Interview from Smashwords

Interview with Lisa S Litberg

What book marketing techniques have been most effective for you?

Facebook! Not only because my friends have been supportive and instrumental in spreading the word about my novel, but also because my book is of interest to a very specific subculture of people--those who followed the Grateful Dead around. I belong to several groups for Deadheads, and my novel has been received warmly there. I appreciate the love and hope it helps people relive those days that we are so nostalgic for!

Describe your desk

It is a mess! Right now it's covered in books, papers to grade, lesson plans, lotions, hand sanitizers, fake flowers, a little koala bear....an enigmatic bunch of clutter!

Where did you grow up, and how did this influence your writing?

I grew up in Chicago, so I have been exposed to everything. There is so much culture in Chicago, so much ethnicity, great food, great art, great theater, great museums. There is also crime and all the problems that plague a huge city. Even though I had a pretty good life in a pretty good neighborhood, you can't grow up in Chicago without being exposed to that other side. I'm currently writing a book of short stories about urban youth, somewhat influenced by my students and somewhat influenced by things I've seen in my life.

When did you first start writing?

I have written for as long as I can remember. I wrote my first poem before I was in Kindergarten. I have always loved to write: poetry, short stories, essays, speeches....I even enjoy writing research papers! I kept a journal from the age of 14 until the age of 25 in which I wrote religiously--mostly about boys, in retrospect--and I believe that might be the only thing that kept my sanity through those tumultuous years.

What's the story behind your latest book?

When I was in my late teens and early twenties, I followed the band the Grateful Dead around the country. There was a whole subculture of people following them from show to show, camping together, selling things in the parking lot. It was a unique experience that can't be truly understood unless you were there. The protagonist of my novel, Free, brings that scene to life for readers who didn't experience it, and will be pleasantly familiar to those who did. I always went home after each tour, but there were plenty of people who remained nomadic until the next one, who went to new towns, stayed with new people, found new ways to survive. This intrigued me, and Free is the story of one such person.

What motivated you to become an indie author?

Well, I wrote a book! After years of writing short stories, poems, and unfinished novels, I finally finished one. Then nothing happened for the next few years, because I had no idea what one does after writing a book. Eventually my friend Kevin encouraged me to get it published, and I found a small-press company who published it. They are no longer in business, so recently I republished my first novel under my own label, Scribomusings Press.

How has Smashwords contributed to your success?

I am very new to Smashwords, so time will tell! But Smashwords is user friendly and very fair to authors from what I have seen so far.

What do your fans mean to you?

I love the feedback I've gotten on this novel. My fans see things in my book and in my characters that I might have missed, adding a richness to the story. My fans inspired the book I'm currently working on. So many people have asked for a sequel. They want to know where Free is now, how she turned out. My next book isn't going to be about Free directly, but it will answer these questions. I'm really enjoying revisiting her.

What are you working on next?

I'm working on two things at the moment: a compilation of short stories featuring urban youth, and my second novel, which is not a sequel to my first but does piggyback on it. The short story project will be completed first, and will probably include an excerpt from the novel. I have been a high school teacher in an urban community for over 15 years, and my students have influenced a lot of the stories in my compilation. They find it meaningful to read literature that reflects their lives, that they can relate to. I want to be able to give this to them. 

I started writing my second book due to multiple requests from my fans. They want to see where the main character from my first book is now, and as I thought about it her story began to unfold. However, this time it will be told through someone else's eyes.

Who are your favorite authors?

There are so many. Harper Lee and Carson McCullers are probably at the top of my list. I think To Kill a Mockingbird is the greatest book ever written, and The Heart is a Lonely Hunter a very close second. I have also read nearly everything Stephen King has written. He is a master at characterization. No one can develop a character like King. My favorite books of his are his Dark Tower series. Lately I've been reading Hugh Howey, a science fiction writer who got his start through internet publishing. His Wool Omnibus series is brilliant. Another favorite book is The Mists of Avalon, by Marion Zimmer Bradley. It is fantasy meets historical fiction, and takes place during the time of King Arthur. I could go on. S.E. Hinton, who probably influenced the style of my first novel more than anyone else. William Golding. Barbara Kingsolver. Douglas Adams. Neil Gaiman. Maybe I should compile my top 100 list!

What inspires you to get out of bed each morning?

Well, I'm not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination. If I had my way I'd sleep until at least 9 every day. But what inspires me? People. My son. My family. My friends. My students. I am naïve enough that I still believe deeply in the inherent good within people. I see this manifested every day, in so many ways. I see beauty in everything. It calls to me. It beckons my soul. I have seen enough hardship in my life to know that sadness and beauty are inseparable, that suffering is crucial to living, and that 'this too shall pass'. If there is pain, there will be joy. You'll see it in children playing, in a cat curled up in the sunlight pouring through a window, in flowers pushing up through frozen ground. This is what inspires me to make art. This is what inspires me to live, to breathe, to be.

Do you remember the first story you ever wrote?

I remember the first play I wrote! It was called "The Car Crash", and it was about a mother whose children were yelling in the car and caused her to crash. All the children died but she survived. In the next scene she is at home mourning her children, and their ghosts come back to haunt her. It ends with her jumping out the window to her death. I think I was six when I wrote this. I was always a little macabre.

Re-release of Free, more on the horizon....

Big news over here! I am no longer working with the publishing company that originally published Free. However, Free has been rereleased under my own label, Scribomusings Press!

You can order a print copy of Free through the following online sources:
  Createspace
  Amazon

 And you can order the ebook here:
  Smashwords
  Kindle

 And Free is still available in various independent bookstores, including Women and Children First and City News.

In other news, I have begun working on my next novel! While it is not a sequel to Free per se, it does answer my fans number one question: "What happens to Free?" Stay tuned.......

New holiday giveaway!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

It's that time again!  Click the above link to visit rafflecopter and win entries by following the directions there.  And share, share share!

Merry Christmas!

No more sexy-shaming!

I am so tired of us 'sexy-shaming' women.

If you haven't done it, you've seen it.  Judging women for dressing too sexy, or acting too sexy, or dancing too sexy, or being in a line of work that we consider sexual, or doing things we associate with sex.  And if you're a woman, chances are you've made excuses for yourself for looking or acting or being sexy.  "I didn't realize this dress was so tight!"  "I had no idea these shoes made me look like a hooker!"  "I was only dirty-dancing because I was drunk!"

It's old, people.  I'm really tired of it.

I really started thinking about this when I saw a thread on a hula-hooping facebook page.  Most of the participants in this group are young women, much younger than me.  One of them shared a comment someone left on a picture of video of her hooping that insinuated that she was being sexual.  She defended herself, saying "Don't make hooping sexual!"   The ensuing discussion consisted mostly of people saying either "hooping isn't slutty" or "haters gonna hate", but my thought is this:  so fucking what?  So what if her hooping is sexy?  Women are sexy!  It's part of our nature, and it's been so for ages, even before Salome had poor John's head served up on a plate.  Granted when I hoop there's nothing sexy about it.  I'm lucky when I can keep the hoop going around my hips and throw in a few tricks--adding sex appeal would be nothing short of disastrous.  But if I could hoop sexily?  Then heck yeah I would!  So does that make me a slut?

The obvious answer is no.  But that doesn't stop the pervasive judgement. perpetuated by a conflicted society that bombards us with pictures of barely legal lithe girls in undergarments and touts them as sexy, and then turns their noses up at strippers.  When I started belly dancing, years and years ago, people judged me for it.  After all, you're half-naked, gyrating your hips around.  Doesn't this make you a slut?  I made excuses, concessions.  I didn't dance in restaurants for men--I danced as an art form.  I was sensual, not sexual.  I kept all my lady parts safely tucked away.  MY belly dancing wasn't slutty.  But truth was, when I danced I felt sexy.  Very, very sexy.  No matter what I wore or who I danced in front of--even when I danced alone--I felt hella sexy.

So did that make me a slut?  How about when I started pole dancing?  Again, I was surprised at the judgement, especially by other women but by men as well.  Again, the defenses:  It's athletic!  It's basically aerial gymnastics.  It's not like I'm stripping while I do it!  You can't wear a lot of clothes or your skin won't stick to the pole!  But once again, the truth was buried beneath the defense.  While I liked the acrobatic parts of the sport, I loved the sexy part of the dance. It made me feel beautiful, alive, sinuous, sensual, and yes--sexy.  My clothes got skimpier and sexier.  I danced in heels.  I emulated strippers and their hypnotic seductive moves.

So is that where I became a slut?  No.  And here's the bottom line, which we need to be reminded of again and again and again---dancing sexy does not make one a slut.  Dressing skimpy does not make one a slut.  Stripping for a living does not make one a slut.  Sleeping with consenting adults does not make one a slut.  No matter where, when, or how many.

But slut-shaming is pervasive, so pervasive that I know I lost some of you in that last paragraph.  Our culture really wants to hang onto the notion that women are not supposed to do what they want with their bodies, and that women who do should be scorned and judged.  So we make excuses for ourselves when we do things that could be perceived as slutty.  Or we avoid doing such things completely to avoid judgement.

All those Halloween costumes we scoff at--sexy nurse!  Sexy zombie!  Sexy pirate!  That's in all of us, every day, in real life.  Sexy doctors.  Sexy lawyers.  Sexy EMTs.  Sexy chefs.  Sexy professors.  Sexy baristas.  Sexy CEOS, accountants, dancers, graphic artists, stay-at-home moms.  We don't need a silly costume once a year to be sexy.  We just need to be who we are, comfortable in our own skin, doing our own thing.  For some of us, that might mean dancing in 5 inch heels.  For others, that might mean wearing comfortable clothes and reading a book.  But let's stop the judgement, of ourselves and of each other, for being sexual beings.

So go ahead and be sexy.  Wear what makes you feel good, move in ways that make you feel good.  Sleep with who you want to, when you want to.  But be safe about it.  Know that the judgement is not going away.  Protect yourself.  Don't put yourself in unsafe situations.  Be as sexy as you want to be, and when you hide the sexy side from those who will use it to hurt you, do it not because you are ashamed of it, but because you are strong and smart and safe.

And sexy.

Another blog radio interview

Here's the transcript of my second blog radio interview, with Jaimie Hope!  Click and enjoy!


 Everyone Has a Story Presents: Lisa Litberg 

Some of my reviews.....

Thanks to all who reviewed.  I really appreciate it.

I loved loved loved Free! I read it in one night,I couldn't put it down. She seemed so real to me & the descriptions of different cities & towns painted such a clear picture, I felt I was right there. I can't wait to read more from Lisa Litberg! --
Neelie Sammon Koulouvaris

It seems to me that Lisa Litberg in this novel, do not offer to be philosophical or to have the answer for all the questions, nor the characters don't promise to be the ideal people that you would love but in the in the end, it is a precious jewel of a story and Free is an endearing character that could be anyone of us at some point in life - the rawness to the story, the transience to it, the unapologetic sense of what have become of the characters in the story is the beauty to this novel. It doesn't teach you what to do, it just shows you what could happen and the consequences of the choices that the characters made. The book makes the reader think, or perhaps makes us wiser in making our own choices. --Jeques B. Jamora

What a terrific read. Could not put this book down. I had to find out where Free was headed. Wonderful book and I hope hope hope Lisa Litberg has more stories to tell. --Adam R

This is a great read! Read it in 2 days. I loved getting to know Free (I can totally relate to her at times) and I hope to read more from author Lisa Litberg. Download it or buy the book -- you won't be disappointed. --C. Stewart

AMAZING FUN READ! I'm already hoping for a sequel or a movie! Author does an excellent job of developing the characters and holding your interest. The book covers a young girl finding herself as she follows the Grateful Dead across the country and her experiences and the people she meets along with way. It is very identifiable for those of us who grew up in the sixties and to every young person just following their heart. Highly recommend taking the time to read this one. --Patricia Somogyi

This is a great read! Read it in 2 days. I loved getting to know Free (I can totally relate to her at times) and I hope to read more from author Lisa Litberg. Download it or buy the book -- you won't be disappointed. --Amazon Customer (Huntington Beach, CA)

Free is an excellent book, and very easy to read. The characters are well fleshed out and draw us in from the very beginning. Ms Litberg brings the culture of drugs and the 90s into life. Free is a character that we like, a character we can understand and someone we cheer for from the opening pages. I couldn't put this book down once I started to read.

Bravo to the author on her first book! --Amazon customer

Free personifies the wanderlust many of my generation experienced at that age. Regardless of the forces that kickstart Free's experiences, you get drawn into her journey of self-discovery as she learns about herself through her encounters and travels. Her final geographical destination never concerned me as much as seeing Free find peace of mind. I'm hoping to read more about Free soon.
--Original Wild One

Free pulled me into her world so quickly I found myself halfway through the book the first time I opened it! A great read that kept my attention through the end, which by the way was the only thing I didn't like, it ended! Hope to read more about Free soon or any book by author, Lisa Litberg. --Sunshine Baba

I couldn't put this book down and finished it in its entirety on a 3 hour plane trip yesterday. I felt like I was tagging along with Free on her travels across the U.S. Very unique voice and a great summer read especially if you're on a U.S. road trip (or just dreaming of taking one!). --Amy Bizzarri

_Free_, by Lisa Litberg, is a haunting tale that evokes a myriad of emotion in the reader as it follows the plight of a lost young woman self-named Free on Grateful Dead tours. The first person point of view perfectly suits this story. It allows us to feel her sense of estrangement, fear, and all-too-rare happiness. In one sense, it's a coming-of-age story as we follow Free's exploits around the country, but this is no feel-good tale. I found myself worrying about her as she flew by the seat of her pants in oftentimes dangerous and volatile situations. Free represents just one young girl of a lost generation of kids running away from painful home lives. While many of these kids fall prey to the specter of drugs and predatory people, Free has the grit to maybe make it through the morass of street life to find and save herself. Litberg has created a well-written, compelling story that engages readers as we take the metaphorical and physical journey with this young woman. But it leaves us wondering if freedom isn't just another cage. I'm a fan of intimate character studies, so this book captured my interest and imagination. As with most great books, it leaves us with lingering questions—and wanting more. _Free_ is highly recommended! --Cyn O.

An evocative tale of a few troubled years in a young woman's life. I only wish it had been longer. Recommended! --Hunter

I absolutely love and recommend this book to everyone. While Free could be anyone, she is one of the best identifiable characters I've ever had the pleasure of reading about. She goes through her life learning like most young women do, she has hardships, she becomes stronger and she most of all, should empower young women everywhere to take the journey to find out who they are. This was a quick read for me because I couldn't put it down, when I did, I had to go back and read more because it had me hooked. I had to know what happened to Free next! If you are looking for a quick, fun read that keeps you turning the pages, this is one!! --Jennifer Gunn "J. Gunn"

I found Free to be a very engaging read. It is a unique coming of age story. --
sara monner -

Really enjoyed this book & didn't want it to end. Hope there is a sequel .--Kathy Hebeisen

This is a fun quick read. There are moments that lead the reader to pause and reflect on their personal life experiences and lessons learned. Free has all these adventures that could be (is) a dicey life style. Will her lessons be learned and acted upon. One just travels along with her.
Where is volume 2? --J. Dale

Kept me interested hard to put down. So realistic I could picture the scenes as I was reading this. Last time I read a book like this was Joy In the Morning. I could picture that book as a movie and it became a movie. I'm hoping there's a sequel to the book and a movie. --Babynurse Rachel

Just finished reading Free by Lisa Litberg. The book is easy to read, the story keeps moving, and I think there is definitely a call for the next book for this character. Lisa keep up the good work. Looking forward to reading more of your work in the future. --Linda S. Wright "Ronald P Wright"

Brings me back to a long ago time - when I too was Free. But freedom has a cost, I see that now and am glad the glass is half full, and I am not empty. --Matt Gallagher

---

Jewel's of the Universe Author Spotlight blog radio show!

Here is the recording of the blog radio show I was on tonight!  http://www.blogtalkradio.com/jotugems/2014/09/25/lisa-litberg-free  Thanks to Author Tyleishia Douglass for featuring me!  I talk about Free, but I talk about more than that as well.  Give it a listen!

In regards to Chicago's shootings....

      We Chicagoans can get used to anything. We’ve been putting up with horrid weather, bad traffic, exorbitant taxes and crooked politicians for a long, long time. So I guess it’s no surprise that when we see headlines like “77 Shot in Weekend Violence, 14 Killed”, we just hoist it up on our big shoulders and go about our lives. That is, unless you know one of the 75+ people harmed by violence over the last five days. That probably makes it harder to handle. But chances are, you don’t. Unless you live in one of the distinct communities that boast a litany of shootings each week, mostly involving young, poor minorities, you probably feel removed, maybe even slightly smug, that the violence doesn't touch you. You may even have thoughts like “If that were my kid I’d never let that happen,” or “What’s wrong with their parents” or “That’s what they get for gangbanging.”

       Perhaps thoughts like those are accurate. You can’t argue the fact that the majority—-not all, but most—-of the names on the list of the dead and wounded (if they even bother listing their names) were making poor choices that led to their injury or death. For some, the choice might have been simply that they were out on the streets of a dangerous area. For others, it might be that they were committing their own acts of violence. To me, those details don’t matter. What matters is that we are losing lives here, and every child lost to us is a loss to our entire society. And every time we shake our heads and write it off as somebody else’s issue, we lose a bit more.

       When you scan the list of incidents after another violent weekend, you see things like “19 year old man” or “14 year old boy” or “28 year old woman”. Sometimes there are names, sometimes not. Names or not, these are faceless individuals, most likely in dangerous areas, possibly making bad choices, maybe in the wrong place at the wrong time. And that is all we know. The news reports don’t usually say things like this:

 Luis hated school until he found poetry. After that, he couldn’t stop writing. He wrote countless poems, many about his violent life and the choices he was making. He was funny and candid and got along well with his teachers and peers. Luis was killed by gun violence at the age of 17.

 Marley was good looking, happy, and funny. He made jokes all the time. The girls loved him. Though he could barely read he tried hard in school because he wanted to graduate to make his mother proud. It was hard, because he had health issues that kept him out of school a lot and had to be constantly monitored by doctors. He seemed to be doing better when he was shot to death at the age of 19. His classmates clung to each other and wept when they heard the news.

  Miguel was a hyper, rambunctious freshman, silly and immature for his age. His teachers worried for him because of his gang involvement. He was killed the summer after his freshman year. His family is featured in the documentary The Interrupters, visiting him in the cemetery daily.

 George wrote editorials for his high school newspaper. He was so smart that he graduated high school early. He opted to stay in Chicago for college because he didn’t want to leave his family and friends. He hadn’t yet graduated college when he was killed.

  Aaron wasn’t that into school work, but he was friendly and funny and liked to play around with his teachers. His family moved to a better neighborhood hoping for a better life, but he still went back to the old neighborhood to see his friends and get into trouble. He was shot while running from police when he reached down to pull up his pants-—the officers thought he was going for a gun. He was 17.

Augie was a heavy set, short, silly kid. He was well liked by the staff and teachers at his school. His family sent him out of state to get him away from the streets, but he must have ended up back here, because I heard the other day that he was one of the 14 killed these last five days, shot to death while on his porch. He was in his early 20s.

 I could go on. In my fifteen years of teaching I have lost many more students and former students to street violence.   Maybe to everyone else they’re just names on a paper, kids acting stupid, products of bad parenting, somebody else’s issue. To me they were children with strengths and weaknesses, promises and potential.   I weep when I read about another child lost to us, because I know those names on the list were real people, kids with hopes and fears, who were loved by their families and their friends and their teachers.  I will never get used to the violence on our streets. I will never see it as somebody else’s problem. This is my problem.  This is everyone's problem.

       I keep the following poem on the wall of my classroom, and read it to my students frequently. It is a fitting memorial, and a cautionary tale, and I'm sure Luis would be proud that I was sharing it if he had lived.

I am strong and brave

I wonder if my braveness will get me killed.

I hear gunshots.

I see people dying, hurting, in pain.

I want it to stop.

I am scared, worried.

 

I pretend it is OK to do what I'm doing.

I feel nervous fear.

I touch my body to see if I'm still alive.

I worry I will get killed, and not see the people I love.

I cry at night just thinking.

I am scared, worried.

 

I understand I need to stop.

I say will I live to see 30?

I dream I can live a normal life.

I try to make it happen.

I hope I can live to see my child grow up, and not make the same mistakes I did.

I am strong and brave,

even though I feel different inside.

Win a free signed copy of Free!

Free won't be released until July 4, but you can win a signed copy to be sent to you as soon as it's off the press!  Just follow the instructions below to earn raffle points.  Contest begins June 20 and ends June 30 at midnight.  Good luck!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

This one's for the Deadheads....

One more excerpt from Free.  This one's especially for all my fellow tourheads...ah, don't it bring you back...

There’s nothing like the parking lot of a Grateful Dead show. It’s a whole culture of its own, above and beyond the rest of the world, boasting its own food, dialect, attire, values and mores; an intricate tapestry of people from all ages, backgrounds, and walks of life. Music wafts from everywhere: Dead, Phish, Bob Marley, and various other groups that can range from classic rock to new age, from jazz to alternative. Odors linger in the air: pungent tomato sauce for spaghetti or chili, buttery grilled cheese, the ever-popular veggie burrito.

The cars lined up in rows vary by make and model, although there are a lot of VW buses, campers, vans and RVs. They are decorated with stickers and slogans, and tapestries hang from windows. License plates claim a multitude of states, from North to South, from East to West, although tonight there will be more from New Jersey than anywhere else. I haven’t seen Chuck’s bus yet, but I know they’re here because they passed us yesterday on the road. Eric and Mark had agreed to go to will-call every hour on the hour until they found each other. Eric left to meet him about forty-five minutes ago.  I’m going to hook up with him at 6:00 in front of the venue, to let him know if I found a ticket or not.

Right now I’m on Shakedown Street, which is the name given to the strip of the lot dedicated to vendors. You can buy just about anything here:  food, clothing, jewelry, artwork, stickers, beer, soda, books, pipes. Vending is illegal, and sometimes security will give vendors a hard time and confiscate their stuff. This sucks— it’s like the cops swooping down and taking away your paycheck. But mostly those of us selling legal merchandise are left alone. I find it’s safer to walk around with my hemp, rather than setting up shop on the strip. Besides, I get bored sitting in one place for so long.

I haven’t sold anything yet, but I’m not worried; it’s early, and most of the townies aren’t here yet. Most of the people here already are other vendors, and we don’t buy much except for food and beer, or other necessities. It’s the people who live here who want to buy stuff, kind of like tourists in Mexico or someplace like that, except that here the products are coming to them instead of the other way around. I expect to make at least fifty dollars tonight, but if I’m lucky I’ll make closer to a hundred before I stop to try and score a ticket. I want to have enough money to buy one if I have to; this is the kickoff of summer tour, and I definitely want in the show tonight. I also want to find a ride to the next show, which is much easier when you have gas money to kick down. But right now I’m just kind of wandering, looking for people I know.

I decide to cross the venue to the other parking lot, just to check it out. Later on this area will be filled with people—people in line waiting to get into the show, and others selling and searching for tickets. A lot of people, myself included, will be looking for a “miracle,” or a free ticket. There are various ways of doing this, but the most popular is to walk around with your finger in the air to show that you want one ticket, and announce that you need a miracle. Hopefully, sooner or later someone will give you a ticket into the show—no strings attached. It’s a phenomenon that I have witnessed at no other  groups’ concerts—not that I’ve really been to many other groups’ concerts—and I’m not sure why there are so many free tickets floating around. But I’d estimate that I have gotten into about sixty percent of the shows I’ve seen absolutely free, and about twenty percent for half price or less. I haven’t paid full price for very many shows at all, which is good, because they can be pretty spendy.

There are other ways to get into shows for free. Sometimes people slip by with counterfeit tickets, or stubs from previous shows, but that’s pretty rare. I know a girl who swears she can get in by “making herself invisible” and walking right past the people at the gates. That has never worked for me, and to be honest, the night she demonstrated it to me it didn’t work for her, either. Sometimes someone inside the venue will open an unused door, letting whoever happens to be on the outside in, but that’s a matter of being in the right place at the right time. It happened to me last spring in Canada. As I walked alongside the venue, the door just flew open, and I ran up the stairs into the show and disappeared into the crowd before security even knew what was happening. But you can’t count on that. I’ve had the most success by far with miracles.

Of course, when all else fails, you can try to break into the show by going over or under a fence or by rushing the gates. Last year at Deer Creek I got caught up in a mob of gate-crashers. I found myself running for a chain-link fence and climbing like mad, security hot on our tails. I was almost to the top, my heart pounding quickly with fear and exhilaration, when the whole fence toppled backwards under our weight. I barely got out from under it and away before the guard caught me. Thinking about it later, I realized how stupid it was; how easily someone could have been hurt. On top of that, it was an act of vandalism—we tore that gate down! But at the time I was so caught up on getting into the show that none of that even occurred to me.

The other parking lot is virtually empty. I haven’t seen any of the kids I know from tour. Some of them probably blew it off because it was New Jersey, and just about everybody seems to hate Jersey. I don’t mind it—at least not here in the parking lot of Giants Stadium. The only place I won’t go to see a show is Iowa, and I don’t think I have to worry about the Dead playing there anytime soon. 

I’m walking around the venue just to check it out—I’ve never been here before—when a man approaches me. “Need any tickets?” he asks. He’s looking around nervously, like he’s selling crack or nuclear weapons or something.

I smile engagingly. “I need a miracle.” He is wearing a T-shirt and jeans, with short hair and a mustache. He looks like a shyster, like your typical scalper, and I’m not expecting him to give me a ticket. But he looks at me for a second and then pulls one out of his pocket.

“What the hell, kid, maybe you’re good luck,” he says as he hands it to me.

I can barely believe it—it’s not even 3:00 p.m. yet, and I already have a ticket! I thank him, and he smiles and says, “No problem. Enjoy the show,” as he walks off. Goes to show, you can’t judge a book by its cover.

Another excerpt from Free

At my friend Neelie's request, and in honor of my upcoming trip to New Orleans, here's another excerpt from my novel.  Free will be released July 4!

New Orleans is hot. A thick, wet hot. The kind of heat that follows you everywhere and clings to your skin beneath your clothes; that enfolds itself around you like a blanket. I don’t mind. I was sick of the cold in Chicago, sick of layering clothes on top of each other to keep warm. I’m wearing a tank top and cut-off shorts right now, sitting on some rocks by the Mississippi River. It’s pretty here. There are big boats with names like Mississippi Queen and Belle of New Orleans sitting on the river expectantly, waiting for their turn to go somewhere.

I’ve been all over the country, but never anywhere like this. The houses all look European and Gothic, with wrought iron gates and bars on the windows. People do tarot readings in the streets. There are strip clubs, sex shows, bars, bars, and more bars, ghost and vampire tours, aboveground cemeteries. In the Garden District there are huge mansions painted in pastel colors and lavish with ornate fixings. The streetcars run clanging down the street. It is a town of mystery, of rituals and secrets, and yet people are open and friendly. It’s a phenomenon I haven’t quite figured out yet.

We’re living with some of Arkansas Joe’s friends, in a run-down building right outside the French Quarter. It’s not the greatest place to live, but it’ll do for now. It was a last-minute decision to come here. I ran into Joe right before Eric came back, and he said he couldn’t wait any longer; he was leaving in a week. I told him I was coming. We left two days after Eric returned. He was bewildered and quietly angry. He kept wanting to know why I was leaving. I wished I could tell him. I still don’t know why myself.

Arkansas Joe’s friends have a table at the French Market, and I sell some of my jewelry there. I also do hair wraps in Jackson Square, where the tarot and palm readers are, and sometimes down here by the river. I don’t have a permit, but I haven’t been caught yet. This is my favorite place to do hair wraps. I like being near the water. There was no water in Iowa, but lately I’ve been spoiled. Joe does cemetery tours for a living. It’s not a real job. He waits around the cemeteries for tourists to come by, and then he offers to take them around the cemetery and tell them about it. I guess tourists visit the cemeteries because the aboveground burials are so unique. I’ve heard a lot of reasons why they bury their dead above ground, but I think it’s because the land is so swampy that bodies would wash away. He doesn’t charge a fee, just requests a donation. He usually gets them. I asked him how he learned so much about the cemeteries. He laughed and said he makes it up.

I think of Eric a lot. I miss him. Maybe I’ll send him a postcard or something.

There are a lot of homeless kids in New Orleans, which is no different than Portland, San Francisco, or anyplace else I’ve been. Even Chicago had its street kids huddled together down by the Alley at Belmont and Clark. The kids here sit along the narrow, cobblestone streets of the French Quarter and ask the tourists for money or food. Joe knows a lot of them. I’ve seen a couple that I knew from tour, all dazed and out of it, strung out on dope. They asked me for some, and when I told them I didn’t use, they walked away without a word.

No matter what day of the week it is, Bourbon Street is a party at night, alit in neon and crowded with people. People drift in and out of the bars, taking their beverages outside with them because you can drink on the street. Music pours from every building, and people stagger through the streets, laughing, fighting. Girls lift their shirts and show their breasts for the ninety-nine cent beads the guys throw off the balconies, and guys stagger in and out of the Barely Legal or Topless/Bottomless clubs. I think Kathi would love it here. In the morning they hose the streets down, because they smell like garbage and urine.

We live right outside the French Quarter in a bad neighborhood. There are housing projects across the street from our apartment. New Orleans is the murder capital of the world, I guess. I don’t care. It adds to the mystique. So do the rats; giant rats roaming down the cobblestone streets, as big as cats. They scare me more than the bad neighborhoods do. A card reader once told me they were the spirits of the dead. I don’t usually believe in that stuff, but who knows? New Orleans is like that. 

“Hi ya, Free,” a voice calls behind me. I jump, startled. It’s Maria, one of the tarot readers from Jackson Square. I had been thinking such creepy thoughts that she caught me off guard. She laughs. “Did I scare you?”

“Startled me a little,” I admit. “Are you done working?”

“Taking a break,” she says. “Toby’s covering for me. There aren't a lot of people out today.” Toby is an artist. He paints pictures of people for money.

“Can Toby read cards?” I ask.

“He’s getting there,” Maria says. Maria has dark, thick hair; dark, thick skin; and black eyes set deep under dark, thick eyebrows. She looks like a fortune-teller, so a lot of people pick her to read their cards. She doesn’t wear drape-y capes or flowing skirts like some of the psychic readers. She’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt. She says she makes more money than anyone else there, and that most of her customers come back. She says it’s because she’s really psychic. “I’ve been teaching him. You should learn, Free. It’s a good way to make extra money.”

I shrug. “I don’t think I’d be good at it. I’m not psychic at all.”

“You never know,” Maria says, smiling. “You want a reading?”

“I can’t pay for it,” I protest.

“I know,” Maria says, “but it’s good for business when people see me reading instead of just sitting there. I’m sick to death of reading for Toby and Jeannette all the time.” Jeannette is a palm reader who works next to Maria. “Come on back with me. It might be good for you.”

“Okay,” I say, getting to my feet. We walk over the train tracks and across the street. There are usually a lot of people in this part of the Quarter, but today is kind of quiet. Toby is sitting at Maria’s table, studying the cards. He looks like he’s really concentrating. Toby always seems to be in his own little world. He’s the skinniest person I’ve ever met, and his face is full of acne. He has pretty eyes, but they’re hard to notice through all of his pimples. He looks up as we approach. “Hey, Free, hey Maria,” he says slowly. Toby always talks slowly.

“I’m going to give Free a reading,” Maria tells him. He nods but doesn’t move, so Maria says, “Can I sit, Tobe?”

“Oh,” he says, getting out of the seat, “Sorry.” He ambles back to his chair and drawing pad. He’s really spaced out, but he’s the best artist I know. His drawings look like photographs.

Maria sits down and motions for me to sit. She hands me the cards. “Shuffle them, and focus on your energy as it diffuses through the cards.” I have no idea what she is talking about, so I just nod and shuffle. Maria closes her eyes and breathes deeply, and it is suddenly silent except for the ripping sound of the cards as I shuffle. Just as I’m starting to feel a little nervous she says, “When you feel complete, cut the cards with your left hand, twice to the left.” She makes a quick gesture with her hand. Her eyes are still closed, and she still breathes deeply. I shuffle one more time and then cut the deck like she showed me. Maria opens her eyes and smiles, and I feel a little better. She picks up the piles and puts them back on top of each other. Then she lays down three cards in a row. The backs are blue and there are some symbols or something on them—cups and swords and things.

“This is a simple reading,” she says. “Past, present, future.” She flips over the first card, which shows a figure on a horse. “The Knight of Swords.” Her brow furrows as she studies the card, and then she looks directly at me. “This represents a man in your past. Maybe more than one man.  He’s intellectual and logical. Sometimes he’s detached and emotionless, sometimes he’s angry. It could just be energy from your past that you need to let go of. Maybe you need more emotion in your life. Maybe it’s you.” She looks at me expectantly. I don’t know what to say, so I just nod. She flips the next card. “Present.” A man is in a boat on the water. His back is to us. “Six of Swords,” she says. “You’re presently leaving something behind or giving something up. Maybe him.” She points to the Knight of Swords, and I think of Eric. Did I tell Maria about him? I can’t remember.

Maria is staring at me again, so I say, “That makes sense,” even though I’m not sure that it does. She seems encouraged. She flips the last card over. It shows people falling from a building that was struck by lightning. Maria frowns. “Hmmm…” she says slowly. She seems to be considering.

“What is it?” I ask nervously.

Toby peers over. “The Tower!” he says. He somehow sounds excited even though he is still speaking slowly. “That’s the worst card in the deck. Something bad is gonna happen to you, Free.”

“Toby!” Maria turns to him. “That’s no way to read cards! You have to remain positive.” She looks back at me. “The Tower is never welcome, but it still can be positive and necessary. This means that your life is going to change drastically, but what grows from the ruins can be even better.”

I nod nervously. Drastic? Ruins? I don’t like this. I wish I’d never let Maria do this for me. It didn’t even drum up any business; there’s still no one around. Maria can tell I’m upset. “Don’t worry, Free. Your life probably needs a change, don’t you think? And really, what do you have to lose?”

It’s true. I have nobody and nothing. What could happen that’s so terrible? I decide to stop worrying about it, although Toby’s reaction keeps playing in my mind.

July 4 is the day!  Here's the press release....

Free excerpt

My first novel is to be published sometime this year by Vigilante Publishing Group, which has motivated me to resurrect this blog.  Here's an excerpt.  These are the opening pages from the novel Free, a coming of age story about a girl trying to find her place in the world.

Chapter One

Midwest Summer Tour, 1993
 

            I’m in the back of a VW bus, sharing floor space with an overstuffed duffel bag, two guys who are sprawled out asleep, and a German shepherd named Rex.  The duffel bag is mine.  It contains everything that I own at this junction of my life, except for the sleeping bag that’s spread out for padding on the floor of the bus.  The Shepherd isn’t mine; he belongs to Chuck, who’s driving the bus.  His wife is in the passenger seat.  Her name is Angel and Chuck calls her his old lady.  I don’t know the names of the two sleeping guys, but I think I heard someone say they were from New Jersey.

            My name is Free.  Usually when I tell people that they laugh and ask me what my real name is.  I just look them dead on and repeat it:  “Free.”  I left my old name behind with my old life; shed both of them like a useless layer of skin.  When I stepped free of that world I took the name Free.  It is my real name.  I picked it myself.  What could be more real than that?

            I sit up and stretch, surveying the morning through the back window of the van.  Rex looks up at me, panting.  It’s hot already and it can’t be nine yet.  Rex puts his head in my lap and I scratch behind his ears.  When I ditch this ride, he’s all I’m going to miss.  Well, maybe Angel.  She’s all right, but Chuck is a big asshole.  I look out the window and watch the cornfields flying by on both sides.  Welcome to another Midwestern summer day.  I turn to the front of the bus.  “Where are we?”

            Chuck doesn’t answer.  He’s staring straight ahead, and his knuckles are white on the steering wheel.  Not a good sign.  He’s probably hung over from last night.

            Angel turns her head.  “Nowhere, Kansas,” she replies.  She’s about fifty and looks it, except when she smiles.  Her gray-blonde hair has mostly escaped her ponytail and is flying around her face.  She’s smiling now, but ruefully.  She hates the Midwest as much as I do.

            I turn around and lean back against the front seat, wishing I had a book.  I’d read anything at this point, even one of those trashy romance novels my mother used to read.  I had a book on my last cross-country trek; a Stephen King novel called The Stand.  I read it over and over and never got bored of it—it was that good.  But I ended up trading it to another book-lover for a sandwich.

            Instead I pull out my hemp and beads and start making more necklaces.  This is my job now.  It’s not bad—I don’t mind being my own boss and making my own hours.  I’m not going to get rich this way, but I make enough money to pitch in on gas and eat, and even occasionally buy a ticket for the night’s concert—when I can’t get in for free, that is.  I’ve tried swinging other things as well—beer, grilled cheese sandwiches, hand-sewn bags.  For a while I was riding with a sister who made patchwork baby-doll dresses.  They were beautiful, and she made a killing.  But that’s not an option for me.  What am I going to do—strap a sewing machine to my back?  Hemp jewelry works out much better— it’s lightweight, inexpensive, and easy to make.

            “Cool beads.  Where are they from?”

            I look up, startled.  It’s one of the New Jersey guys.  For a moment I had forgotten anyone was back there with me.  He’s wearing a pair of denim cut-offs and nothing else, leaning cross-legged against the other side of the bus.  His hair is brown and curly, almost bushy, kind of like Bob Dylan’s.  He’s absently petting Rex, who apparently abandoned me when he realized I was busy with something else.  Nice show of loyalty.

            “I don’t know,” I shrug.  “I pick them up here and there.”

            “From stores or from people?”

            “Both,” I reply.  Why does he care where my beads come from?  His gaze is making me uncomfortable, but I don’t show it.  I stare straight back at him.  His eyes are green.  He doesn’t look away.

            “It would be cool if every one had a different story behind it.  You know, like where it came from.  It would make the jewelry so meaningful.”

            I’m not sure what to say to this.  “Well, there’s no story.  Sorry.”

            I hear a snort of laughter coming from behind him.  “Don’t mind him,” says Jersey guy number two, propping himself up on his elbow.  I notice he has a thick Jersey accent, which makes me realize the other guy didn’t. “Eric thinks everything should be meaningful.”

            “Everything is meaningful,” Eric says solemnly.  He doesn’t smile when he says it, but then he looks back at me and smiles.  He’s really good looking—not that that matters.  In my experience, it’s the beautiful people who are first to screw you over. 

            His friend is pulling his shirt on.  He’s built bigger than Eric, who is bone-thin.  His straight blonde hair is all tangled and matted.  Maybe he’s trying to dread it.  “I’m Mark,” he says.  “This is Eric.”

            “I’m Free,” I tell them. 

            “Freedom, or Free?”  Eric asks.

            “Free,” I reply.  I brace myself for the inevitable “What’s your real name?”  but he only nods.  Silence falls in the back of the bus, and I’m glad.  I don’t like to talk about my life, and that seems to be all people want to talk about on the road.  Where are you from, where have you been, how many shows have you seen…everyone wants to talk about what’s already been done.  I would rather talk about what is yet to happen.

Night Watch

This is an awful story I wrote in high school. I was quite proud of it then. Now I find it kind of laughable, but it did inspire my rather fabulous tattoo, and for that I am grateful.


She saw him ahead of her and ran, her bare feet barely touching the soft wet grass. She ran quickly, trying not to laugh, knowing that he could disappear at any moment. Her long hair flew in her face and she stopped to push it out of her eyes, gasping for breath. He was gone.

She collapsed on the ground and buried her face in her hands. Night after night she went through this. Night after night she saw him in the field and ran, wondering if she were crazy and laughing at herself. Even now she laughed through her frustrated tears.

It would be simple to write this off as insanity, to concede that this man didn't exist, and to sleep through a night for once. But she knew that she was not crazy; knew that he was real. She had spent a night with him once; he was warm, living, breathing, flesh and blood.

She remembered clearly that night. Summer, cool breeze, fragrant scent of flowers hovering in the air. The night had called to her; she couldn't sleep, so she had left her home and walked to the field. Halfway through she saw him, standing straight, erect, seemingly staring directly at her. Her first impulse was to run, but she was drawn forward to him. She stopped before him and their eyes met, until she turned hers away, flustered.

Burning with the awkward silence, inwardly wondering what she was doing, she forced her voice to be light. "Beautiful night, isn't it?" she asked politely, trying to meet his gaze again.

He nodded, staring through her with his intense brown eyes. "Beautiful. Out for a walk?"

She nodded. "I couldn't sleep." She felt a peculiar sense of reality shifting, of normality slipping, and for a fleeting moment wondered if this was a dream. Perhaps she was still in bed, had only dreamt of going for a walk, of meeting and speaking to this beautiful man.

He smiled, and somehow she felt he knew her thoughts and blushed, overwhelmed by a feeling of naked vulnerability. "I couldn't sleep either," he said wistfully. "Will you walk with me?"

No! she screamed inwardly, I have to go home! but she heard her voice say, "I guess so," nervous, yet rich with muffled excitement. He took her hand and she felt energy shoot through her body and again the strange, detached-from-life feeling. They began walking, and she had the sensation of not really moving, as if she were gliding, guided by his hand. They came to a tree illuminated by the moonlight, and he turned to her. She saw her own reflection in his eyes briefly before he kissed her, and then she knew for sure that this was a dream, for if this were real she wouldn't be kissing this strange man, would she? She wouldn't be allowing him to remove her clothing, to lower her onto the soft wet moonlight. Yes, its a dream, she decided, surrendering to the fantasy cloud surroundering her and the beautiful man beside her. Its all right; its just a dream.

The next morning she awoke in her bed. It was a dream after all, she realized, a beautiful, vivid dream. But still it felt real to her, and she revelled in the afterglow throughout her blurry routine of a day. And that night she gave into temptation and surrendered herself again to the night and the park.

It was again a beautiful night, so like the one before. But that was just a dream, she reminded herself sternly, and then she saw him. Her heart skipped a beat, her stomach plummeted. She breathed deeply, but although he had startled her with his presence she was not truly surprised to find out he was real; she had known that all along. She forced her legs to move toward him. He leaned against the tree, looking directly at her, and she was close enough to see that strange sadness in his eyes, to feel again the displaced feeling of not quite being alive. And then he disappeared.

It made no sense, she reflected from the ground where she had fallen, the moonlight reflecting the tears on her face. But that was how it had been, every night after the mysterious encounter and again tonight. Sometimes she would walk toward him, sometimes she would run, sometimes she would stand still across the park and watch him. But inevitably he would disappear, leaving no trace of his existence but for her memories of that sweet summer night. Always she would feel the awful frustration of having lost something she had never quite found. Then she would go home to sleep, as she did tonight, knowing that tomorrow would find her in the park again, repeating the pattern, reliving the dream that was no dream.

The next night she saw him again. Once again he stood at his tree; she started toward him as always, but then abruptly she stopped and called out. "Please...please don't go!"

"Stay there," he called out harshly.

"But..." she faltered.

"Stay!" he yelled, his voice echoing through the night. Startled, she could do nothing but obey, although she trembled at his approach. "Don't move." She wanted almost nothing more than to bolt from the park, but she had come this far; she had to stay now. He stopped before her, staring. His intense brown eyes burned into hers until she lowered them, but he forced her face up roughly. "Look at me." She did, depsite the fear rising within her. "What is it that you expect from me?"

"I don't know!" she cried, frightened and confused.

"Then why do you come here every night?" Beneath the anger on his face she could see a tinge of pain and was touched through her fear, wishing she could free him from whatever demons these were that tormented him. His hand under her chin burnt her skin but she found now that she couldn't move when she tried. She was paralyzed and he had all control.

"I don't know," she whispered through her tears.

He stared into her eyes, searching, and dropped his hand. "You really don't know, do you?" he said angrily, sadly, turning away. "You're playing in a world you know nothing about. How did you get here?"

"I don't understand what you mean," she stammered. He looked at her expressionlessly, and she felt she had to continue to speak, to fill the terrible, throbbing silence. "I was walking in the park and I saw you, and you took me in your arms...I thought it was a dream." She heard her voice echoing, high-pitched, almost shrieking, and wondered if she was crazy after all. "But then I say you again and chased you, and you always disappeared. You always disappeared!" She began to laugh, unable to quell the hysteria rising within her. "That's why I'm here! That's what I'm here for! Are you blind?" She stopped, and the sudden silence overwhelmed her, the word "blind" echoing in the night.

He shook his head and broke the silence thundering in her ears. "Blind? No. I'm not the one who is blind." He turned his face to the moonlight and walked to his tree, patting it lovingly. Abruptly he turend back to her. "You've dug your own grave. You should leave. Now."

"But I can't move!" she protested, and nor did she want to. She wanted to stay near him, drinking in the beauty of his presence. She wanted to free him from his troubles, to understand him, to feel what he felt.

"Is that really what you want?" he murmured, so softly she wasn't sure at all he had said it, and how could he read her mind like that? He didn't wait for an answer, but stepped back and said, "Then its too late."

She had a sudden sickeing feeling of the humanity being ripped from the core of her very being. Then a thick pain wrenched through her stomach andn she felt her legs join together, bonding as one. She sank into the ground and felt limbs growing, spreading, drinking in the soil as growths burst through her skin, spreading, blossoming, blooming upward, and the word "tree" raced through her mind as the transition completed itself.

Silence fell heavily again on the park. He smiled, but there was still a sadness in his eyes as he walked to this newest tree and leaned against it. The moonlight shifted to illuminate this tree, his tree, and he stood intense, erect, watching, waiting.

5/21/91

Untitled bit o' prose...

Safely encased in her car, she lets the world outside pass her by. City scenes whiz past on both sides. A flash of blonde hair, big smile, colorful tattoo advertising pale flesh, and the mini-van in front of her pulls over. She watches in her rear-view mirror as he makes a u-turn and disappears, in search of unnamed pleasures. An abandoned business juts from the earth on her right. She watches a huge man walk his German Shepard through the overgrown, dandelion-peppered grass until the light changes.

Highway now, el tracks flanking her left side. The Sears Tower looms ahead like a steel beacon, but before she reaches it she veers off, looping around to the next highway. The Greyhound bus station leaps out as she passes, reaching deeply to penetrate the inner recesses of her brain, those places where she stores that which she would rather not recall. Dimly she dismisses it, but still she feels a scrabbling in her chest, like some small trapped animal desperately seeking a way out.

Town Hall Pub

As he listened to the sounds of yelling coming from the hallway, Caleb found himself lonely and depressed. Everything in his life was falling apart. He could sense Nina slipping away from him. The night he had decided to move here everything had seemed so clear. His friend Doug’s girlfriend Nan had given him a tarot reading, and the cards said it was a good time for a change. They also said a relationship would be favorable. He knew it was a sign that their friend Nina was the woman for him, and he couldn’t lose her because he lived so far away. Doug wanted him to move in and change his lifestyle, get his shit together, and he agreed a change would probably do him good. He certainly wasn’t doing anything in Indiana, living off his girlfriend, in a loveless relationship based on convenience. He wasn’t even painting anymore. So he left the girl, threw his few possessions into his Honda Civic, and drove the three and a half hours to Chicago and Nina. 

 But now he was homeless, carless, and soon to be Nina-less, the way things were going. Doug and Nan threw him out of their place when he got laid off from his job. Then he got into a car accident, drunkenly driving home after Nina’s work’s Christmas party. The car was totaled. Nina had not been the same with him since her friend Donnie had died, even though he had done everything possible to comfort her. He even let her hang out with her ex-boyfriend Gus, whom he suspected wanted her back. Hell, he even drove Gus downtown to get his methadone the day they found out Donnie died. He felt unappreciated and taken advantage of, but if he complained to Nina, she would tell him to just break up with her then. That was the last thing he wanted. Nina would get mad when he spent the money his parents sent him occasionally on alcohol, but he had to drink sometimes. Otherwise he didn’t think he could make it through a day. Doug’s anger at him hurt him more than he would admit. He had done nothing wrong. He hadn’t quit his job, or gotten fired. They just had too many people. Nan and Doug didn’t even give him a chance to get another one, and he knew it wasn’t the job that led to his eviction. It was because Nan hated him. He didn’t know why. Maybe she was jealous, afraid he would take either Nina or Doug away from her. Or both. Sometimes he wondered if she had cursed him. She was a witch, after all, doing those tarot readings and stuff. Maybe that’s where the run of bad luck had come from. 

 He used the money his parents sent him to move into the Abbott, a transient hotel in Chicago’s gay neighborhood. The hotel was full of sex workers, drug addicts, and roaches. Sometimes he would lie in the pull-out bed and flick the lights on to watch the cockroaches scatter across the ceiling. He slept with the blankets pulled over his head so they wouldn't fall on him while he slept. Nina wouldn’t even visit him there. Her best friend Greg would, however, and they laughed about the situation all the time. But when Greg wasn’t around it didn’t seem so funny anymore. So here he was, in his decrepit hotel room, alone with the roaches. Greg was still sleeping, and his roommates wouldn’t wake him up. They didn’t like Caleb either. Nina was in school, and then she had rehearsal, and then she would probably give some other excuse for not being able to see him. Her distance was killing him.  He cried to her friend Jennifer about it one night, and Jennifer promised she’d talk to her about it. She also gave him some cocaine. So what that he hadn’t done hard drugs since he moved to Chicago. That obviously wasn’t doing him any good. He thought that Jennifer would have slept with him if he had tried, but he wouldn’t go that far. She made him swear that he wouldn’t tell Nina she gave him coke. That was a promise that was easy to make—Nina would kill them both. 

 Listening to the fight in the hallway, suddenly he couldn’t stand sitting in his roach-infested room anymore. He decided to go for a walk. The streets were bustling and busy. The neighborhood was so strange. People paid a ton of money to live there, and yet there were sleazy hotels and down-and-out denizens everywhere. There was an average of three to five bars on any given block—on the busy streets, that is. But the ones that weren't gay bars were expensive. Hell, the gay bars were too. Once or twice he considered letting some guy hit on him and buy him drinks, but he didn't have the heart to let them down.  

He turned onto a busy street he had never walked on before. Several blocks down he came to an interesting looking bar. The old-fashioned, wooden sign on the front said “Town-Hall Pub.” He liked the sound of it. It looked dark and divey inside: another plus. No rainbows in the window, so it might even be a straight bar. He had no money, but he decided to go in and check it out. As he walked in he noticed a counter on his right. A man with a white beard who looked uncannily like Jerry Garcia was playing chess with another middle-aged man with long brown stringy hair. They looked up as he entered. 

 “Afternoon,” the Jerry look-alike said. 

 “Hi,” Caleb said. 

 “Pull up a chair,” the brown haired man invited. 

 Caleb peered into the darkness behind them. They appeared to be the only ones there. “I can’t stay,” he said. “I don’t have any money. I just came in because I liked the sign.” 

 “That’s a good enough reason,” the white-haired man said. “Name’s Tom. This is Henry.”

 “Caleb.” 

 “Go ahead and pull up a chair, Caleb, this one’s on me.” 

 Caleb did so. Henry put a beer down in front of him. “Made this myself,” he told him. “What do you think?” 

 Caleb drank, considered. “It’s pretty good for homebrew,” he answered honestly. 

 “Good answer, my friend,” Tom laughed. “Where you from? You don’t strike me as a Chicago boy.” 

 “Indiana.” 

 “Not too far from home.” 

 Caleb almost laughed. “Feels pretty far to me sometimes,” he said. 

 “I’m from Oregon, myself. Henry here hails from California.” He pronounced it Ca-lee-forn-eye-ay. “Now we’re a long way from home.” 

 “Do you miss the West Coast?” 

 “Sometimes,” Tom replied. “But I love this town. There’s some good folks out here, for a big city. Chicago’s all right.” 

 “What brings you here?” Henry put in. 

 “A girl,” Caleb answered. “And the lure of opportunity.” 

 “Familiar story,” Henry nodded. 

 “How’s the girl?” Tom asked. 

 “Not so good, lately,” Caleb said. “I think she’d rather I go back to Indiana.”

 “Tough luck,” Tom said. “And the opportunity?”

 Caleb shook his head. “That’s not so great either. In less than two months I’ve lost my job, my place to stay, and my car. And I’m about to lose my girlfriend.” 

 Tom looked at him a minute, then turned to Henry. 

 “Give him a shot. Anything he wants. And give us each one of the same.” 

 “You’re the boss,” Henry said. “What are you shooting?” he asked Caleb. 

 “Jack Daniels,” Caleb replied. 

 “Sounds good,” Tom said. “You play chess, Caleb?”

 “Not in a while, but I used to be pretty good.” 

 “Well, you can’t be any worse than Henry here. When I’m through beating the piss out of him, maybe we can play a game.” Henry laughed and shook his head. 

 Caleb nodded and smiled. He pulled his chair closer and peered at the game. Henry put the shot in front of him and held one up himself. “Cheers!” 

“Cheers,” Caleb repeated, throwing back the shot. These guys were all right. Things were looking up, at least for a little while. 

 1997

Juliet

Juliet sat on the cold bathroom floor, a razor blade in her right hand. Moments ago she had been sitting in her backyard with friends, a beer between her legs, watching the sky make way for the sunrise. The idea of killing herself had slipped easily into her mind with the oncoming day; she had bid her friends goodnight, gone upstairs, and broke a razor blade out of one of her father’s disposable razors. Now she sat cross-legged on the floor, cheerfully daring herself to use it. Her mood was one of cynical good humor, but her moods wavered these days, and sometimes bled together in runny streams.

(Benvolio was sitting on the front porch when Juliet and her father came out of the house. “What’s going on?” he asked. He had heard the screaming, figured Juliet’s parents were angered by her drunkenness. Her father walked past without a word to him. “Come on!” he roared. Juliet turned to Benvolio, smiling sickly, her left arm wrapped in a towel. “We’re going to the hospital,” she said. Benvolio jumped up: “Oh my fucking God!” The towel was soaked with blood.)

Things had been different when Romeo was around, but Romeo had been dead almost five months. Since his death Juliet’s life had been a whirlwind nightmare. She was never sure of how much of all that was happening around her was real. She found she didn’t care much anyway. Romeo had tried to slit his wrists too, she guessed. She had a letter from him written on the back of a blood-stained Dali poster. Obviously he didn’t do a very good job; he had lived for three more weeks before his roommate found him dangling over the stairs. She had never even seen a scar. The trick, she decided, was to close your eyes, plunge the blade in and pull down. She closed her eyes.

(At the hospital she got sick of explaining herself. “How did this happen?”/ “I cut myself.”/ “Why did you do this?”/ “My boyfriend killed himself in April.” Finally the doctor came in. “What happened?” he asked. “I fell down the stairs,” she smiled pleasantly. The doctor turned and left, calling for X-Ray. Her father had to chase after him to tell him the truth.)

She opened her eyes. Nothing! Puzzlement dissolved to laughter as she realized she had used the wrong side of the blade. Figures, she thought, shaking her head.

(Later, a nurse told her parents that she “wasn’t grounded in reality”. “She thinks her dead boyfriend told her to commit suicide,” she said. “She needs help.” Juliet disagreed. She wasn’t killing herself because Romeo had told her to. She was killing herself because he didn’t.)

She tried it out on the back of her arm, just to be sure. Bingo, she thought, as blood welled to the surface. “You didn’t think I’d do it, did you?” she whispered wildly. “Well watch this, Romeo.” She turned her arm over. She closed her eyes. Blood dripped onto her jeans.

(“I really have to go home soon,” Juliet said wearily. Her parents stood on one side of the hospital bed, Benvolio on the other side. “I have to work tonight.” The anesthetic in her arm made her feel tingly and throbbing. It was almost eleven in the morning, her head ached, and all she wanted to do was sleep. The doctor had given her nine stitches inside and eighteen outside—twenty seven in all. Blood seeped through the spaces between them. The room seemed to swell with silence. “What?” Juliet asked, looking around suspiciously. “You can’t leave,” the nurse said. “What?” Juliet repeated. “You won’t be going to work for a while,” her father said gently. She stared at them, realization dawning. “No,” she said, jumping out of the bed. “No! You can’t lock me up someplace! I’m a fucking grownup!” Benvolio reached out for her, and she lashed out, backing into the corner of the room, still screaming. “You can’t do this to me! Don’t you understand? I’m an adult now! I’m an honor student!” No one else moved. The room was silent but for her screams.)

When she opened her eyes her first thought was that it hadn’t worked again; impatiently she lifted the razor. Then the blood began to pour. She leapt up, startled. “Oh my god,” she said out loud. She looked around wildly, feeling as if she had just awakened from a dream. “Oh my god, Juliet, I think you just fucked up,” she told herself, arm positioned over the sink. She grabbed a towel and wrapped her arm in it, trying to think straight. “Benvolio!” she decided. “I’ll go ask Benvolio what to do!” She opened the bathroom door.

(They made her take an ambulance to the psychiatric ward. “Do I have to lie on the stretcher?” she asked. “Sorry love, it’s th’ rules,” one of the men replied. He was big and bald, yet gentle and soothing. He spoke with a heavy Scottish accent. “What made ya do this?” She lay back, resigned, muttering sleepily: “My boyfriend killed himself in April.” The next thing she knew, she was being wheeled through a new building. “This thing is so comfortable,” she whispered, struggling into wakefulness. The Scottish man laughed heartily. “Ya must be tired then, miss, ‘cause you’re th’ first I’ve heard say that before!”)

“Juliet, is that you?” her mother called sleepily. “What’s going on?” Juliet stopped outside the door. “Mom? I think I just fucked up. I-I think I just-cut my wrists.” She paused awkwardly as her mother leapt out of bed, adding hastily, “But I’ve changed my mind!”

(She cried so bitterly over the strip search that the nurse allowed her to put a robe on before taking her clothes off. But when she demanded her jewelry, Juliet refused to submit her nose ring. The nurse left and returned with a man. “I’m sorry,” he said amiably, “but its hospital policy. No one can wear jewelry in the intensive unit.” “Well,” she replied calmly, “we’ll just have to come to some sort of compromise.” The man approached her. “Here’s the compromise,” he said. “Either you give us the earring or we’ll hold you down and take it.” Some compromise, Juliet thought as she handed it over.)

Her mother took one look at the blood in the bathroom, staggered back to her bedroom and passed out. “Let me see,” her father said calmly. Juliet dizzily peeled back the towel. “Get your shoes on,” he said abruptly. “We’re going to the hospital.”

(Her mother and Benvolio showed up a short while later. “I brought you some clothes,” her mother said. “How you doing?” asked Benvolio. The both looked tired and scared, as tired and scared as Juliet felt. “Exhausted,” she said. “Yeah,” he agreed, “you’ve had a rough night.” They kissed her and left, and she collapsed on the bed, tears seeping through her closed eyes as the blood seeped around her stitches and stuck to the white bandage around her arm.)

The world started slipping to black. Juliet grasped at the banister and missed, falling to her knees at the top of the stairs. “So this is it,” she thought. “I’m really going to die.” Her father’s voice burst through the ringing in her ears: “Juliet, get the fuck up now!” and she thought, “I can’t die. My father won’t let me die.” Her skin tingled hot and cold as she struggled for consciousness. Romeo dangled behind her somewhere in the nightmare world she had come to inhabit. The Dali poster lay crumpled on the floor.

(Her arm lay on the bed before her, awkward and bandaged. As she drifted off, she felt Romeo touch her outstretched hand. “Romeo,” she thought sleepily, “look at what I’ve become. Did you ever think I’d come to this?” The tears slipped hot down her cheek onto the bed. He squeezed her hand tight and watched her as she slipped into unbroken sleep.)

1996