Cheaters Often Prosper

Sharp lessons from youth stand out in my mind, a snap-shot reel of images that play out the crucial scenes from a formative moment.  Although I was only a small boy, I can remember the feeling of the chocolate bar in my pocket, flat and stiff, poking into my leg.  I can remember my mother's face, in the car, when she watched me start peeling back the foil wrapper.  And I most certainly remember her walking me down the checkout aisle of the grocery store I had stolen it from when she made me hand it back to the manager, who smiled at me from under a waxy, black mustache.  It was a stiff reprimand from my parents (my father had also been in the car) regarding the act of thievery, as evidenced by the clarity of the images that I recall.  But what if I had succeeded?  What if I had kept it in my pocket until I got home and opened it in secret?  What sort of reversed moral reinforcement would have imprinted itself?  My mother had, when I was young, often repeated the popular mantra "cheaters never prosper" and, given my own experiences with cheating, I was long led to believe her.

After all, we see the results of failed cheating on the news every evening.  Small time, comically stupid bandits are caught and their mug-shots displayed.  Politicians cheat on the wives in an attempt to appease the innate desire for expanding their genetic progeny, only to see their positions come under question.  Hell, some teachers these days even cheat FOR their students, and these are the folks that society employs to teach children not to cheat in the first place!  But these aren't the only cheaters out there.  They are, rather, those who got caught cheating.  They are, in a sense, those who failed to cheat well.

Doubtless, our society, at large, frowns upon cheating.  Most "professional" versions of it have penalties - ranging from mild to mortal - for those who are caught doing it.  But what is it, in the first place?  Most members of society in the so called "straight and narrow" would probably say that cheating is an act through which someone attempts to get something that they have not earned.  They might say that the cheater is trying to get something that they do not deserve.  Therefore, to properly discuss cheating, the nature of "earned" and "deserved" also require definition.  To "earn" something, as defined by this same, theoretical, good citizen, would be to perform the work required for it through public, majority approved social systems.  Obvious examples of "earning" are in abundant supply in the market economy around us, in the businesses and services that employ the larger portion of our population.  In the eyes of the social majority, people like bankers and carpenters and performers and waiters "deserve" the money they are paid.  They do what is asked of them, avoid actions contrary to those requirements, and are duly compensated.  As exposed cheaters are slowly filtered out of the system via the fine and imprisonment system, the society grows fitter and more efficient, each law-abiding citizen given a better slice of the fairly-earned pie as cheating is reduced on the whole.  Or is it?

Why does cheating fail to diminish in society despite strictures against it?  Shouldn't penalties against it have a socially selective effect on it, causing it to ultimately disappear?  I would argue that cheating's persistence in society reflects an underlying truth:  cheating is often profitable.

In fact, cheating is not in any way an act confined to humanity.  Examples of it abound in the natural world.  Eagles - often touted as the honorable hunters of the raptor world - are just as prone to use their size to scare off smaller birds of prey from kills that they want to steal.

Besides hunting and killing prey, eagles steal food from other birds. The tendency to pirate food led Benjamin Franklin to decide that eagles were birds of "bad moral character."  (http://www.fpl.com/environment/endangered/pdf/eagle.pdf)

In the case of a kill theft, the eagle neither stalks its prey nor wastes the valuable calories necessary to catch and kill it.  Simply scaring away a smaller raptor is easier and, from a natural point of view, more profitable.

Likewise does the the natural world have identity thieves.  The coral snake, for instance, is protected from predators by a potent venom - a fact advertised by its signature color pattern.

Coral snake

Conversely, the milk snake has no such venom but has, nonetheless, come to mimic the patterning of the coral snake in order to fool predators into thinking it a less desirable target.

Milk snake

In regard to snake mimicry, I recall a particularly interesting episode that occurred during my time working for the Bureau of Land Management in Montana.  While preparing for a river patrol one morning, the ranger I worked with called me aside.  He had cornered a prairie rattlesnake in a portion of the river embankment and it was coiled in defense, ready to strike, fiercely rattling it venomous warning.  My partner reaching toward the five foot snake, easily within its strike range, producing ape-like shrieks out of me as I attempted to stop him.  His resulting laughter brought me to an abrupt halt as he stretched the final length and tickled the rattler's tail.  Only, it wasn't a prairie rattlesnake, and there was no rattle there.  It was a bullsnake, a large but venom-free reptile that shares the rattler's habitat and, importantly, its predators.  The bullsnake's mimicry was amazing.  I watched as it opened its mouth with a circular rotation of the lower jaw and undulated its body in a moving coil, causing it to produce a vocal sound that was remarkably similar, if not identical, to the sound a rattlesnake's rattle makes.  The show had been good enough to fool me, a member of a the greatest species of predator on the planet.

So it is that two different species of snake that spend no caloric resources on venom production "cheat" their way to reaping its productive benefits.  But have no fear:  we primates find our way into the cheating game too, perhaps most notably in the realm of sexual relations.  For instance, chimpanzee troops are generally ruled by a dominant male.  Via his physical and social prowess the alpha male is able to secure sexual rights to all eligible, mature females within his troop.  This is a very good deal (for him) and he effectively maintains this situation as "law," physically punishing those males who transgress on his holdings.  However, the sexual drive - the purpose of living - is far too strong a current to resist.  Younger, weaker males are forced to cheat the system in order to have hopes of passing on their genetic package, so cheat they do.

Dandy is the youngest and lowest ranking of the four grown males.  The other three, and in particular the alpha male, do not tolerate any sexual intercourse between Dandy and the adult females.  Nevertheless, every now and again he does succeed in mating with them, after having made a "date."  When this happens the female and Dandy pretend to be walking in the same direction by chance, and if all goes well they meet behind a few tree trunks.  These "dates" take place after the exchange of a few glances and in some cases a brief nudge.

This kind of furtive mating is frequently associated with suppression and concealment.  I can remember the first time I noticed it very vividly indeed, because it was such a comical sight.  Dandy and a female were courting each other surreptitiously.  Dandy began to make advances to the female, while at the same time restlessly looking around to to see if any of the other males were watching.  Male chimpanzees start their advances by sitting with their legs wide apart revealing their erection.  Precisely at the point when Dandy was exhibiting his sexual urge in this way, Luit, one of the older males, unexpectedly came around the corner.  Dandy immediately dropped his hands over his penis, concealing it from view.  (Chimpanzee Politics:  Power and Sex Among Apes, Frans B. M. Waal, 2000)

What's clear in this example is that Dandy knows that he is cheating.  He is performing an action that he understands to be expressly forbidden, as evidenced by the manner in which he attempts to hide his actions when he is on the verge of getting discovered.  It is also clear, however, that Dandy is aware that he will profit if he is skilled enough to pull off the heist.

Cheating, then, with reflection on the natural world, can perhaps be seen in a light different from that in which we are often forced to view it.  Nobody accuses the eagle, nor the snake, nor the chimp, of moral impropriety.  There is no "right" nor "wrong" to consider.  Rather, the matter of concern is merely one of prowess:  are you skilled enough to get away with it?  The penalties can be severe - the eagle might be maimed by a smaller bird that he fails to intimidate; the disguised snake may well be eaten if his costume fails to fool; the amorous chimp will be beaten if caught, mid-elopement - but the profits reaped by the skilled cheater make the venture worthwhile.  The main difference between the successfully cheating human and the successfully cheating chimp is merely that the successfully cheating human is never caught on videotape.

Humans cheat every day in virtually every matter that it is possible to cheat in.  Those who aren't good at cheating get caught, just like those who aren't good at investing lose their money when they gamble in the stock market.  Both of these characters are likely to have their names publicized (especially if the investor is losing someone else's money!) but in regard to the good cheater and the good investor, only the latter's name will ever come to light.  You see, the skilled cheater is made so by dint of his skill at evasion:  its because he's good that you'll never hear of him.

Unless, of course, he wants to out himself.  My crimes (that I'm willing to speak of!) are not heinous and certainly some statute of limitations protects me from having my diploma revoked this late in the game...right?


I loathed 10th grade biology.  I did well in the class not because I enjoyed it but, rather, because I was studious and applied myself fully to learning what I needed to score highly on the exams and other graded work.  In that sense it wasn't really very different from the majority of my classes, most of which I found vastly less engaging than computer video games and science fiction novels.  I recall that biology class vividly though - like a series of snap-shots in a picture book - because it was there that I learned how to profit by cheating.

Our homework assignments for biology were exceptionally boring, rote work.  They involved answering questions with 5 to 10 line responses that explained some facet of the material we were studying.  I didn't enjoy them but I labored through them, nonetheless; the penalties for poor grades were a brand of socialized disappointment from my parents that I couldn't even fathom being on the receiving end of.  Besides, the answers were all in the textbook if only one took the time to read it.  However, one day, mid-semester, I noticed something strange.  The previous day's homework had been returned to us and the teacher was reviewing the answers for those who had gotten some wrong.  I had gotten full marks for the assignment but read along anyway.  As he read through the answers, however, I was surprised to find that I had actually answered one quite definitely wrong.  I reread my answer to make sure.  Yes, I positively had written about a biological process that had nothing to do with the one the question had asked about.  I glanced over at my table-mate's homework - an act I never performed because he wasn't nearly the student I was - and he had also gotten it wrong...but he had lost points for his error.

I was fascinated, truly, by the turn of events, this fracturing of the approved framework.  I had been rewarded for failure.  I'd simply never imagined that such a thing could be possible.  I recall my teachers round, bald head and his furry brown mustache, covering his lips, as he stood at a raised desk in front of the class, eyes on the homework sheet as he read the next question for review.  He wore a deep green polo shirt over his rotund frame and his arms were excessively hairy.  How could this man, this authority figure, have let this slip?

My fascination turned slowly to analysis as I examined my homework more closely.  No matter how many lines of response I had written, the approving red-ink check mark from my teacher appeared at the end of the first line, in the right margin.  As I scanned the sheet I saw that this was true of each answer, including the one I had gotten wrong.  I looked, again, to my table-mate's paper.  His was marked quite differently.  Not once was a mark made on the first line of any of his responses unless it was to correct spelling or cross out a clear mistake.  What made us different?  The answer was obvious to me:  I was an excellent student, as evidenced by my body of work over the course of the year, to this point.  He was rather the opposite.  Although I did not understand why at the time (it wasn't until I'd become a teacher myself that I would realize that the monotony of doing homework is trumped only by the monotony of having to grade it all), it was clear to me that my status as "good" student had caused my teacher to simply scan my homework, note its completeness, and mark it for full credit, in line with every other homework assignment I'd done that year.

My mind must have been rapidly making new connections that day, recording details at an increased clip.  I remember the lighting in the classroom was dim.  We had earlier been looking at diagrams on a projector and the teacher had forgotten to switch the main lights back on.  It was a revelation to me that some students were treated differently than others, so much so that it got me to thinking:  this wasn't just a difference; this was an advantage.  I had, in a sense, clout.  I had a disguise.  There was a reasonable expectation of me that I had not yet failed to live up to...and I had a lazy teacher who was quick to rely on the continuation of that situation.  Although I did not think of it in such terms at the time, I had a situation ripe for profitable, successful cheating, and all the formative, synapse rewiring that goes along with it.

So cheat I did.  I began to experiment a bit with short lines of gibberish in my answers (though never in the first line) until I was reasonably sure that it was, indeed, only the first line of each answer that the teacher bothered to look at.  Then I gambled the whole thing, almost sheerly out of curiosity with the project.  I did not even attempt to remotely answer any of the questions on an assignment.  I wrote the first line in such a way to suggest an introduction to an answer and followed with varied excerpts of pure gibberish.  I had always been good with words and language so stringing together sentence structures (subject, object, verb, etc.) with random words to form nonsensical (but structurally acceptable) sentences was an easy venture.  A question that would have taken me a minimum of 5 minutes (and as many as 15 if I had to combine ideas from different sections of a textbook chapter) was now taking me less than one minute, every time.  With a quick scan from my own eyes, short of actually reading it, everything on the assignment looked "correct," and day after day these gibberish-laden assignments came back as full credit.  I had found a loophole.

Now, before you jump to conclusions, no, I was not now failing the exams due to poor preparation.  Everything the homework covered was ultimately also covered by lecture, in class, so I just made sure to listen (a trick that would later allow me to get through college with a minimum of actual studying).  I was still getting the top grade possible and spending far less time in pursuit of it than I had before.  I remember one boy that sat behind me, upon seeing another full credit homework, ask "how do you do it?  You just love school work, huh?"  All I can remember of him is a singular image, leaning back in his chair, precariously balanced on the rear legs.  His wavy, brown hair fell in locks and covered up part of his eyes, matched only by the looseness of his nondescript, brown t-shirt which was draped over his medium frame with an air of nonchalance.  He was the class's biggest pot-smoker and an academic slacker of the highest proportions.  "You just love homework, huh?"  The taunt was soft-hearted.  He honestly was wondering if I did.  "No," I replied, "I don't love it, but I just do it anyway," which was only half a lie.

He didn't know that I was cheating.  The teacher didn't know I was cheating.  Nobody knew (well, until you read this, that is).  At the time I worried that what I was doing was "wrong," but since I really didn't seem to be hurting anyone else, I kept doing it.  Only much later did I start to see the act of cheating as what it really is:  a skill set.  The wise investor is a student of the markets and the companies that comprise it.  A good painter is a student of the landscapes he paints and the colors and shades that populate them.  A good cheater is also a student.  He is a student of social relationships, of system functions, of personalities and programs and possibilities.  In fact, the good cheater works no less hard than the "honest man", at least not in terms of time and thought invested.  If his overall effort is less, is it really a crime?  Or is he merely smarter - simply more efficient - than those who work harder for less?

In the end I squandered the advantage that successful cheating had won me.  I had, on any given night, easily 45 minutes of time to myself that I hadn't had before.  I could have learned guitar or read more books or written pointless, philosophical essays, but I was 15 years old and played more video games instead.  But I had "earned" the right to do so.  I "deserved" that time - and the continuation of my good grades in the class - because I worked to acquire it.  The fact that the work I did would not have been condoned by the powers-that-be has no role in the matter:  it still was work, and risky work at that.  To suggest that a certain path to success is morally invalid is like telling the snake that he shouldn't be allowed to mimic his cousins, or that the low-ranking chimp should accept his fate and resign to not passing along his genes:  its ignorant, self-deceived, circular thinking that doesn't get out of the box that it starts in, and from a socially selective point of view might even be a disadvantage.

As a high school teacher I often told my students "If you are going to cheat, make sure you are damn good at it.  You study and end up below the top and you probably still get at least a B.  You cheat and get caught and there is no consolation prize.  You go from A+ to F.  There is no second place for cheaters.  If you are going to cheat, you need to be excellent at it, just like you should aspire to be in all things you do.  A good cheater has to work really hard."  I have drawn the ire of many people for suggesting to students that cheating is potentially a valid path, but who is worse, he who tells an uncomfortable truth or he who covers it with an idealistic lie?  So long as there is a viable, reasonable profit margin that a cheater can take advantage of, cheating will never disappear from our society.

And we're happy with that.  We love movies and stories about charismatic cheaters and thieves that get away with their crimes.  We root for underdogs that buck the system.  Our leaders cheat.  Our pastors cheat.  Our friends cheat.  Don't believe me?  Just watch the news.  But don't go and follow their examples; they're the ones that aren't very good at it.


Homo sapiens is the species that invents symbols in which to invest passion and authority, then forgets that symbols are inventions.

-Joyce Carol Oates

Song Spotlight: Descending (The Black Crowes)

**Cross-posted from ADT Music**

Song:  Descending (listen)
Album:  Amorica (1994) (listen)
Artist:  The Black Crowes

When it comes to using the blues as a modern rock influence The Black Crowes are not unique.  The Brits got there long before any white Americans did, under the guidance of bands like The Yardbirds and Led Zeppelin, infusing one of the few, truly original American music forms with pop, folk, and rock essences that made it accessible to mainstream listeners.  In doing so most of these bands brought the notion of riff-based song structures to popular music (a form that is at the heart of blues).  In some cases, the songs lifted the lyrics and riffs of blues staples directly, adding electric instrumentation, percussion, and decidedly more robust vocals.  (See, for example, Led Zeppelin's Bring It On Home (listen), which opens with a direct, musical homage to the original, offering song credits to Willie Dixon in the process, before shifting into a bombastic re-visioning of the song, Zeppelin-style.)

Despite all this, however, some crucial aspect of the blues - and, importantly, its southern, cultural origin - was lost in its conversion to a rock format.  Where The Black Crowes do fill a rather unique niche is in the way that they return the blues to its southern roots, and Descending is a great example of that in action.

The Black Crowes found fame fast forthcoming after the release of their first album, 1990's Shake Your Money Maker (listen).  Driven by hard rocking tracks like Twice as Hard (listen) and Hard to Handle (listen), and backed by the ballad She Talks to Angels (listen), the Crowes found popular rock radio success.  This trend continued through their second album, The Southern Harmony and Musical Companion (listen), though tracks like Sometimes Salvation (listen) hinted at what was to come.

By the time Amorica was released the Crowes had entered a transition period, heading into blues territory that was not readily transferable to mainstream, rock radio.  They slowly grew to eschew the harder, British version of blues rock that made a popular name for the genre and began to incorporate a decidedly more "southern" sentiment in their music.  Similar to the manner in which Lynyrd Skynyrd brought a southern sound to straight rock [nicely represented in the raunchy, "bayou" sound of tracks like Poison Whiskey (listen) and Swamp Music (listen)], The Black Crowes infused their blues with a soulful sound that I've taken to classifying as "southern rock gospel blues".  This sound would come to dominate their recordings and makes up the body of music in their next album, 1996's Three Snakes and One Charm (listen), perhaps best exemplified in the opening tracks, Under a Mountain (listen) and Good Friday (listen), the title of the latter not only referring to a Christian religious holiday but also including a backing of gospel singers on the final chorus.  Descending, however, was really their first strong foray into what would become this "southern gospel" sound

The piano introduction to the track is the first hint of something that is not your come-again blues song.  The chords are neither pop nor rock nor blues; they are, well, gospel-y.  This change from modern blues tone is immediately reinforced by the use of a lap slide guitar as the lead, a standard of old, southern blues, that can be seen at use in the live, stripped down, acoustic version of the song, below.  The big, bluesy, sustained slides that open the main chorus of the song seem to beg for a choir sing-a-long.

 

Of course, no blues song can ever really be a good blues song without the right singer.  When it comes to vocals and Chris Robinson, I am always reminded of a certain, beautiful and delightful road companion who once complained to me that his voice was too "breathy" (all the while I was trying to sell her on the values of The Black Crowes as a blues band).  Admittedly, "breathy" isn't exactly what I'd call a good trait for a blues singer.  Blues voices should be be somber and scratchy and the best, old blues singers tend to have what would be considered terrible singing voices to anyone with a classical background.  Given, however, the shift in genre focus that the Crowes tackle here, I can't think of a better quality for Robinson to have.  The wavering, soulful sound that he brings to the song matches perfectly the gospel-esque tone that commands the piano and guitar, breathiness and all.

I think what I find most appealing about Descending (and some other Crowes song from this middle period) is the seamless way in which they incorporate an ethereal, southern feeling into the modern, blues rock sound that made them popular.  Its the sort of artistic shift that keeps me interested in a band and is all the more intriguing, in this case, for the novelty of that "gospel blues rock" sound.  Between Amorica, Second Helping (listen), and Willy and the Poor Boys (listen), I feel like I've got just enough time to nurse this handle of Kentucky whiskey into harmonious oblivion.

Song Spotlight: Trinity Road (Michael Lee Firkins)

**Cross-posted from ADT Music** 

Song:  Trinity Road (listen)
Album:  Chapter Eleven (1995) (listen)
Artist:  Michael Lee Firkins

I'm a sucker for a lot of things: baroque writing, painfully arduous hikes, and really, really hot salsa, to name a few.  Although this song is none of those things, it is something else that I'm an absolute sucker for:  melodic guitar music.  I tend to like music that was once cool (like 70's guitar rock), music that has never been cool (like progressive, conceptual rock), and most certainly music that would get any red-blooded male laughed at in a biker bar (like the sort of guitar balladry that Joe Satriani and Steve Vai have become semi-famous for).

Michael Lee Firkins falls into step with this latter group of musicians for writing complex, guitar-based, instrumental music.  The origins of this "genre" are oftentimes attributed to Joe Satriani, who first made a splash in the rock scene with 1986's Not of this Earth (listen), a rock album that was completely devoid of vocals.  Where, previously, instrumental, rock guitar music had focused on the player's "chops," choosing to highlight the guitarist's soloing ability and general technical prowess, Satriani chose to write songs that were actually songs, sharing more in common, thematically, with the classical, Spanish guitar songs of old than with the modern showiness of his contemporaries.

Since, the door has been opened for many guitarists who write true, instrumental "songs," and Michael Lee Firkins is one of the better practitioners of the style.  For nearly a year now I've been unable to dislodge his stellar track, Trinity Road, from my head.  It is, in every sense, a ballad, but being free of lyrics, the listener is thankfully spared the often uninspired (and sometimes abjectly silly) love overtures that were the bread and butter of the 80's power ballad scene.  The listener must, instead, rely wholly on his intuition to decipher the musical movements that make up the emotional content of an instrumental song, and in this area Trinity Road leaves him plenty to work with.

From the opening note series (which is repeated throughout the track) to the chord chorus that makes up the heart of the song, Trinity Road hits a tone that moves through phases both somber and uplifting, yet never feels disjointed or forced, a feat that very few groups pull off with any success.  The guitar tone used by Firkins only adds to the song's strength, offering the listener a slightly scratchy sound that presses its bluesy, somber roots, but with the addition of a subdued echo effect that enhances the soft, emotional qualities that ultimately dominate the song.

Beyond crafting emotional tone purely through music, any guitarist intent on creating instrumental songs must also confront the fact that songs just sound better with vocals.  A good singer is more than just a good instrument; a good singer is a superior instrument.  My favorite singers have often outshone the other members of their bands due to the inherent advantage their vocal instrument carries, such as the ability to change tone, timbre, tuning, and pitch on the fly.  Not to mention that great singing voices are naturally appealing for their humanness.  Nonetheless, the instrumental guitarist must do his best to match the qualities of the soloing vocalist. Thankfully, of all instruments, the strings are perhaps best suited for this job, mimicking human vocal qualities and variations more strongly than other instrument types are capable of, a trait that Firkins adeptly puts to use through the use of an extended, overlaid guitar solo that shows up nearly from the very start of the track.  Like any great vocal, however, this is not simply a free for all; though both long and complex, the "vocal" solo does repeat, just like any singer would repeat his own lines, drawing the listener in with familiarity and appeasing his sense of musical satisfaction by providing a return to something recognizable.

Never once while listening to Trinity Road do I feel like its missing something, despite the lack of vocals; its as much a full "song" as anything with them.  For the guitar aficionados in the audience (who appreciate the guitar for its ability to be both blistering and benign), Michael Lee Firkins is yet another reason to pull down the headphones, turn off the radio, and evade the popular music scene for another blessed evening.

If It Doesn't Rhyme, It Isn't Poetry

It seems to me that the fellow with Pornstar emblazoned upon his shirt
seems least likely to be one in a starring role;
That the girl with Love boldly across her chest
seems not to love me looking at her;
That the seat in the pants labeled Juicy
is really a bit more than overripe.

Would he be less or more if the Chinese tattoo that he thinks says Loyal actually said Lonely?

Would you know that the calluses on her fingertips
said that she played the guitar every Friday night;
That the sawdust on his pant leg
said that he worked with his hands;
That the faded, green t-shirt on sale at the Salvation Army
fit snugly over a label once,
but that he outgrew it?


I'd rather trust a countryman than a townman,
You can judge by his eyes, take a look if you can.

Yesterdays

The sun was already well beyond its afternoon zenith, shining brightly off the distant waves, when Lonnie showed up.  She glided around the edge of the patio fence, her lower body hidden.  I was sitting at a small table – only two seats – facing out, away from the restaurant’s porch, and she waved and smiled, mouthing a “Hello, Davey!” even though she was only a few feet away.  Her wave was childlike, a rapid flutter of fingers, bending from the knuckle.  I smiled back, involuntarily.

Lonnie stepped onto the porch and crossed the patio to my table.  Each step of her platform heels clacked against the stone, announcing her arrival, and her leather shoulder bag bounced off her hip in time with her footsteps.  Long waves of blonde hair fell from her head, cascading over and around her chest, wreathing her slim figure in a moving frame.  As she got close to the table she mimed a sprinter’s dash, in place, and her deep blue, tight fitting jeans scuffed against themselves while her arms pumped in mock ferocity.  She began to giggle but abruptly threw her mouth agape as she lost her footing in the masquerade.  Slipping, she grabbed at the table next to her and righted herself before laughing an outrageous laugh – much larger than her person – and apologizing to the couple at the table.  Standing, I laughed with her and embraced her as she half-stumbled into my arms.
   
“Davey!” Lonnie exclaimed in an excited voice.  It was high pitched and juvenile sounding.  She pulled her head from my chest to look up at me; even with the monstrous heels she remained a small woman.  “Lon!  Its been too long,” I replied, and made a move to muss her hair.  Lonnie deftly ducked the motion and pushed me away, both hands pressing off my chest, and used the momentum to slide backwards into the awaiting chair.  She had a satisfied, almost comically broad smile across her face as I, likewise, sat down.  We sat silently, staring at each other, as our grins quietly tried to outmatch each other.  She broke the silence with another giggle and her dark green eyes sparkled as they opened wide, daringly.

“Let’s order wine right now, right away!”
   
I laughed again, and concurred.  “Obviously.  The sangria is good.”
   
“Ooh, get it.  Lots, please.”

Even as the waiter delivered the pitcher of wine to us, all of Lonnie’s attention was focused on me.  “So tell me,” she demanded, “tell me all about what you’ve been up to.  I want to hear everything.  Have you been a dirty ape the entire trip?  I bet you didn’t shower much.  You didn’t even bring pictures, did you?”  She had a pouty look on her face as she finished.
   
I hadn’t taken any pictures but I related the story of my previous year anyway.  I told her about the people I’d met and the places I’d been, about the endless bus rides and train trips and the strangeness of watching the people that partake in them.  I fell into long digressions about books I’d read and thoughts I’d had and her eyes slowly drifted across the room.  I stared at her handsome profile as her face turned from me and I stretched my arm along the table, toward her, resting my hand halfway across it.
   
“But what about you, Lon?  What have you been doing with yourself?” I asked.  Lonnie’s eyes lit anew.  She drew herself up in her seat with a snap and gripped the edges of our table.  I pulled my hand back to my side.  “I will show you!” she stated boldly, dramatically enunciating each word.  She disappeared under the table and reappeared just as suddenly, a picture album in hand.  She cleared glasses and plates and silverware to the edge of the table in an exaggerated sweep of her arm and deposited the album in the center of it, facing me.  With one hand she opened the cover while the other dragged her chair around the table, alongside mine.  A fragrant, inviting scent drifted toward me as she drew close.   I could smell it in her hair as she brushed against me.  I turned toward her and inhaled, visibly.  Lonnie looked at up at me.  “You still like it,” she stated.  It was not a question.  She smiled confidently and pulled the picture book toward us.

Starting from the back of the album, where the newest pictures were, Lonnie paged through.  There were shots of her on the beach, smiling.  There were pictures of her in the office, posing in front of her desk.  “Only you could make an office look glamorous, Lon.”  She nodded, sharply and triumphantly, and slipped an arm around my back.  She pointed to a picture of herself in a bar, surrounded by other people.  Everyone looked jovial and intoxicated; most of them had plastic cups with half-finished, clear drinks in their hands.  I didn’t know anyone in the picture except Lonnie.  There was a man with a tight t-shirt on standing next to her, his arm around her.  He was holding his drink in the air like a trophy and, based on the look on his face, must have been howling exuberantly when the shot was taken.  There were other photos taken at bars and parties but they mostly seemed to be like that first one.  Lonnie related a story for each but I can’t recall any of them.
   
Lonnie was nearly halfway through the album when I struck my index finger down upon one of the pictures.  “I remember that!”  It was another party and Lonnie was still in the middle of it, but I was standing next to her.  “Jeff’s birthday party!” she exclaimed.  “Remember when he jumped off the roof, into that pool?”  I nodded.  “Of course I do.  I’d lent him my phone to call Rebecca.  It was still in his pocket.”  Lonnie laughed in a way that made her body shake, even though the laugh was nearly silent, before degenerating into a series of snorts that snowballed into more laughing.  “Well that part of you is unchanged,” I chided.  She snuggled closer to me and tightened her grip around me before popping up in her seat.  “Remember San Diego?” she asked in an emotional voice.  Her hand was gliding over a series of pictures with only the two of us in them.  “Here we are at the harbor, and Sea World, and, oh, Balboa Park.”  The sun was rising in the picture, behind us.  Lonnie was curled up inside my arm.  I glanced down at her and her big eyes gazed into mine and held them.  She blindly reached for her glass and found that it was empty.  I took a long sip from my own, which was nearly full.
   
Lonnie continued to sit next to me as we ordered food.  “So what’s this about eating only leaves?  You wrote that,” she asked.  I hemmed and hawed.  “Well, yeah, I guess.  I mean, I can eat meat, I just don’t, well…”  I trailed off and looked away while her gaze held tight on me.  Her rigidity broke, suddenly, and her head lolled to one side.  “I don’t care, Davey,” she said, drawing out the vowels.  “Eat whatever you want.”  I ordered a cheeseburger when the waiter came over.  “Ooh, cheese too!  I thought you didn’t eat that either, anymore,” Lonnie commented.  “At least you are drinking!  I was getting worried about you, Davey.”  She smiled slyly and clinked her glass against mine; by custom, I was obliged to drink.
   
By the time that we were leaving the sun had started to go down.  There were three empty pitchers on our table and I had to help Lonnie get out of her chair.  I had used the table to help myself get up.  I threw my arm around Lonnie as we staggered off the patio and onto the boardwalk.  The few, fading rays of remaining sun shone dully on the crashing waves and the sound of the surf lent a somber reverence to our stroll.  People wandered by us on the boardwalk, mere shadows, nameless, faceless, darting in and out of the booths and stores.  The shop lights were slowly beginning to supplant the fading sunlight and Lonnie grabbed my arm and dragged me toward one, propelled by newfound mobility.  It was a typical, beach-side knick-knack shop, filled with useless, plastic remembrances and “Life’s a Beach” towels, all crouched on racks, waiting to prey on hapless tourists.

I spied a pathetic looking cactus planted in a tiny, ceramic pot that was shaped like an old-fashioned automobile.  It had most of its needles plucked out and two plastic eyes were glued on the front of it.  “Bet he’d rather be in the desert” I stated, stupidly.  Lonnie rolled her eyes and continued to browse the shelves of trinkets with practiced eye, one hand leading mine.  She came upon a basket of black-banded rings and snapped one up excitedly.  She grabbed my free hand and giggled devilishly as she slipped it onto my finger.  The ring glowed an orangish-red where she had touched it.  “Now I won’t have to guess your mood anymore tonight!” she declared, but the red quietly faded as black spread out to cover it.  “So what am I thinking now?” I asked.  “You’re not thinking, Davey.  Black means dead,” she sneered as she pulled the ring off and flung it back in the bin.

Lonnie took a step back and looked at me defiantly, legs spread apart and hands, balled into fists, resting on her hips.  She reached out and snatched my hand, pulling on my arm to raise herself onto her toes, as she stretched her face toward mine.  She kissed me and held her lips to mine as she began to giggle, her balance faltering under the acrobatic effort.  Her lips paced out a staccato rhythm against my own as she laughed and I kissed her back, latching onto her lower lip.  Her renewed laughter broke us apart and she let herself forgo the balancing act, spinning on one foot to fall backwards, into my arms.  I held her, momentarily, before she jumped out of my grasp and stalked out of the store.  “The ring?” I asked after her, and she waved her hand, nonchalantly, behind her head.
   
The sun had set entirely as we walked back along the boardwalk, to my car.  We passed under streetlamps and were alternately illuminated and shrouded as we moved from one halo to the next.  “Didn’t you miss our friends while you were gone?” Lonnie asked.  “I thought about you every day,” I replied.  When we got to my car I reached to open the passenger door for her, but she was quicker.  She opened it and hopped inside while I walked around to the other door.  Neither of us spoke during the short drive to her house.  Her street was dark and mostly empty; I pulled up directly in front of her house and got out to walk her to the door.  She stopped under the porch lights and turned to me.

“Davey” Lonnie asked, softly, staring at her feet, “come upstairs with me.”  She was pressed close to me, a corner of the picture album in her bag poking into my ribs uncomfortably. 

It felt like a long time before I replied.  “I can’t.”

Lonnie looked into my eyes, her mouth taut.  “Yeah, I know.”  She paused, briefly.  “Me neither.”

As I walked back out to the street the porch lights were turned out, behind me, and I had to grope along the side of my car to find the keyhole.

The Muse

Under the sterile, white, neon lights, everything seemed to jump out at the young man.  Under the sun, with the movement between light and shade, there were depths and dimensions.  Here, however, in the store, it was more like a single plane; only the loudest colors, the most garish statements, had any chance of standing out.  Buy One, Get One Free! (it had yellow, serrated edges); 20% Off This Entire Shelf! (the green background made the red letters appear to shimmer).

The man dragged himself down the flatness of the aisle, eyes catching on sign and display, until he reached the notebooks.  Spiral ring, college ruled; 1 subject, 3 subject, 6 subject; 3 pack, 6 pack, 10 pack, each wrapped in cellophane.  The man thought about his uncle.  He had always said that he was a writer, though he didn’t seem to write very much.  The man was a boy, flipping through his uncle’s notebook, 6 subject.  His uncle coughed while he spoke.  “What a waste (cough), all those pages (cough), all empty.”  Writing filled part of the first subject area, but the rest was blank.  “(cough) No need to buy more space than you gonna’ fill.  A writer should know how much he has to say!”

The man’s eyes scanned the shelf of notebooks again.  Single subject notebooks, sold individually, were jammed together at the end.  There was no discount, but he bought one anyway.