits could be seen sitting on one side of a table facing the door craning their necks to hear what the one in the middle was saying with a sneer. “Margery Robins!” the small man with the clipboard barked, not looking up. Several women swallowed hard, thanking their lucking stars that their names were Eunice, Carol, Mao Lin or Betty. “Margery Robins!...” he said again looking at his watch. A thin, shy woman stood up apologetically and he looked above her head at the wall without emotion, holding the door open. She walked towards the room like a newborn foal with legs yet too thin to hold up its own body. Her tap dancing shoes, already on, clacked and clipped miserably beneath her like an old fashioned toaster’s doors opening and closing as it fell off a kitchen table onto a wooden chair then, after that, onto a linoleum floor.

Outside the air was fresh and cool and Martha descended the stairs drinking it up. She listened for the door to close, still almost holding her breath. There it was, click. She was alone. Alone with this moment. A big smile overtook her face revealing her many white teeth. She had beautiful teeth, like piano keys but without the sharps and flats. She shook her head and focused on the feeling. Beneath the shade of the tree growing out of the sidewalk, she exhaled and took in a deep luxurious lungful of big city air. She could have held onto the feeling for the rest of her life. 

“Yes!” she screamed under her breath and spun around. She stopped with her hands palms facing the ground, Bob Fosse-style. “Yes!” She glanced up at all the big buildings that didn’t seem so big anymore. It was her town now. She’d earned it! No one could take that away. Exhilarated, she reached for the sky-blue knitted cap on her head, ripped it off and threw it into the air as high as it would go. She didn’t care what her hair looked like at that moment. She watched the cap rise into the air like a champagne cork, straight up through the leaves then around the limbs of the tree and disappear. 

She waited a moment then, gave up. The cap wasn’t coming back. She reached into her purse and pulled out another knitted cap, a red one, put it on, and walked up the street. It was midday. Suddenly, the streets were filled with big city people rushing this way and that. Everyone in such a hurry. And she was part of it all! If you’d seen her, didn’t know her from Cain, you’d think that she’d lived in New York City her whole life. She belonged. She felt it. The only thing that might distinguish her was her smile. She simply couldn't stop smiling, and didn’t care. She was happy, content, for the first time in a long long time. 

“You look happy…” A man in brush-cut and short-sleeve plaid shirt smiled lazily, coming up behind her but looking up at the sky-scrapers. His movements were stiff and self-assured, a military man out of uniform. 

As if the sails on her ship had lost the wind and had switched over to the Johnson motor sticking out the back, the bounce left her gate and she moved self-consciously towards some distant object up the street. “…What are you doing here Louis?” she mumbled.

“Wow! Nice to see you too!” he smiled spiritedly but with some confusion. “I’m just saying you look pretty happy,” he said. Perhaps she was having a bad day, his expression seemed to suggest.

He picked up his pace and walked beside her. He glanced up at the buildings. They stopped at an intersection and made a big show of making space for an approaching jaywalker. Louis’ arm touched Martha’s.  “What are you doing in New York City?” she whispered.

“Standing here. Looking at a pretty lady.” He said, taking in the changes in her since seeing her last. He looked like the happiest guy on the planet. She raised her chin and swung the scarf over her shoulder. “You look good,” he noted. She wasn’t sure how to respond. How was she supposed to respond? She didn’t want to hurt him. She knew how sensitive he could be. Then he added, “…for someone who gives up easily.” It sounded playful but stung. “Hey. I’m parked just around the corner. Let me drive you to where you are going? You’re not gonna believe what I’m driving. It’s not a pickup truck…” he smiled, to himself.

“Why are you in New York City?” 

“It’s a big city Martha! There are a lot of people here! Just because someone else is in this city doesn’t mean it’s because of youm” he said, shaking his head. He tapped the shoulder of the person in front of him. “Excuse me,” he said and the man turned back. “Why are you in New York City?” God, thought Martha. Martha could just disappear. The man in front of them shook his head and turned back. Louis tapped another man’s shoulder, then another, and Martha bit her lip as he asked, “Why are you in you in New York City? …Excuse me. Why are you in New York City? Is it because of me?” One of the men chuckled and glanced at Martha knowingly. She looked away humiliated, shaking her head. 

The light turned green. Martha crossed the road. Louis was right beside her, like a Siamese twin. He smiled at her in good fun. “Come on…” he said.

“Louis. Answer the goddam question.” 

He shook his head and his smile dissolved. “Business, I guess you could call it. Things happen in other people’s lives too you know?” he said, obviously annoyed, then hurt. She could see it but she didn’t care. She was angry. She watched him. He looked lost, seemed to be trying to impress her. She felt embarrassed. She softened and slowed her pace, still walking fast, “You’re here on… business?” she said trying to get through to him.

“A meeting… it is not really a big deal,” he mumbled and watched a shiny white limousine slip past. He looked back and she could feel his eyes on her. Suddenly his face lit up. “I can’t believe I’m looking at you. …Look at you!” he said, hesitated, then added, his voice almost cracking and she noticed, only she would have noticed, because she knew him probably better that anyone else did. “You are… so beautiful,” he said. 

She felt her heart skip a beat. Really, when was the last time someone had said something like that to her? It was like sitting next to a fire and realizing just how cold you’d become. She shook her head. It really was a cold city sometimes. You had to hold your cards close and put on a tough exterior. That’s how you survive. She had changed, hadn’t she? She was a little tougher now. But what had she lost? She could feel his eyes trying to take in everything about her. It was nice, but she wasn’t going to let him in.

“You really are!” he said.

“All right Louis,” she said smiling. 

Louis pointed to her large woven purse. “And you’re dancing.” He shook his head. “Just, exactly, like you said you would.” He thought about this amazed as he stepped aside for an old lady. (Louis, always a gentlemen. He had old fashioned values. She had to give him that.)

She watched him take a quick tense breath, saw him glance at her. He had no idea what her life was like now really, did he? He was on the outside looking in, not really understanding. She wondered if the city seemed intimidating to him. She remembered how it had felt to her in the beginning.  “I just had an audition,” she smiled, like she was giving him a glimpse of stolen jewels in her possession. 

“You seeing anybody?” he asked, almost cutting her off. 

Something inside her just turned off. “Yes. Louis,” she said.

His lips moved almost imperceptibly. “Really?” he asked.

“Well, Louis, things change. …People move on,” she said, as delicately as she could.

“Yah, but…” he looked around the street as discreetly as he could, like a man who’s lost his map but doesn’t want the world to know he doesn’t know in which direction to proceed.  “But…” he added.

And with that, Martha could see that that was the reason he was in town. He wasn’t complicated. She knew when a part of him was breaking. She watched for a moment and looked away. Honestly, she felt for him. She’d really maybe even loved him earlier, when things were simpler, when they lived in the same town and had the same dreams. People change. She took a deep breath and jumped in, “Louis. You are a super sweet guy but, come on, we’re different. You’re a practical guy and I’m…” she said.

“…Dancer?” he continued, cutting her off again.

“Yes,” she said. There it was, on the table in front of them.

“You’re a dancer?” He said, and then articulated it, “A dancer? …Martha?” he said incredulous, looking around at the people around them as they walked up the street.

“Louis. Please. You’re just upset.” 

He nodded, thinking about this. He put his hand on her forearm and stopped her, and she saw the muscles around his eyes twitch…  “I’m sorry, but, did you get a part in …anything?” he asked. 

She exhaled and set her face. She adjusted her scarf too. “No, not…” she began. 

“I just wanted to make sure... I’ve never got a part either so …does that mean…” He laughed, then slapped the shoulder of a man in a t-shirt walking by, “Hey buddy. I think I might be a dancer! Do I look like a dancer? Apparently I could be…” Louis looked at her, smiling with dead eyes. She wasn’t amused. Everything wasn’t a joke. To avoid embarrassing her he changed the topic, but she wasn’t listening.

Her mind went blank. They walked in silence. At one point, she wondered if he was still there…

It was just a joke. And she could laugh at herself. He’d taught her that. He’d helped her get off her high horse. But there was a line. He didn’t realize how sensitive some questions are. Making it work in this business, she told herself, requires a delicate balance of hard work and being positive. Sometimes you have to force yourself to be positive. Sometimes, it just isn’t easy. A lot of people don’t understand that. Sometimes you feel vulnerable, but you still get out of bed. You put yourself out there, on the line, everyday. It looks easy but… 

“Hey Louis, “ she began softly.

He cut her off. “So who is this guy?”

“’Who’s this guy?’” she repeated. “Would you knock it off!” 

She stopped and looked him straight in the eye. People in the crowd had to move around them. Several glared. She raised her chin. This was going to hurt. Let’s keep it simple she thought. “Louis,” she began, “People change. It’s as simple as that. Don’t you understand that? …And, really, I’m not getting any younger.”

He looked at her from head to toe pointedly. “That’s for sure.” 

“…Shit.”

“That’s disgusting language Martha…”

She closed her eyes, turned around and walked in the opposite direction, with her fingers in her ears. She could feel him watching her, still standing there, his figure growing smaller and smaller, insignificant. But each store window she passed mocked her, reflecting back to her the truth. She was past her prime, fooling herself, her ass was too big - she was like a marathon runner who’d stretched too long and had missed the race. She’d never have children, she’d always be alone.

At home she’d go through her drawers and count her savings, then, sitting on the edge of her bed, estimate how much time she had left before she was living on the street, a bag lady with no where to go, with hair that looked like road kill.

COMING UP NEXT: 
Chapter 16 - Um, thanks

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News Update: The Silencing of America

Perhaps you missed this when it was first published. This sort of thing tends to get buried...

The Silencing of America
Associated Press / The Ivan Von Noshrilgram Foundation

By ALISTAIR AVERY VOGAN

Published: June 2, 2012

WASHINGTON, DC - This week, Google and Amazon made public their negotiations with the Library of Congress in Washington and a Senate subcommittee over the legal right to purchase, and possess indefinitely, the copyright of vowels. Presidential hopeful, Mitt Romney, who, until recently spearheaded the Senate Subcommittee for Literacy Reform, reported in the Washington Post on Wednesday that the proposal included all vowels. Later that evening, however, he was forced to back down from this claim, stating, “In fact, it will be the five ‘power vowels,’ that is, ‘A’, ‘E’, ‘I’, ‘O, ‘U’, and, unfortunately, only sometimes 'Y'.” Those present said he looked sad as he added the latter clause. Samsung, Nokia, and AT & T have announced that they are investigating the copyrighting of the hard consonants, ‘K’, ‘T’ and ‘B’, which, some say, makes economic sense.

Mitt Romney, though no longer officially representing the Senate Subcommittee for Literacy Reform, has pointed out that the American government has a clear fiduciary duty to the American public. “Americans expect our actions to be in agreement with our stated aims. We’ve said we’ll balance the budget. Let’s show them how to do it!” Romney was quick to state that the present negotiations only concern the American alphabet and will not “in any way” affect its trading partners. "That's a promise China!" Romney said, his two thumbs up.

Supporters of the proposal say this will provide a real, and much needed, boost to the economy. A pay-as-you-go plan has been proposed that would make the vowels, and possibly in the future, the hard consonants, if not the entire alphabet, available to the American public, for an affordable price. It is speculated that the top 1% will choose a one-time fee that could be extended one or more generations. Spokespeople for Amazon assures the public that rates will be very competitive. “We’re on the public's side with this one!” Republican Senator Marco Rubio of Florida, states, “This will absolutely help fund much needed services that have been hardest hit by the economic downturn, like our public schools.” He speculated that lower income families would initially receive subsidies to continue to use the language outside of such public institutions. …Your voices matter to us!”

Obviously an element of trust and good citizenry will be expected, at least until the technology is in place.

Detractors point out that all of this is akin to The Great Land Grab of the 1800’s. In addition, it’s argued that implementing the proposed reform will be next to impossible and cost tax-payers millions. “And anyway,” states Vice President Biden, “access to language is a fundamental human right. The alphabet belongs to everyone, doesn’t it?”

“Nope,” says Bill O’Reilly, host of The O’Reilly Factor and one of the proposal’s staunchest supporters. “Did you invent the English language?” he asked Amy Goodman on Wednesday’s heated broadcast of Democracy Now! “No.” He continued. “And, I suggest, Amy, that if you are using it, just as I am, admittedly, then you are in a position akin to squatting. …Unless you pay for every phoneme you consume.”

“I’d say I’m speechless Bill, but I’m sure that would cost me more than I could afford.” Amy Goodman is reported to have responded.

“Actually, that’ll be a dollar fifty Amy,” said Bill O’Reilly.

“No one has purchased the vowels yet, Bill.”

“And if you don’t own them, but you use them, and you don’t pay, don’t be surprised if there’s some form of legal action. The free ride is over! And don’t come crying to me, or anyone else, unless it’s with consonants, exclusively. If bleeding hearts have a problem with this proposal, heck, I say go and invent your own language!”

“…Or go back to their own country.”

“Sure Amy. That’s fine with me.”

“I don’t like it. I'm American.”

“Amy, it needs to be stated. In the end, the alphabet has gotta be regulated. We need to know where it is and how it’s being used, all the time, perhaps for national security reasons! Outside of book sales and now publishing, which, of course, Amazon is famous for, no one REALLY knows what the vowels have been up to...”

“Google says they too have been concerned for sometime,” said Goodman.

“...Thank you Amy.”

President Obama, as of yet, has had no words to say on the matter. However, a former White House Press Secretary, speaking on conditions of anonymity says, "Clearly, this is just How To Lose Your Voice Without Screaming.”

Act now before it's too late.


Click here to read the latest on 
How To Lose Your Voice 
Without Screaming
by Alistair Octavius Vogan

Chapter Thirteen - I’ll let you be in my dream, if I can be in yours (Part One)

I’ll let you be in my dream, if I can be in yours is the 13th chapter in Alistair Ulysses Vogan's novel How To Lose Your Voice Without Screaming 

The limousine appeared to glow as it approached the entrance to the parking lot. That was the intention. Though it was late afternoon two spot lights were focused on it as it came around the corner of the lot. A wall of security guards moved across the entrance to hold back the crowds. And at that hour, still 90 minutes before show time, the people had collected. As the shiny vehicle approached, the crowd pushed into the security guards and seemed suddenly to grow in size the way a population of moths might when a porch light is turned on in the middle of the night. The asphalt was like any freshly paved road, the outer walls of the studio were indistinct from those of the skyscrapers around it however when the sparkling polished bumpers appeared and the black tires squeaked as they turned, like a new car pulling into a showroom, breaths were held. It was like a unicorn suddenly materializing in an auto plant, the passage of time took on a new pace. Everything slowed down and seemed to come into focus. So many more colours than before. And then after the car had stopped near the entrance the driver appeared and his white gloved hand touched the door. Like a safe, the door opened and the curled jeweled slipper appeared, and the humble, shy face of Zeak the Sheik, that face seeming to say who are these people? What brings them here? They can’t be here for…?

Seemingly overwhelmed, but then a change comes over his face as he, a determination, quite simply bites the bullet and we see he is the leader of men, able to face adversity. He puts his hands on his hips, drill sergeant-like and takes in the crowd. He is assessing. He nods. They please him. Yes. He is among a chosen group, his look communicates.

Inches from them, he is too ‘in the flesh’ to be real. This is a face that is better known than a parent’s. It’s fictional but it’s real and it’s eyes look out at them. The pupils focus and an unreal sensation hits them that these eyes are focused on them. These eyes seem them. Two realities collide and the crowd is speechless. They’ve been reborn. They may have wet themselves. He’s right there in front of them! They can even make out his chest rising and falling. He breaths too, like them!

Children sense greatness, a greatness that can take them in, raise them up. And suddenly they’re embarrassed by their parents. Women sense their reproductive organs turning on. Mothers and fathers forget about their own children. Children forget about the adults. A child’s view is blocked as an adult, mouth agape, steps in front.

You just want to melt.

Some people are talking at an inappropriate volume, with arms stretch over shoulders, mics in hands.

Zeak looks almost embarrassed by the aggressiveness of it, but then smiles amused as a good one comes to mind. “Yes. Yes!” he says, “I have been madly adored. I am sorry I have. It has been a nuisance. …I should like to have been allowed time to myself now and then!” He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, letting them know that he is complicit in the farce that is television. “I just came out for some fresh air folks! Not for a ‘sound bite’!” But of course he has. Bulbs flash as he looks into the eyes of everyone and somehow reaches into their souls. Though most will be turned away, the journey will have been worth it. He notices a striking young woman, a little too made up, with a little too much décolleté, with a figure enveloped in a black satin dress, a little too tight in all the right places. At least for a children’s television broadcast. She locks eyes with him as he pauses and a nervous twitch strikes the side of her mouth like a jump cut. Zeak glances towards a security guard standing outside the line and the man nods. She swallows hard. He steps forward and whispers to one of the guards. The woman looks anxiously from Zeak to the guards and back to Zeak, her breathing growing shallow and rapid, her destiny in question.  Zeak points up at the sky and grins broadly, “What a beautiful day!” The young woman almost faints as the guards part and allow her to pass through, to the other side.

Zeak signs autographs embarrassed and then disappears.

* * *

Kingsley stood beside a dressing table. It was very bright. There were large lights around the large mirror before him – he could see the tungsten filament vibrating - and also lights above him. Voices of people coming and going up and down the hall floated under the closed door, like carbon dioxide. He’d been standing next to the table for some time, uncertain what his next move should be. He was incapable of making a decision somehow. All the activity beyond the door and he was immobile. It seemed to grown in volume antagonistically snuffing out all impetus to action. The clothing he’d come in, the clothing that had shielded his body was folded very neatly in front of him on the table. His pants, next to his shirt, next to his hat, next to, at some distance, his socks. Kingsley, in fact, was folded neatly on the table before him. The who that was looking was another he.

Kingsley imagined his life as existing on a film reel and began to rewind it slowly, surreptitiously, then with growing momentum quicker and quicker. He was walking backwards through hallways doors opening and shutting, people were smiling and greeting him in reverse and then he was traveling down an elevator, drifting through a lobby and directing his ass into the opening door of an old limosine and zipping through streets watching the building disappear around a corner. He was waking up. Darkness. Going to sleep with his fingers in his ears. Turning off the light. Getting into pajamas. Smiling as he polishes the new, large washing machine. Pushing it into place.  Pulling out the key on the front door of the Laundromat. He’s forty, thirty, twenty. He’s smiling, lying next to a woman in a large bed by an open window. He’s getting out of the army. He’s standing in formation, saluting his commanding officer. Putting cereal to his mouth. He’s eight, holding on to the top of a pine tree, high in the air, and it’s drifting back and forth, a giant pendulum moving in slo mo. The air fresh and cool and blowing around him and in the distance he can see another boy running through the field. He turns and waves, and disappears. He’s lying in bed, in flannel pajama bottoms. He’s sweating. To his right is Michael, twelve-years old, mouth open slightly, with his right arm pinned behind the back of his head. He sees the hair beginning to sprout in his brother’s armpit. He lies back and examines his own armpits, but there is nothing there. It’s just a cavity beneath his shoulder. He looks at his brother’s arms, then his own. His are so thin.  He flexes his twig-like arms then runs his hands over his belly, feeling the muscles beneath the skin. He squeezes his gut, his nose crinkles and his eyes bulge. He can easily make out the rising and falling pattern of muscles, so small and insignificant. He falls back into the bed and stares up at the ceiling. He imagines being a man, driving a racecar. He jerks the steering wheel to the right and left. Suddenly the car spins and flips over into a ditch and burst into flames. The spectators jump to their feet. There is screaming. Men carry a canvas stretcher across the asphalt and run towards the racecar. An explosion sends a mushroom cloud rising into the air. Andrea Philips, eight-years old, a beautiful little girl stands up with a white hanky, tears stream down her face. “Nooooo.” There’s a terrible silence, though, miraculously, Kingsley pulls himself out of the tangled wreckage. He’s okay! Someone pats out the flames climbing up his back. He barely notices. The crowd jumps to its feet, goes crazy. Flashbulbs explode and Andrea breaks from her parents, runs down the steps and stops at the side of the road. “Kingsley Kingsley! I’M OVER HERE!” Kingsley looks up, searches the stands and there she is, waving. There’s a ribbon in her hair. The ribbon he said he liked. He jogs out of the ditch, up to the side of the road and rips off his helmet. Nothing can keep them apart. He smiles and waves as more bulbs flash and group of reporters run up to him. He brushes them aside, looks up the track, and waits for a line of racecars to pass. He puts a hand up, in control, telling her to wait. It’s dangerous. He sees her wave, then freeze and slowly drop her arms. Something’s wrong. She looks like she’s just tasted earwax. Is he injured and doesn’t realize it. He looks at his hand, checks his shoulders and arms. He feels his face and senses the puffiness around the eyes, the chin disappearing, the need for a shave. His hairy stomach protrudes, making it difficult for him to see his knees. …He is a grown man, past his prime. He will never get into a racecar. All that is left is insult, and injury.

The door opened and Carol entered. “Ding dong! Wow. You look super!”

There was person in front of him. They locked eyes. It was a man. He too was middle aged, appeared to be melting. He stood in the middle of a room, looking like someone, like his mother but heavy-set, and with a mustache. That person wore chaps and a checkered shirt, and cowboy boots. The chaps were red, and fluffy and enlarged the appearance of his thighs, shrunk his waist, the shirt was gingham, the cowboy boots shiny and black. Around the neck, tied at an angle, was a bandana. It was white and starched. There were holsters, holstering large toy pistols. That mustache, he realized, was painted with greasepaint. As were the long sideburns... Kingsley turned his head to the left and right slowly and, was somehow surprised, when his reflection did the same.

This was NOT his life. This was someone else’s. It wasn’t meant to be this way, though, he didn’t know how it was supposed to be. Even the Laundromat seemed a different universe. Where was he supposed to be? Where was home? Where was his ‘safe place’?

He is in a hallway now. Floating. Behind a small woman with a clipboard. He is an oil tanker pulled by a tiny tugboat. The waves lap against his sides as he passes open doors where people stand like skyscrapers looking on as if he were a large inflated version of himself in a parade. Face after face. They are smiling. Their mouths open and close in slow motion but he can’t understand. The doors disappear and so do the walls, into a blackness. He feels a slaps against his back and voices of encouragement. He looks back but no-one is there. No one is anywhere. He is alone, in a void. There are voices, music, sounds, but he doesn’t understand from where they emanate. He senses a filament before him separating one dimension from another. He will pass into this. It may be inches from him or several feet in the distance. He’s standing on a large white ‘X’ taped to the surface on which he stands. He knows he should never leave this spot. Ever. A voice has told him this.

“Ladies and gentlemen” Boys and girls ...The Hindu everyone, and I mean EVERYONE'S talking about...the raja that's all the rage... Zeak the Sheik!!!!” a disembodied male voice told him. People somewhere began to scream. Something happened, was happening. Something was happening right in front of him, seemingly feet away from him, but he was unable to see it. The screaming continued. They were screaming the man’s name. Zeak the Sheik was somewhere, close, in the other dimension. He was hurt. He’d been attacked, or was being attacked, perhaps by a large animal, and they were witnessing it. Impotent, Kingsley’s face contorted with anxiety. Was he next?

“Excuse me. Mr. Kuchner ?” Carol, glowing before him, smiled. He looked at her horrified. She was inhuman. Her smile brightened and he noticed the large, very large book she held extend towards him. Despite the obvious weight of the tome nothing in her face or movement of her arm suggested strain. She wasn’t human, he thought. She can’t be. Carol corrected herself, “I mean Cowboy Kingsley…”  She smiled. “Here’s your ‘Bible’. If you’re lost, everything you need is in there.” He took the book and watched it rise above his head against his will as the screaming died down and the Zeak the Sheik television theme song began to play. “You look really fantastic,” she whispered enthusiastic. “I really hope this works out,” she said cryptically. He looked down at himself and saw that person, the cowboy, again. “…Just relax. You’ll be more than fine. Have fun!”

Kingsley stared at her and was unable to operate his mouth, as if he was attempting to control it using a remote control with dying batteries. “Oh God yeah,” she said then looked past him and he followed her gaze. It was then that the walls of the black void parted and an unbelievably bright vision appeared only fifteen feet away. He could, miraculously, see into the other dimension. Zeak the Sheik stood beside a carpet hovering several feet in the air. He looked unharmed after all. In fact, he was playing a flute, and sneering visibly. Kingsley watched and listened and noticed that the melody seemed to come from the right above him in the distance. In front of Zeak from the opening of a large wicker basket a snake rose stiffly. Kingsley watched without blinking, was amazed. Would the snake attack Zeak? Kingsley reminded himself that he knew it wouldn’t. Zeak closed his eyes as if he might fall asleep then opened them impatiently and dropped the flute to his side petulantly. Carol eyes widened, swearing under her breath, and she yanked at the void revealing another opening and, in the distance, a man in a dimly lit rectangle hovering in space who was struggling to reach for something. The man hit something and the music stopped. The man fell back into his chair and wiped his brow, and the snake descended uncharacteristically into the basket as if it had been shot. Zeak had stepped forward and was smiling from ear to ear to show that he was a professional, that the show must go on. That smile. It was infectious, thought Kingsley, smiling. He lowered the book, gradually losing himself in the production, forgetting he was wearing a cowboy suit.

“Hey hey kids!” 

“Hey hey Zeak!” Kingsley heard children and adults scream. It was like they were right there. “Today we have something very very,” and as he continued his voice lowered and took on a sickening quality,” very very very very veeeeery special for you. Now.”

Carol glanced back at Kingsley then talked into her hand, “I know that. I can see he’s gone off script.” She swallowed tensely, watching.

“One thing I have learned in my travels, my adventures, is that there is always a curve ball.” He smiled and looked among the faces of his audience. “One you didn’t expect, one that reminds you that despite all your efforts to do your best, to make the world a better place, to be in control, to please all those around you as selflessly as you try, like washing the dishes, or doing your homework, or being nice to your little brother or sister…”

“Oh fuck…” Carol said hideously with her lower lip pulled beneath her teeth, exposing her gums.

Zeak the Sheik began to relax, seeming almost carefree the way suicidal person might once they’ve finally committed to the actual day, time and method of their demise. “the empire you built, created by your genius, your heart and soul, and those people who depend on you, the vulnerable, whose mission it has been to raise them up, to their children, the next generation, a better life… well, after all of this the outcome is not always you possessing full control of your life, or a reward of any kind for your efforts. Know that!” he said pointedly and paused for effect. “And you realize, it’s all just an illusion!” He gestured to someone in the audience smiling gleefully, “You’re really just a prisoner. …This is one of those life lessons.” He grinned gleefully, his chin raised, his dark eyes gleaming. There was silence. He pulled up his sleeves to show more of his darkened skin then raised his framed his face with the back of his hands and smiles obsequiously, “I am the ‘other’, at your service.” And then he bowed.

From up on high somewhere the sound of a crash and snare drum could be heard dryly and then an upbeat rendition of the The Fabulous Zeak the Sheik Show theme song began.

Zeak cocked his head to the right looking up to the AV booth. Kinglsey saw the man in the dimly illuminated rectangle hovering above reflexively slap something before him and the music stopped. The man slid to the back of his rectangle with his hands raised as if he were being held up in an underground garage.

Kingsley nodded and suddenly wondered where he was supposed to be right then. He reached his hand out into the black void a thick material. He pulled up the material and found the end. From there, he began to fold absent-mindedly… Everything he knew and understood was absent from his awareness.

Zeak looked over and saw Kingsley’s feet appearing beneath the curtain, powerfully indifferent to his words. A slap in the face.

“Now. I would like you to look deep inside yourselves and find your friendly spot for my new very very VERY best friend…”

The curtain stopped at Kingsley’s waist, exposing the shining black cowboy boots, white faux lamb’s wool chaps and the holsters.

From where Kingsley stood, a terrifying realization, a seemingly improbable possibility was dawning on him. Zeak’s face was turned in such a way that he could see both his eyes. They didn’t appear to be looking above or below him, not to the right or left of Kingsley… He felt his throat closing up, as if he’d been stung by a killer bee from African, as large as a guinea pig. Kingsley dropped the folded curtain and it descended in a serious of parallelograms. He touched the chaps, the holster, felt the crisp bandana around his neck. Something in his pocket seemed to be cutting into his thigh. He could feel Carol’s hands, then the hands of others placed firmly on his back, forcing him forward at angle or two. From there he could see the pattern of teeth and shining orbs against the darkness. He reached into the pocket and pulled out the photograph of his family. He turned away from the light stiffly and studied it. He was wearing the same clothing. He was a cowboys. They were a cowboy. He felt like a child. He looked at the photo again and saw the older brother, the Indian costume, then Zeak the Sheik  beneath the lights, gesturing with one hand, to Kingsley, beckoning.

COMING UP NEXT: 

Chapter 14 - I'll let you be in my dream, if I can be in yours (Part 2)

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