SHADOWS IN THE SUNLIGHT

Dedications And Considerations Thanks and love to the following, in no particular order: Mary Alice Lee Bush, MH Bush, Gwen Bush, Heidi Truog, Annette Suthers, Celeste McCray, David Fairclough, Kevin Fairclough, Charles Rice, Lori May, Frida A. Kahlo, Brian Benford, The Cabrini Clinic For The Mentally Insane And Those Raised Catholic, David Greer, Hanna J. Valentine, Joey A. Dougherty, Julie of Canton, Shely Robbins, Malon, Marina, Lenny of Garden City, Reverend Kenneth Taylor, Emily Garthie, Brandi Vander Eyk, Liam Flanagan, and Red Boy. “My mother groaned! My father wept. Into the dangerous world I leapt; Helpless, naked, piping loud: Like a fi end hid in a cloud.” -W. Blake * * * Élan separated three parallel lines on the kitchen counter and yelled for me to open my shirt. Then he rolled a fifty and vacuumed up the coke. He fingered-up the remains and rubbed them onto his gums. “It’s you’re lifestyle that’s the problem,” he said, walking down the three steps to his living room. “And PTSD. And diet.” The source of my advice was Dr. Brian Benford, M.D., but he liked his close friends to call him Élan. He picked the silly name after interning one semester in France. I wasn’t his close friend but I was his favorite cousin and therefore not exempt from his request. He pulled a stethoscope from his blazer and leaned into me, shaking his head disapprovingly at my signature aroma of whiskey and unwashed days. “Breathe in,” he said, huffing on the stethoscope and placing it on my chest. “And…out.” After a minute, he shook his head again and poked a thermometer into my mouth. Eventually he diagnosed me with fatigue and PTSD, but I knew the source of my problem was a fractured heart – that feeling like everything inside you had been ripped out by someone, so you walk slightly hunched WL Bush 3 over because you’re empty inside. Finally, you try to fill it up with booze or blow or God or a hollow point. “She said she’d love me forever,” I mumbled. The thermometer fell to the carpet in a stream of drool. “Close your shirt,” Élan said indifferently. “There is no forever. Forget about forever!” Lately, getting drunk always reminded me of Lisa Rosatti, even though she had dumped me without saying goodbye and changed her phone number. She did send me a text though, from an Internet café in Denver. What were the words? I fumbled through my phone looking for that last message…that poisoned arrow. I could track her down if I wanted to; try and change her mind. But there’s no use in finding someone that doesn’t want to be found. “When she stops chasing ghosts,” I thought aloud, “She’ll come back to me then. She’ll be back.” But the odds against it overwhelmed me and I slumped backward into the couch, resigned that she’d taken everything from me. Everything but a fractured heart and a jaundiced liver. The latter I used for the backwards miracle of turning wine into water. “Get me a gun,” I pleaded. “Don’t delude yourself, mon frere, this sofa cost more than your house! You’d better not so much as shed a tear on it!” “I got no tears. All cried out.” “You know, you’re still the same. C’est tres, tres damage! I always knew you’d snuff yourself; I just thought you’d do it more artfully, you know? Alone in some sleazy motel… Blow your brains all over a cum-stained duvet, next to a bottle of Wild Turkey and a cheap fuck book. Can you see it?” “What I can’t see is people paying you to practice medicine.” “You don’t need medicine, mon frere, you need some nappy. Trust me on this one. We’ll go to Gracie’s, get you a few fatties to bang… Get your self-confidence back up…” “So you’re prescription for someone suicidal is that they ‘bang a few fatties’?” “Trust me, it’s what you need. You’ll thank me later.” Everything looked dead outside of Goodnight Gracie’s picture windows. The weather had changed on a dime, discoloring and killing every living thing. November snowflakes twisted wildly in the wind and I yearned for the heat of Africa. The bar’s indoor lights were covered with conical tiki shades that gave everything a golden hue. Gold… It reminded me of Africa. Hell, everything reminded me of Africa. Africa, Lisa, and Joe. 4 Shadows In The Sunlight Joe, that crazy son-of-a-bitch with a Christ complex. He paid me to publish his online blog, but it was more like a psychotic manifesto. He’d just ramble on and on in a constant flow of trauma and mysticism. Eyes flashing with manic brilliance. Then he’d let loose a demonic howl and slowly look my way, scaring the crap out of me. But all his philosophies came pre-packaged with a shadow of doubt since so many had labeled him insane. Even me. The things he did near the end…utter madness! “Sanity is the refuge of the unimaginative.” Yeah, he’d mess with your head like that…lay it all out there…psychic breadcrumbs for the brave to follow. He told me once that a stagnant life was a wasted life. Now that, I believe. I couldn’t blame Lisa for loving him, though. That’s right, I lied; she didn’t say she’d love me forever, she said she’d love him. I tried mentioning my love for her once and she frowned up and wouldn’t speak to me for a week. I took that pretty hard since she was living with me at the time. I tried taking it back or even making light of it but she was not amused. And then one day…she was gone. Élan took a call from overseas and disappeared into the restaurant portion of the bar, while I sat on the love seat near the front door, landsliding into the conversation next to me. One of the nine-to-fivers asked me something about the Pistons. I couldn’t make out what he said so I just answered, “When in Rome,” and smiled. This was apropos because he nodded and laughed. I decided I’d use that phrase as much as possible for the rest of the night. On the way to the bar, I’d gotten a call from my source – someone who had worked in Michigan with Joe Bosco. I told him to meet me here when he finally let me get a word in edge-wise. Tom Kiernan was very talkative. His head was as big as a basketball and his mouth never closed. I only hoped his mouth could open wide enough to take a bite out of GM. At that moment, Kiernan showed up. He was unstable and babbling hysterically. “I can’t do this!” he said. “I’m sure they know! There’s no way they can’t know!” “Easy, Tom. You contacted me, remember? You got a story to tell? I’m all ears and paychecks. Sit down a minute. Let’s get you a drink.” I called for Sophia, the bartender, but Kiernan waived her away, craning his pumpkin head in a three-sixty around the bar. I touched his shoulder reassuringly. “If we stick together I can offer you protection. Don’t you think I have other sources inside GM? I don’t really need your help, Tom. I just wanted your help. There’s a difference.” “You’re a real prick, Bush! Do you think I’m completely fucking stupid? I mean seriously, is that what you fucking think?” With those words, Kiernan was gone. I cashed out quickly but by the time I made it outside, WL Bush 5 Kiernan had kicked rocks. I went back in and found Élan in the crapper; victimized by cheap blow cut with baby laxative. “I gave my card to Sophie,” he said agonizingly through the stall door. “Just order on my tab. I’ll be out soon. Merde!” I switched to Sapphire gin and tonic and made several unanswered calls to Kiernan. Élan came up to me at the bar and closed my cell phone. “Forget about work,” he told me. He ordered us never-ending shots of chilled Patrón. Soon I forgot about everything. You know that old saying… when in Rome. My head was throbbing as I peered through hungoverness and saw Frenchie. She stood over me, tall as Lisa Leslie and leaning over the back of Élan’s sofa. I wished she’d stayed there; she was blocking out the morning sun. But once she saw I was awake, she circled to the front of the sofa and perched on the edge of the coffee table. I could see she was wearing Élan’s white robe because a big E-L covered one tit and A-N covered the other. She sat with her legs open, her hands p