Endurance or the Coyote's Tale

   Thomas watched his partner, Nacho, try to usher a family out of the old Plymouth Belvedere. First, the mother came from the trunk. Her sweaty, black pasty bangs stuck to the side of her face. She tried to make herself look decent, dragging strands into a long thick ponytail. Thomas looked out to the empty desert as he called,

“Ninos, come on.”

   Two small girls, probably no more than three and five, sheepishly pushed the door behind the driver’s side open. The mother rushed to help her children jump down from the sweating leather seats. Miniature replicas of their mother, both of the girls rubbed their faces, trying to adjust their vision to the brightness of the desert. While Thomas watched the mother cajole and sooth her children, he was reminded of the other reason he did this type of work. It wasn’t a full time job but at twenty-seven years old he relied more and more on trafficking money than that of his job waiting tables. He didn’t need the mother to tell him that many of her hopes and dreams for her children started in Mexico but will come to life in The United States. He could see it in her eyes as she squeezed both of her children.

   Since Thomas spoke only a few words of Spanish, Nacho took charge of all of the negotiations and price setting. There was no need for him to ever suspect that Thomas knew any other language than English. Nacho always thought of his partner as a loyal yet ignorant white boy from San Paderno, California. Wet behind the ears was how Thomas liked to play it, a lesson he learned growing up. He thought of his supposed ignorance now as he rubbed the stub where his pinky finger had once been. He glanced back at Nacho who was round faced and short but strikingly handsome. In his early thirties, Nacho's shoulder length black hair added to his weathered, rugged look. Gazing out at a tall, deeply blood stained looking plateau, the younger coyote listened as Nacho rattled off in Spanish to the emerging family of four.

“Walk that way and in a little over a mile you will be at Nogales… of the USA! You will see it.”

   Thomas kept his eyes on the plateau but listened as the ever-grateful family thanked Nacho. The father clasped hands with the rotund coyote as if he were the Pope himself.

“Thank you so much, sir. Thank you. We will never forget you…”
             Before the man could go any further, Nacho snapped at him with an irritated growl.

“No, asshole! You better forget me! You don’t know us! I don’t exist! Understand?”

   Nacho held tight to the man’s hand while drawing him forward, both men eye to eye. He squeezed the father’s fingers with a firm grip and felt the rough calluses of his client’s palm.  The man was a farmer, this much the coyote knew. A lifetime of toiling in the earth had given the farmer a strong and firm build but Nacho didn’t think the man would fight unless pushed further. Confident that he had struck fear into the father’s heart, the plump coyote began to release. The weary farmer smelt the acrid odor of bourbon on Nacho's breath. He held back his anxiety as best he could but gulped three times in a row, continuing to nod.

“I understand, sir. There is no one. Just us.”

   The father spread his hand toward his nervous wife and two little ones. The girls recognized fear in their father’s voice. It was a tone that scared the oldest daughter to tears. Thomas had since turned to watch the family. He rose off the rock and walked toward the girl. With a lean and almost skinny frame, he appeared taller than his above average height. The last fragments of sunlight glinted off his freshly shaved blonde hair. The mother huddled her little ones closer as she tried to avert the hard stare of his strikingly green eyes. While walking toward her, he studied the mother's rigid body and was happy to see that his smile loosened her grip. Thomas’ ability to comfort was one of his greatest gifts and he was aware of its power. It wasn't the smile that contained strength but the feeling within. 

   Thomas looked at the oldest daughter’s face and saw an innocence he hadn’t seen in years. It was rare that he and Nacho worked with children. Usually they ferried men across the border. Families had been uncommon. Thomas recognized fear in men’s faces before but most often it concerned self-preservation. At this moment, the young girl’s eyes passed from her father to her mother and sister then back to Thomas, never at Nacho. The girl’s worried face reminded him of his sister and the way she looked when her brother found trouble. A different memory flooded his mind as he swore no bad would come to this child or her family.

   A brief flashback, to a time not too distant from the present, screamed at Thomas. He recalled the two brothers and their cousin who wanted to be taken to America. Though they appeared young, they were 18 and 19 years old and society deemed them men. Yet Thomas knew better. He spotted their innocent movements as when they nervously played with their fingers or gazed at Nacho's gun as if it symbolized power and not the truth. The gun was a tool for scarring. It marred the mind, disfiguring one's thoughts and actions so that in time all that could be recognized lay tainted. The scars came in many ways and on that day it would tarnish those who gained from its use. The boys stared up at the coyotes as if the men were idols and not ruthless criminals.                                       In the middle of the day, the coyotes dropped the three boys off. Nacho had been drunk. Again. He couldn’t find the 9mm he kept tucked in his waist, convinced that he left it near where they dropped off the boys. Once they neared the spot, Thomas peered down at the gun, just under Nacho’s rattlesnake skinned boots.                             While the older coyote continued to drink from a pint he had been sipping throughout the day, Thomas couldn’t help but think of the boys. He naively hoped that they would walk in the correct direction. Why Nacho didn’t mind abandoning to death the very people who paid him money to keep them safe was beyond his partners’ understanding. Worse yet though was why it didn’t stop Thomas in his tracks. True, Nacho didn’t try to kill anyone but his lack of assistance and concern made Thomas wonder if perhaps

his old friend would rather see some of their travellers dead than alive. As he pondered this, the young coyote’s curiosity got the best of him as he drove the Plymouth up a plateau. Were Nacho’s directions his way of performing stupid pranks just to scare travellers or were his intentions more sinister? Being some two hundred feet above the ground, Thomas began to wonder as he overlooked the entire valley.                                        Under the sweltering heat of an Arizona sun, he spotted three figures in the dust. He could see the boys moving quickly, arms flailing in the air. Yet what Thomas couldn’t see from that distance was the boys shrieking at each other. Panicked, lost in the desert, desperate to escape the heat and unfamiliarity of the Arizona border, the cousins tore at one another, at their own flesh and blood.    The young coyote imagined them in hysterics and grimaced at the fact that he, inadvertently, really had a hand in the whole event. He couldn’t watch anymore and quickly drove away. That was the last time Thomas saw those boys until their pictures appeared in an Associated Press article.  The photographer was only allowed to display their feet, dusty sandals and sneakers sticking out from under black, plastic sheets.                               Thomas tore himself away from the dreaded memory as he gazed at the five-year-old girl in front of him. He wiped tears from the little girl’s mahogany cheeks. With a worn grin toward the mother, he said goodbye and pointed the family on their way. The father caught an opportunity and scampered off to his daughters. He marched them onto the scalding pavement and toward Nogales.

   Thomas watched the family for a little longer as he knew what awaited him. Just as the younger coyote turned toward his partner, Nacho took another swig from his flask all the while staring at his friend.

“Thomas. Come here.”

   As he walked toward a knelt Nacho, keeping shade under the Belvedere’s shadow, Thomas replayed one thought constantly in his mind.

"Keep it cool. Keep it cool, bro."         He worried about getting Nacho upset. He was ever mindful of the bulge sticking up out of his friend's backside; a 9mm Beretta. The pistol never bothered him because he knew it came with the territory. They weren’t the only coyotes ferrying desperate men across the border. And even fellow coyotes weren’t as dangerous as the other criminals and drug runners who made the border their playpen. Yet, he felt weary when Nacho had possession of both his gun and alcohol. Thomas owned firearms yet left them at home. He had a six-inch switchblade that he purchased in Los Angeles's China-Town a few years back. The knife was always strapped in a sheath on his left ankle, just underneath his pant leg. He heard that poorly made blades were perfect for killing since they often broke inside the victim, making it extremely difficult to dislodge.

   Not wanting to make his partner feel threatened, Thomas knelt next to him in the dirt. Nacho rose, only electing a smile of humor from his fellow coyote.    

“Hey, Thomas. What was that?”

“Nacho. It was over. We took them across. We got our money. That’s it. I don’t want to carry anything over…”

“When I’m talking you don’t interrupt me, pendejo! Who do you think runs things, man? You? Fuck, cabron, you don’t even speak Spanish!!!”

   Nacho laughed as he spat an inch from Thomas's foot. Thomas studied his friend's face before asking,                                  

“What’s up, Nacho?”

   The middle-aged man tilted his head to the side, surprised that Thomas even asked such a question. Silence reigned in the desert as both men glared at one another. Just as Thomas thought it might become violent, Nacho whispered in Spanish.

“You don’t know what I know. You don’t know what I know, white boy.”

   Although Thomas wanted to respond triumphantly in Spanish, he quickly eliminated the idea from his mind.

“I don’t understand you, Nacho. You know man, unless you’re gonna tell me what’s up, I’m done. I’ll just take you home.”

   Nacho strutted to the passenger side of the car, collapsed onto the seat, all the while still whispering the same words. Thomas gazed at the family, nearly out of sight by now. He thought about what his partner had told them about the distance. He knew his friend lied.

   Nogales was about four miles away, a good hour and a half or two hours distant by foot. With no water or very little, a person became a perfect victim in the empty desert. The family of four would not be the first ones to perish in the loneliness of the crimson landscape.

   Apparitions of yesteryear's deeds came alive in the desert. Thomas didn't see their bodies but recalled them through Arizona's hot sun, erect cacti and the wind, which blew ever so softly against a red thistle. He refused to possess any new memories. 

   Thomas turned the ignition. Sitting in the driver's seat in the evening Arizona sun, he looked out on the flat and empty landscape. He imagined that if God did exist, every morning upon waking he would sweep lands of the world clean with one giant pass of the hand. Who would be swept up in that movement, Thomas wondered?             -Well, if I am, at least I'll know that I tried. Never again.

   He pressed hard on the gas as he gunned it off the dirt and onto the highway. Nacho kept silent. With his leather wrapped flask in his lap, he kept his eyes straight ahead. Before nearing the family, Thomas grinned.  The car slowed down, pulling right beside the family. The farmer pushed his wife and daughters behind him. Alone, he faced the Plymouth. His eyes darted back and forth while the creases drew tight around his face. Thomas saw the apprehension in the farmer’s eyes as he called out to the family.

“Viejo! Nogales, es quatro millas de aca, no es uno. Quatro millas e esto es tu aqua tambien. Que te vaya bien!”

   Thomas handed the father a gallon of water. The farmer appeared confused but the young coyote was confident they would be fine. He didn’t even bother to look at Nacho. As the Plymouth crawled onto the highway, he felt this latest action might cause the end of their relationship. Yet Thomas had enough. He kept his eyes on the road until Nacho exploded, punching the dashboard as hard as he could.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, Thomas? You speak Spanish, now? That was no guero talking back there! You made me look like an idiot! You've contradicted my words! For how long, too? And that was my fucking water, not theirs!”

   Thomas glanced at Nacho, checking to see if he had finished screaming. Feeling amused but also angered by his friend's ranting, Thomas reminded himself that the argument involved a family’s life.

“Nacho, you purposely told those people the wrong directions. You wanna fuck with people, do it on your own time! I’m no fucking saint but I ain’t gonna purposely assist in a family’s death! You know man, what the fuck happened to you?”

  Nacho swung his head from side to side like a lonely town sign blowing in a gusty wind. After a few seconds, Thomas noticed that his friend continued to swing his head and with increasing speed. With a sudden snap of the neck, Nacho brought his forehead straight down onto the dashboard. There was a loud smacking noise, as the sound of skull reached dense plastic. Before Thomas could say a word, a splatter of blood had nicked his mouth and cheek. Out of instinct, he both reared in his seat and licked his lip. He instantly thought he tasted liquid iron, forbidden but recognizable.                                               

"Nacho, what the hell are you…"               Though he tried to finish his words, he froze mid-sentence as Nacho slammed his head for a second, then third, fourth and finally fifth time. Thomas reached across to try and hold his friend from hurting himself further. Nacho broke free from his grip, turned to face him.                "You can't touch me, Tom! I call the shots not you!"            

   Thomas wanted to look at him yet he felt fear. Any type of interaction could be perceived as hostile, he thought. Without knowing it, Thomas increased his speed, nearing seventy miles per hour. He had anxiously pressed hard on the gas pedal but eased off just as he noticed Nacho sit back in his seat. The coyote's forehead bled like a spring because of the thinness of the skin and rich blood supply. As the steady stream ran down the bridge of his nose in a single filed line, beads of blood collected in flowing order.

"Nacho, you got a handkerchief or something? Here, I got one in my pocket. You can have…"        

   The handkerchief hung in the air for only a millisecond before Nacho snatched it up.  He took the cloth and folded it over many times until he tied it, making a headband.

"So, how long have you been doing deals behind my back, Thomas?"         Nacho's sudden question left Thomas buzzing. He was struggling to make sense of the question when he finally responded.

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about. You know that you have all the connections, not me. I couldn't take people across even if I wanted to right now, Nacho. Just because I speak Spanish doesn't mean I'm running shit!"

   Thomas glanced over at his partner before nearly swerving them off the road. He re-gripped the steering wheel as he called out in the most calming voice,

"Why is your gun out, Nacho?"          Nacho held his 9mm Beretta, switching off the safety.

"Wait a minute, buddy! Why are you taking off the safety switch? Can you place that back on, bro?"

"I know you're lying, Thomas. I can always tell because you start acting like a little bitch."          

   Thomas kept his eyes on the road and noticed that his speed neared eighty miles per hour. The engine roared as they approached the outskirts of Nogales. Outside, the sky drew close to pitch black. Thomas's mind flashed to Flagstaff. He needed to get to someone in that city. Most important, though, he needed to get there alive. An image of a woman with dark brown hair came to mind.

-Four more hours. Just four more.          He turned to Nacho and found his eyes locked in on him.

"You know what the real problem is, Tom? There are too many chiefs and not enough Indians. You wanna be a chief, huh, Tom? You wanna wear a big hat or maybe a fucking headdress? I'll stick a few feathers on it."      

   He listened as Nacho’s voice became tenser. They sped closer to Nogales. Thomas hoped that his old partner wouldn’t do anything dangerous in a city. They passed a sign when Nacho chimed in anger,

"Pull in at that rest stop. The one that's half a mile ahead."

"Why? I thought you wanted a motel in Nogales."

"I gotta take a leak."

"We can take all the leaks we want once we get to the city."

"Pull …Over!"                          Thomas flinched as Nacho yelled in his ear. The angry coyote leveled the gun, bringing it toward the younger man’s chest. Driving with one hand on the wheel, Thomas decided now was the time. He looked down at the speedometer and read 84 MPH. With a quick, strong slam of his foot on the brake pedal, he reached out with his right hand to grab the gun. He controlled the wheel with his left. Nacho's body flew forward, smashing against the dashboard. Blood splattered against the windshield. He held onto the gun yet his hand went skyward. Thomas grasped for it with one hand while clasping onto Nacho's wrist. The hanker-chef flew off Nacho's head, allowing the wound to pour more blood like a smashed toilet.                     The Plymouth swayed from one side of the highway and then screeched to the middle lane. Braking tires sent an odor of burnt rubber into the air as Thomas felt he might lose control of the car. Nacho suddenly cracked him straight across the nose with an elbow. Thomas's eyes watered and blood dripped from his face as he refused to let go of Nacho's wrist. Neither man spoke but grunted and heaved, each striving to take control of the weapon.                         Since Thomas kept his foot on the brake, the car finally halted with the frame almost slipping off the chassis. He let go of the wheel and used two hands to seize the gun. Blood flew off both men's faces, spattering over one another and the upholstery. Thomas brought his elbow down upon Nacho's wrist with ferocity. Nacho’s grip loosened. Yet as one hand weakened, Nacho brought his other onto the handle of the Beretta. Before Thomas could defend himself, Nacho leveled the gun and fired. The bullet lodged into Thomas's upper right chest muscle, flinging his body back onto the driver side window. Without a single bit of hesitation and becoming a twitching muscle that only reacts, Thomas ripped the switchblade from his ankle with his left hand and slammed the blade into Nacho's larynx. Blood sprayed just like a soda can fizzing under extremely heavy pressure. Nacho sat paralyzed, gurgling bubbles of blood and his tongue sticking out like a dead animal. Thomas glanced up at the man he once called friend. He immediately vomited onto Nacho's lap. The dying man slumped in his seat, unmoving and seconds from his end. With his eyes closed, Thomas frantically grasped for the door handle. The taste of acidic vomit coupled with remorse forced his body to move. He grabbed the plastic handle and flung himself out of the Plymouth.

"Hey, you alright? Someone get shot?"        

     An overweight trucker came panting from
 his                                            rig. Blood flowed from Thomas's soaked shirt 

and ran across his belly. He didn't say a 

word but focused on the Plymouth. Inside the 

car lay a crumpled man who Thomas now 

realized had died years before.       

Juxta-Opposition

     The old double bladed ax swung so effortlessly in Ethan's hand that he almost forgot he was chopping down a tree. Ethan's shaved brown hair glistened with sweat. Spring's afternoon sun was getting close to as hot as summer, with today's temperature reaching 85 farenheit. Four chopped birch trees lay on a grassy knoll, in single file as if they were body bags. Ethan was three strokes away from finishing off the fifth tree. Ms. Plummer had called on Friday night asking if Ethan wanted to make "a little pocket money". Laying brick five days a week earned him a decent wage yet he nearly always took weekend jobs. Twenty nine years old and with a $322,000 mortgage to pay, Ethan had to come up with ways to earn "a little pocket money." Of course those pockets had to be pretty deep to support all the money he needed but if anyone could do it, it was Ethan Ferguson.                                               Ms. Plummer just began to strut her way out to the patio. A knockout twenty years ago, Carol Plummer was now more likely to knock you out if she landed a punch. After a bad divorce eight years back, Carol dedicated all her free time toward her appetite. She yearned for whip cream, brie cheese, crackers, microwaveable pizzas and anything else that would go down her esophagus. In reality, Carol was seeking comfort not Coconut ice cream. Her body ached for solace and the only way she knew how to achieve it was through food.                                                                             Ethan gripped the axe, loading up to deliver the final cut to the fifth birch tree. He saw Ms. Plummer coming out of the corner of his right eye. He wanted to get home. He wasn't interested in a third sandwich.                                                       

        "Ethan, I was gonna ask you before but something came up. You know, I was really concerned when I heard about Ryan. How is he?"                                                          

        Ethan definitely didn't see that one coming. It wasn't as if people never asked about his younger brother. They did it all the time. It was just that Ethan thought he was going to be denying a BLT but instead he ended up wanting to deny reality. Again. On the whole, Ethan dealt with his brother's illness with courage and respect. But he didn't know what he should say. Ethan thought that there was some type of way in which he should treat Ryan. He wanted to know the boundaries. The Fergusons were learning the hard way how a sickness takes possession of more than one person. If allowed, it can control a whole family.                                                                                                                   

       "He's doing alright Ms. Plummer. They got him on some new drug so we're just waiting around to see if it works. Were you gonna ask how long? Yeah, my mom told me that the doctor said two weeks to one month. So, y'know. We'll see."                                                                                                          
       As Carol listened to Ethan, she thought of how often he must repeat this answer. Ethan knew what she was going to ask before the word even slipped off her tongue. Everyone in San Paderno loved Ryan Ferguson. He was a sweet kid with a rebellious spirit but he had always been accessible. That was one of his most beloved qualities. His ability to be so open with people was beyond a boy of seven-teen. People lived their whole lives without ever attaining a tenth of the natural wisdom Ryan possessed. Carol couldn't help but look at Ethan and wonder how it skipped over the man himself. Despite this thought, Carol Plummer liked Ethan very much. Though he was different from Ryan, Ethan never put on airs. On the other hand, Ethan was a grown man. Life makes certain demands over the old that it suspends for the young. Before Carol thought any further about Ethan, she suddenly remembered one of her previous questions.                                                                        

      "Hey Ethan, if you don't feel comfortable talking about all of this, then… then we don't have to. OK?"                                                                                                                                                         
      Carol had expected Ethan to interrupt her and say that it was alright to ask more questions. She was wrong. Ethan stood there with a blank face. She wasn't sure if he was trying to be difficult but Carol found Ethan's cold attitude somewhat intriguing. He wasn't going to give her an inch. She'd have to fight for every bit of information she wanted.                                                                                               
     "I forgot the name of the condition your brother …"       
     "It's called Lupus."                                    
     "That's right. I remember it now because my mother's first cousin got it. Your mother and I talked about it. This was back in the seventies, though. When my cousin got it, I mean. They didn't have as good medicines then like they do now."                                                          
    
      Ethan said nothing but nodded. Once the words came out of her mouth, Carol realized she should have just kept her lips shut. Too late. Ethan didn't know what happened to Carol's cousin but the tone in which she spoke confirmed in his mind that she was dead. Ethan had learnt enough now through his mother and brother to know that many auto-immune diagnoses could be death sentences, especially those before the 21'st century. The thought quickly shocked Ethan's chest as he drew the connection to Ryan. Ethan moved back toward the last birch tree. He heaved one good cut into the tree's wooded trunk and down went the birch. His fingers wrapped around the tree's top as he dragged it toward the others. Carol watched as the veins in his neck tensed, pulsating from under the white T-shirt tight around his body. Turning back to Carol, he caught her watching him.                                                                                             
      -Maybe if she lost a few pounds.                                                                      

      Ethan suddenly lowered his head in shame. He felt bad for being so vain, so concerned with appearance. He had known Ms. Plummer for years. However, whenever he thought of her, he imagined the old Carol Plummer. It was hard not to. She was a good looking woman in her mid twenties when Ethan was coming of age. He always liked Mr. Plummer and showed him the utmost respect. He just liked Mrs. Plummer a little bit more. Yet all that was in the past. Mrs. had become Ms. and 5'5 125 swelled up to 5'5 278. It was strange to see someone change so drastically in such little time. Just as this thought entered his mind, Ethan wondered if this was going to be the same for his brother.           
      The prednisone Ryan been taking already enlarged his face and his stomach was beginning to protrude. The steroid was causing a lot of constipation for Ryan. Ethan recalled how Ryan had taken off his shirt the other day to reveal a bunch of newly acquired stretch marks. All along his waistline and over his stomach, the marks mimicked a mother nearing her second trimester. It was so odd and peculiar that Ethan wanted badly to turn away from Ryan. However, he would never do such a thing, Ethan thought. He couldn't do such a thing. Ethan knew how much it would hurt his brother. Ryan was his blood. While the memory began to drift away, Ethan looked to Carol who was standing before her rose bushes. He turned toward her as she picked a rose with her bare hands.                                                         
      "Hey, hold on there, Carol!"                                                                          

      Ethan ran over to her so fast, he wondered to himself what he was doing. Carol stopped twisting the stem and allowed Ethan to snap off a pretty white rose.                                                       

      "You grow these yourself, Carol?"                  
      "Yeah! Well, actually, my gardner waters them once in a while but I planted them and continue to take care of them."      
      "You've done one hell of a job, then! Yes, I'm serious!"                                                          

      Ethan stared into her green eyes and was momentarily numb. Her face alone was still quite pretty and the extra weight helped add a glow to her cheeks. For a brief second, Ethan thought he was going to kiss Carol. They stared at each other for a few seconds until Ethan told himself that he should leave.                                                      

      "So, do you want me to cut them in pieces or I can just haul 'em off? If you want firewood for your chimney, Birch burns pretty damn well."                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Carol tried to ponder Ethan's question but all she could focus on was Ethan.                                                       
     -I'm almost fifteen years older than him! This is weird! Good but … strange. Why did he stop though? We were so close…firewood? Yes, keep it for the chimney. Chimneys need wood. Give it lots of wood!"                                                                    

      "Sure, Ethan. If you don't mind chopping it up, I'd like to keep it. It burns pretty well, huh?"             "Like I said, it burns well. I'm not going to be able to finish it tonight, though. How about I swing by tomorrow morning?"       
      "Sure thing. Come by when you want. I'll be here."                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Ethan gently placed his axe on his shoulder. The blades gleamed in dusk's sunlight. Carol smiled to him and then turned back toward her home. Just before she was inside, she called over her shoulder.                                                                          
      "Tell Ryan and your mom I say hello."                                                                  

      By the time Ethan looked up, Carol was gone. He walked down the driveway to his truck. It was seven o'clock. He was hungry.           
      Ethan decided to swing by his parent's home and see if he could wrangle up something for dinner. Carol lived a mile and a half from the Fergusons. The drive was downhill and as Ethan coasted on the old highway, he couldn't help but be captivated by the sun dropping low over the Pacific Ocean. In the diminishing sunlight, the ocean sparkled. Dark stones danced upon its surface. Ethan breathed in the ocean air, feeling the salt and dampness reach down his throat. He had lived most of his life in San Paderno yet wondered if he could move away again.
       When Ethan was twenty-three, he had lived in Delaware for two years laboring with an old friend. Milo Regis had gone to junior high school with Ethan but moved to White Castle, Delaware right before entering high school. His mother's company had moved to Delaware because of the state's reputation for being business friendly. The reputation didn't disappoint as the Regis family was doing better than ever and had no plans to move. Some of them had plans to build, though.
        Milo had done quite well for himself, creating an internet search engine in college. By the time he was twenty-three he sold the engine and made enough to build himself a nice farm house in the country. And then some if he so chose. Hence the phone call to Ethan to come out and help aid in the home's construction. It took less than a year to build but within that time he picked up jobs from other rich families connected to Milo. He could have lived an interesting life in Delaware, Ethan thought, yet California, especially San Paderno always pulled on his heart. Since he constantly thought of home and the ocean when he was in Delaware, it was almost natural that he would think of White Castle and its state when he saw the Pacific.                 
         The thought of calling Milo came to mind just as Ethan pulled up to the Ferguson home.                                                        
-Good. I'm glad he's here.                                                                              

          Ethan spotted Ryan's truck in the driveway. He hadn't talked to him in a couple of days. Ethan worried about his brother if he hadn't talked to him in more than 48 hours. Then again, he felt confident in Ryan's will. His brother had an internal strength that was impressive. Ethan had no idea what lay before them but he knew his brother would utilize all of his abilities to stay alive. And Ethan would do whatever he could to help Ryan in his efforts. Ethan was to discover that intentions are noble in their infancy, complicated at best in their prime.                             
          Opening up the back door to his parent's home, Ethan was relieved to see a familiar scene at the dinner table; Ryan and middle brother, Ottis, sitting with their father Dante Ferguson as Ethan's mother hustled back and forth from the dining table to the stove. Diane Ferguson smiled at both her seated sons while they thanked their mother in unison. As Diane turned back toward the stove, her face lit up upon seeing Ethan come into her home.                                                       

 "Oh, honey, it's so good to see you! You came just in time for dinner. Ottis, grab your brother a plate, please."      
 "Don't worry about it O, I'll get it. Good to see you guys! Pops, how are you?"      
 "Good Ethan. Take a seat. Your mother made pork chops."                                                             "You know what, if there's not enough I don't need a pork chop. Give it to the boys."                             "That's right! Give it to us. Ethan can feed himself. Mom, did you use that low cholesterol crap again?"       
"Ottis, you keep talking like that and we're all going to enjoy your pork chop. Ethan, will you…"        "Wait a minute, Pops! What do you mean "pork chop?" I only get one? Mom! What the hell is this …"       
"Ottis, I don't feel like pork so …"                  
"That's poppy-cock, Ethan. You love my pork chops. Anyone who wants to eat will always get food at our house, dear. You know that."                                                          

        Ethan slid next to Ryan at the table. The youngest brother sat silent with a large grin on his face. Ethan quickly looked his brother over, without trying to cause attention. Ryan was bright eyed and sat up straight. His lean, muscular arms had grown thinner over the past few months and as Ethan glanced at his forearms he accidentally glared at his Ryan's face.                                                                                     
       "It's because of this new medicine. We think. My platelets dropped and because of that my arm got all black and blue when they drew blood."         
       "How long will it last?"                          
       "Well, they just gave me something today which will bring my platelets back up…"      
       "Wait, I'm sorry for interrupting but what are 'platelets'?"      
       "Platelets, basically from my understanding, are what keeps your blood running out of your body when you get cut. They stop the bleed…"       
       "They clot our blood?"                          
       "Exactly! That's what the doctor said. They clot the blood and keep us from bleeding out."              "He's going to be fine now, Ethan. The blood-bank called us right after his tests came back and told him to come into the hospital. They…"      
       "The hospital?!!?"                              
       "Well, yes, Ethan. Ryan needed the medicine right away … the … the IVIZ."       
       "IVIG,mom."                                      
       "Oh, that's right, honey. IVIG. You're so smart!"      
       "What does that stand for?"                                                                          

       Diane looked at Ethan as his questions and countenance both displayed an honest look of concern. Ottis kept silent while he dived into his pork chop and Dante sipped his wine. The patriarch listened in silence as his wife and children talk. For most of his adult life, Dante had provided everything for his family. They never went hungry, always had a roof over their heads and they never wanted for anything they needed. Now, for the first time in his life, he had to sit back and watch as one of his sons was being harmed. Though he constantly looked to do things for Ryan, Dante's inability to simply 'fix' his son left him emotionally drained. All he wanted to do was cure his son. He wanted to grab Lupus by its throat and tear it loose from his son's failing body. But he could not defeat the disease. And so he sat back in silence and watched in humiliating defeat as his son grew weaker and weaker every day. Dante looked up at his wife as Diane suddenly quipped.                                                       
       "IV stands for intravenous and the IG is … is … immune, something or rather. Right, Ryan?"              "Correct, Mamacita! Ottis, pass me that paper behind you, please."                                                          
       Ottis immediately dropped the chop from his mouth and grabbed for Dr. Reynold's synopsis of yesterday's visit. Though Ottis didn't always think of the small things, like wiping his greasy fingers before snatching up the paper, he did anything he could for Ryan. Despite not saying it aloud, every night Ottis prayed for God to have his body switched with his younger brother. After seeing Ryan drive away with Diane yesterday for the hospital, Ottis went to his room and cried himself to sleep at five o'clock in the evening. Ottis didn't like to articulate his feelings through words but anything of importance that was asked of him, especially for Ryan, he would do automatically. He now slid the paper from his damp fingers to Ryan's open palm.                                                          

       "Thanks, bro. OK, here we go… OK, here it is IVIG … is intravenous immune globulin. They're red blood cells as opposed to white blood cells. The white ones are the ones that like fight off flues and colds and stuff like that."      
       "Alright, yeah, that makes sense. I remember reading about white cell counts in relation to AIDS patients."        "Jesus, Ethan! Now you're saying Ryan has AIDS? Don't listen to him Rye-bread, I know that you don't have AIDS. And even if you did, I'd still love you."                                                          
       Ottis caught a stern glance from his father and suddenly stopped talking. He decided to go back to his pork chop. Ryan noticed the event yet simply grinned. No matter what Ottis said, Ryan knew that his brother loved him. His jokes were his armor. Ethan on the other hand, didn't wear armor. He simply allowed himself to be effected by all of the elements, good and bad. The wide age gaps between the sons, six years a piece, allowed each boy to develop their own personalities with less influence from the other sibling.                                                                                                    

       "Well, I'm glad that you got that IVIG as fast as you did. So, if that medicine you took dropped the platelets, what are you going to take next?"       
       "I'm not sure, really. Mom might have a better idea than me because she talked to Dr. Reynolds when I was getting the medicine. Because it took like five hours!"      
       "Are you serious?"                              
       "Honey, it was closer to 4 1/2 hours rather than five. But yes, I did speak to Dr. Reynolds. He said that Plaquenil, which is the name of the drug, should not have caused the drop. It was probably something else, he thinks. If Ryan is willing, they will try the Plaquenil again."      
       "What the hell does Reynolds think it is then, if it's not this 'Plaquenil'?"      
       "Well, he's not quite sure Ethan. He just said that it is really rare when Plaquenil would do something like it did to Ryan. He wasn't quite sure what it could have been but he was pretty confident that it was not the Plaquenil."       
       "What are you gonna do, Ryan? You going to try it again?                                                           

       Ryan was mid-way through chomping down on the pork chop bone as Ethan asked his question. With a quiet shrug and smile, Ryan answered the question while continuing to eat. Ethan began to feel as if that was all the medical talk anyone and everyone wanted to discuss for the day. Remembering that Carol Plummer had wanted him to bid hello to his family, Ethan switched subjects. While the family discussed Carol and the job Ethan was doing at her home, Ottis kept giggling like a small child. Dante continued to peer at his odd son until he finally couldn't hold it in anymore.                                                      

        "OK, Ottis! Fine, get it all out! What the hell is so damn funny!"                                                          
        Both Ethan and Ryan knew where this was going to go but decided in telepathic unison to let it ride.                                                                                                       

        "What do you mean what is so funny? You know exactly what is 'so damn funny!'" She used to look like Jenny McCarthy and now she looks like Jenny … Jenny … Craig!"                                                "Alright, that's enough, dammit!"                                                                      

        Dante Ferguson suddenly slammed his his fist on the table, bringing all the Fergusons to a sudden quiet. Yet it couldn't hold for long. When Ottis had previously spoke, pieces of yam, honey and buttered wheat bread and scraps of pork chop had squeezed past the barrier of his teeth, spilling out onto his face and plate. Always the one for general respect when it came to dining etiquette, Dante had neared his boiling point. Once a quarter sized piece of yam exploded from his moronic son's mouth, the fist hit the table. Of course this didn't do much but bring the situation to a teetering cliff, just before the final jump. Three seconds of silence and an angry, glaring Dante only brought the entire Ferguson clan to their knees. If this had been twelve years before the boys would have been ducking for their scalps. Yet age and life had tempered Dante's once near maniacal rage. Two of his boys were men and the other was experiencing a life that contained more adult, real-life struggles than most people would encounter in five life times. Dante's own slow but ever-emerging grin eventually tilted the balance, leaving the family to enjoy a moment that was all Ferguson. While the chuckles continued to erupt, Ethan glanced over at his mother, who was visibly capturing all of the moments in her mind. Ethan caught Diane's attention as her eyes settled upon her oldest son. In that brief, flash of an instant, Ethan recognized and felt all of his mother's fears and anticipations for the future. His laughter morphed into a smile, yearning to convince her that everything would be fine. Everything would be good again. Once again.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    


                                                  THE END                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

Waterfalls of Dust

Peter's hand was through the spokes of his bicycle as he attempted to climb just three more steps to his cousin's apartment. He stumbled again, dropping the baby blue colored Schwyyn. Though Peter didn't slam the bicycle, it did make a considerable crashing sound as it hit the steps. Since it was only four o'clock in the afternoon, he wasn't very concerned about disturbing anyone. However, he noticed that the top apartment door, #9, seemed to be ajar. It almost crept open yet it wasn't very long before Peter saw a young man, in his mid-twenties or so, peer down the steps. The man glared at Peter. His hard, worn look was intimidating. Though Peter wanted to just crawl away in some hole and hide, he nodded. The two had seen one another, passing each other in front of the apartment from time to time. Yet they never spoke. The man was part of a group of Eastern Europeans living in the large, top floor flat. Or so Peter figured that the man lived in the apartment. Peter's hand was still through the spokes and at first he expected some assistance. Yet after another second of the man's glare, he knew that wasn't gonna happen. The door closed as creepily as it had opened. "Fair enough." For the following few minutes, as Peter finally picked up the bike and carried it through his cousin's apartment, he kept tossing anything do with Eastern Europe around in his mind. From "Goodbye Lenin" to borscht, Peter continued to switch the various images, movies, ideas, foods and all other things Slavic within his mind. It took him a full minute before he realized James was speaking to him through the confines of his bedroom. "I'm sorry, James what did you say?" "I said 'Next time your having problems with the bike, just call me OK?' Peter, I want to help you, y'know?" Peter felt that this level of honesty needed to be met face to face and not through walls and doors. He gently knocked on his cousin's door before James ok'd his entering. Spread out on his bed, shirt off and khaki Dickie shorts just above his butt crack, James smiled at his cousin. He took large puffs from a Philly blunt, which stuck out of the side of his mouth. Peter thought of James as a cross between Cheech Marin and Clint Eastwood . Of all the Salvatos, James was the least best looking yet he made up for it with a positive attitude and zest for business. Though only twenty-eight years old, he already owned his own bicycle pedi-cab company with sixteen employees in San Paderno, part of Southern California. For the past few months, James had encouraged Peter to leave home for a little bit and visit him in San Paderno.
"James , you gonna work tonight?" "Yeah, I was thinking about it but we're barely gonna have enough bikes so I'm not sure." "Oh." James watched as his cousin lowered his head in frustrated disappointment. He sat up in bed as he spoke again to Peter. "Hey, I gotta bunch of shit to do in the office, so take my bike." "No, no James, I mean thanks a lot for the offer but I don't wanna take it from you." "Hey, it isn't an offer. You work for me and I need you out riding tonight!" Peter grinned at James and shook his head as he thanked him. "Since you're going to be out, you need to know what bike you got. Because we're on such high demand, I was gonna use Frank…" "Oh, damn , it is gonna be a busy night if you're using… or I'm using Frankenstein!" "Yeah, well I told you about Sergei, so it's no surprise that the Biz is getting busier." "So, the city really went through with it? They actually shut him down?" "Yeah, finally, huh? See, since it took them down in city hall so long to fine and penalize him, he was able to run out almost every pedicab business in San Paderno, beside us and Osterhouse. I mean that's what happens when someone has over a hundred employees and he absolutely floods the market! The damn bastard … " "Come on, calm down, James. Anyways, it looks like he's a goner so he won't be a problem any more." James scratched his naked belly, amusing himself with the idea that his arch-enemy Sergei Ivanovich was no longer operating the largest pedicab business in San Paderno. Sergei had access to both people and industry back in his home country. He was able to offer hope to Eastern European kids hell bent on living in America. Through brief work visas, these youths were to work in San Paderno for three months at a time and always for Sergei Ivanovich. By his first year, Sergei had fifty employees and by his second, one hundred and eighteen. Though he completely drowned the business with his workers, this wouldn't have bothered James so much had his employees been trained properly. Instantly greeted with a cheaply built pedi-cab, that they were to constantly rotate amongst fellow employees, these modern immigrants of the computer age were thrown into the down-town mix and told to charge whatever fee they wanted. With no restrictions or rules to heed, these youths became a black eye upon the pedicab business. Charging exorbitant rates from thirty to fifty dollars for two to three block long rides and known to threaten ignorant and frightened tourists with possible arrest, they usually achieved their goals. The most irritating part for James was that Sergei and his workers didn't have a legal toe to stand upon. Charging ridiculous fees was not legal but it was lucrative. And then again it wasn't really illegal, either. According to James, there was too much "grey area." For purists like James, who loved a quick buck as much as the next man yet not at the sake of a guests' humility or sense of security, they were abhorred at the new image slapped upon their business. With Sergei's elimination, James was hoping to get back to the way things used to be three years past. "Peter, why don't you head back to the warehouse and see if there is a spare bike lying around so you don't have to use Frankenstein. "Sounds good. I'll grab my stuff 'cuz I don't think I'll come back then." Without saying another word, James saluted Peter, sending his cousin off to make a few dollars. After grabbing a flannel from his closet and an extra pair of pants, Peter quickly opened the front door to leave. With his head down and his mind focused on Frankenstein, Peter nearly crashed into the young woman sprinting up the stairs. Spinning quickly around Peter yet stopping in her tracks, the young woman just stared at him. Peter instantly recognized her as one of the young women from apartment #9. At first he had to make a double glance for he had never seen her out in the afternoon but always at night or very early in the morning. She was also dressed in jeans and a blouse, a definite first for she nor any of the other girls wore anything but dresses, skirts and stilettos. Her face was flushed and from the few beads of sweat upon her forehead, just dropping below her jet black hair, Peter could tell she had been running. Her mouth fell agape as if she desperately wanted to say something yet paused for a fearful thought took hold of her wits. Just as James opened his mouth to say hello she spun back around and sprinted up the stairs. Suddenly the woman stopped right before knocking on the door.

-She doesn't have her keys.

Peter thought about this occurrence, as it struck him as being odd. Just as the observation settled in Peter's mind, the young woman turned back to him. Her face was stern, almost as if she were prepping for a disaster. As she rose her fist to knock, the young woman locked eyes with Peter. It was obvious to him that she was seeking him out but why, was beyond his comprehension. Was it just because they almost knocked into one another or was there something else? The woman's eyes met Peters and then separated as quickly as they had joined. As soon as the door opened, a burst of screams and yells exploded within the apartment. The door instantly slammed close behind her. "What the hell…" Peter mumbled to himself while standing still. He didn't make a move but strained to hear everything waning through the door. Peter was able to hear all that was said yet since he couldn't understand the foreign language, it didn't make too much of a difference. Nevertheless, it would have been impossible not to understand the tone. There were several voices screaming yet only one man's voice and his was just loud, not hysterical. The female voices were screams. James felt his whole body tense as he strained to hear a slap or any kind of violence. Although he didn't really ponder the idea until later in life, Peter wasn't sure what he would have done if he thought someone was being physically hurt. Though neither of the cousins knew the people in #9, James had his suspicions. The women were all pretty, the worst looking one could possibly be called "cute" although "hot" is a much better description.They only came out at night and they weren't dressed to run marathons. The men were tough looking, muscular and always on alert. Also, Peter thought the apartment was only inhabited by women. The men always seemed to be there momentarily. Both sexes exerted dispositions of secrecy and an unwillingness to communicate. Suddenly, Peter noticed the noise had ceased. He walked back into his apartment, making sure to lock the door behind him. "James! James!" James didn't answer because he was in his room. Being unaware of this fact, Peter searched for James until he opened his cousin's bedroom door. "James! Did you hear all that racket?" Quietly looking up from his bowl of Top Ramen that he had been nursing for fifteen minutes, James gave his cousin a look of bewilderment. "Man, you missed it! Dude, turn that fucking TV down, you gotta hear this! You know the chicks on the top floor, the Russian…" "The hookers?" "What? Wait, what are you… Whatta you mean…They're hookers?" James watched with concerned shock as Peter seemed crush by the news. Although this was the first time he ever articulated himself about the women in #9, James figured that Peter knew what the women were really doing at night. The longer the two cousins lived together, the more James was realizing how naive and young his cousin was in truth. Peter's head bowed and he still seemed to be wrestling with the idea that the girl on the step was a prostitute. "Wait, James. I mean, I'm not saying you're wrong but do you know for sure whether she is a hooker?" "No, bud, I don't. I could be wrong but ya' gotta kind of use your sense. You aint a dummy, bud, think about it, yeah! I mean they're always dressed skanky, they're all hot, they only work at night, they're Russian and…" "What does being Russian have to do with it? And how do you know they're Russian?" Peter was suddenly feeling relieved. He thought James's comment about the link between the girls and Russian prostitution a sure fire example of how his cousin didn't know anything. He breathed again and laughed. Then James spoke. "Well, bud, there's a large link between organized crime and prostitution. Mafias, whether they be Italian, Korean, Japanese or whatever have a historical and modern connection with prostitution. Especially when it comes to these poorer countries. These girls wanna come to America, to escape their current plights and they just find another one here. Man, didn't you see "Eastern Promises?" Peter stood further confused. James's sudden intellectual answer and education about organized crime surprised him yet it was how direct James was, which was slowly convincing Peter. Though he had only seen the young woman five or six times over the last few months, never talking to one another, Peter was intrigued by her. James thought Peter was experiencing an infatuation for the girl. Nothing serious. In-experienced, ignorant of the opposite sex and eager for a fantasy although he didn't even know it, Peter was perplexed. His head drooped and almost seemed asleep. Peter's eyes hit the floor like lead to a magnet. He rubbed his hair slowly then looked back up to James. A small grin appeared on his face, camouflaging his disappointment. "Well, I guess I'm gonna get back to work." "Back to work? You never went!" Without saying another word, Peter grabbed his backpack and was out the door and down the apartment steps. He refused to look back. Once he was out on the streets of San Paderno, the beginning traces of sunset just beginning to bleed onto the horizon, Peter thought of the young woman again. His thoughts drifted into "what ifs" until the likely possibility that she was a prostitute came into mind. Suddenly shaking his head, Peter had to quickly realign his grip on the bicycle's handlebars. Winter had given way to Spring and what would have been a cutting wind against his cheek last month was now a soft pat upon his skin. As quick as the wind touched upon his face, so did Peter's thoughts drift back to the young woman. Though the possibility of her being a prostitute seemed to make more and more sense, Peter's hopefulness for something to exist between the two of them didn't disappear yet morphed into some type of frantic substitute for innocent love. What he was forming was a mutated fantasy, a man's dream with all the sentimentality of a boy. Finally satisfied with this choice, Peter thought of it no more but focused on arriving at the warehouse unscathed. Pulling up to the warehouse, Peter heard the sound of two mallets rapping off simultaneously as he pulled into the short asphalt laid driveway. After biking just ten feet, he was greeted with the large open warehouse nearly fifty feet in length. Over 3,500 square feet large, the warehouse was a tremendous spot especially for the price. Although none of James's other employes knew the rent, Peter was privy to most of James' financial business dealings. With a charge of only $2,500 a month, James was able to expand his business far easier than most people in their early to mid twenties. The owner of the property had inherited fifteen pieces of property in San Paderno a decade before. He had worked in sheet metal all his life and had a soft spot for anyone trying to rise up and do something big. After the owner met James, he felt the young man fit this description and offered him the rent four times cheaper than what he could have received.
Peter entered the complex where seventeen pedicabs were parked in neat, tidy lines. Though seventeen pedicabs were no small number for a pedicab company, Peter knew that there were another twelve out on the streets at the moment. With nearly thirty pedicabs to his name, all with a unique style to their own, James was establishing himself as the premier pedi-cab owner in San Paderno. "Peter, where' ya go tonight?" Suddenly spinning around, Peter looked about only to see Francesco Scioppero, shaking his legs back and forth. Francesco was a tall, sun-burnt Italian boy from a coastal town in Liguria. "What's going on Frances?" "Getting ready to go out. Phillip has got my bike. I waiting for him to come back but I have to go soon. You ride tonight?" "Yeah. I got Frankenstein tonight." "Really? Hey, you wanna switch? I hava customer I have to pick up in ten minutes. You get Phillip's bike and he should be back soon. I cannot wait."
"Sure." For being in the USA only four years, Francesco spoke English quite well. His accent was apparent, but after dilly-dagging in Oxford, England for two years his English became a hilarious cross between James Bond and Ricky Ricardo. After he briefly pondered Francesco's accent, Peter's mind returned to their deal. Peter didn't have to think too much about the offer. Even though he didn't know when Phillip would return, he wouldn't have to ride Frankenstein and Phillip was riding the Metallica bike which always made good money. Francesco sprinted past Peter in his high Nautica shorts, bright orange tank top and a wide, happy smile on his grill. There was a sixty pound canvas heavy bag hanging up in the rear of the warehouse. As Francesco ran past it, slapping it with all his strength, Peter decided he needed a quick freshening up. Peter slid past some of the guys as they pumped tires, inspected spokes and performed one-overs on their cabs.
Since this was San Paderno, a beautiful quasi-affluent Southern California beach town, people from every walk of life seemed to converge here, including James's employees. When Peter first moved to San Paderno, he was amazed to meet so many people from the East Coast, especially the South. He had always thought that people from the Mid West and East Coast thought of Californians as quirky little weirdoes with obsessions toward the latest crazes. To an extent, Peter agreed with these observations. Californians were all about being "laid back" and "living for the moment" yet they were shackled to their gym memberships, consumed by their Atkins Diets and proselytizing to anyone who would listen about the "realness" of being present. Peter figured at least it provided some comic relief. In regards to the East Coasters and such who moved to the poppy state, maybe these people had been the Californians of their states. By the time Peter threw a few combinations and a low roundhouse, all of these ideas left his mind and were replaced by the empty state of nothingness. Peter had put in two rounds on the heavy bag and one and a half rounds of shadow boxing by the time Phillip arrived. The Metallica bike was neatly parked beside the air pump yet Peter was unable to find Phillip. After, Peter made a brief assessment of the bike and this wasn't a problem since Phillip had left the bike in great condition. Peter unlocked the small box below the seat which opened up to a compartment containing an inner tube, one tire, a blanket, a few CDs, a medium size packet of alcohol swabs & bandaids and three water bottles. After closing the box, Peter took the pedi-cab for a short ride around the block. Feeling satisfied, Peter bid the guys adieu and drove the pedi-cab into the fading light of a San Paderno sunset. Although Metallica's music wasn't popular to all sections of society, like Bruce Springsteen or Led Zeppelin, the bike that James had customized for their music was appreciated by almost everyone that caught a glance. James spent the extra bucks to acquire an oil black paint, which was illegal in the state of California. Nevertheless, this particular paint gave off the best shine and when mixed with navy blues and dark greasy, the pedi-cab looked very appealing. It was the kind of cab you really wanted to get a ride inside. And that was James' intention from the very beginning. For Peter it was simply a great way to make great tips. Anytime a rider gave a customer a ride, the rider was going to earn some money but the nicer the bike, the more likely a better than average tip. Within a few seconds of Peter riding out of the warehouse, he caught sight of the young woman from apartment #9 standing on the edge of the block. He pulled over. She kept her eyes on him, never deviating from his face as Peter rested the pedi-cab right alongside a parked car. "Hey, there! Twice in one day, huh?"
"Yes, it is most unusual." Despite that the girl's answer seemed practical, Peter felt as if she was up to something. Perhaps it wasn't anything malicious, Peter quickly mused, yet he suspected she had some type of ulterior motive. "Would you like a ride?" "Yes. Thank you." "By the way, I'm Peter." "My name is Faina." Unsure of where this was headed but happy to see Faina, Peter helped her onto the platform and then her seat. Peter eased the cab back out onto the bike lane. Every few seconds, he looked back to Faina, to see if she was still there. Faina had been looking out at the streets as Peter kept an easy, moderate pace. Though Faina was constantly driven from one destination to another, all throughout San Paderno, she never had the opportunity to just people watch. Never the opportunity to just sit and watch a storefront and all the busyness which is involved. Faina knew that the importance lay in the freedom to choose what you wanted to do, not in actually people watching itself. It wouldn't matter if she wanted to look at parakeets attempting impersonations of sea captains or even something three times crazier. The beauty lay in the choice.
Faina couldn't help but notice Peter's incessant turning of his head. Just as Peter looked back again, Faina inched closer, her long legs granting her the ability to get close to Peter with one step. Peter's face morphed into embarrassment yet Faina wouldn't have anything of the sort. She reached out and lay her thin, soft fingertips upon his shoulder. Peter's shoulders instantly rose as being touched startled him. Faina kept her hand on his shoulder until she felt his body relax. Faina withdrew her hand from his shoulder. It was a momentary shock for him and her loss of touch, left him feeling frigid again.
Whether it was Faina's withdrawal of her touch, a sudden desire to know everything or that Peter simply felt overwhelmed, he decided he had to speak plainly with her.

"Faina, why are you here? Don't get me wrong, I'm glad that you stopped by yet what's going on?"
Faina looked away yet turned back to Peter resolutely. With rapid fire like speed, Fiana explained to Peter her present plight and how it came to originate. Promised a work visa, a job and a safe place to live, Faina was fed a lie that would come to be the first of many for her life in America. Quickly after arriving in the United States, her real profession was explained to her along with her choices if she disobeyed. She made it quite clear to Peter that not only her life was threatened but also her family back home, specifically her two little sisters. Fearful, naive and believing the men's lie that it wouldn't be "too bad", Faina agreed to sell herself. Now, three months later, she found herself just wanting to go back home no matter the consequences. Had it been three months ago, Faina thought she never would have risked her life as well as that of her families but she could take no more. Peter listened in attentive silence. Once Faina began to speak, he pulled the pedi-cab into the parking lot of a small park. She wasn't quite sure why but she felt much better as she spoke under the swaying palm frowns and birch trees. After rushing out her story in a type of frenzied urgency, Faina was thankful for Peter's changing of the subject.
"It's gonna be cold tonight. There's no cloud cover."

Peter pointed to the black sky. Faina looked up as they both momentarily stared at the same stars.

"What do you mean no cloud cover? What does this mean?"
"It's just a term for explaining when the sky is blanketed by clouds. You know, covered!"

Faina laughed as Peter raised his voice. She turned away from the streets and knelt close to him, her knees on the platform in front of her and her hands upon the rail to steady herself.

"When you say "blanketed", it is like God places a blankets or sheets over the heavens?"
"Uh, well yeah, I guess that's one way to look at it. It's funny, on a clear night like this you can see practically everything."
"I like it when is moon full!"

Faina's voice rose as she dreamt of the full moons back in her hometown. On summer nights when the moon was largest, the kids would dance outdoors. From midnight to sun up. She longed for the pulsating beat from the German techno music. While she thought of the past, Faina lowered her head and shuddered with a sense of regret. She couldn't help but recall her innocent, naive hopes when she was still in Russia. All the teenagers knew of New York and Los Angeles. They were enticed by the stories of raging parties attended by famous people and a constant throng of fun times. She knew she would have to work in the United States. Faina wanted to work, go to school and perfect her English. All of these were seen as an easy life compared to some of her options back at home. Yet she never imagined that the horror stories she had heard uttered by others, supposedly mere rumors, would one day be her own. Faina kept her head lowered and bit her lip, ashamed that she had once thought that life could be so wonderful.

"A full moon. Yeah, those are very pretty. I like new moons the most, though. The new moon is the opposite of the full moon, right? Unlike the full moon which is large and seems to cover up the sky, a new moon is so much different. On a new moon, you can see all the stars. Everywhere you look are stars, splattered across the sky. You can form the constellations now too."
"Yes, my favorite is Orion. But even though the other moon is full of stars, don't you think the full moon is beautiful? It is so bright and has so much light!"
"Yeah, you're right. You're definitely right. The full moon is pretty but because it's so bright, it blocks out all the stars, comets, meteors. Anything that God wants us to see is blocked out by the full moon's massive glow. It's the new moon that allows the heavens to be seen."

As Peter spoke of heaven, his thoughts froze. He rarely ever spoke of religious matters now and he remembered that he hadn't spoken the name of God in years. He wasn't sure if it was because Faina had just said it moments before, since it would be fresh in his mind. He felt like he was opening. Then again, Peter wasn't sure what he felt. While glancing back at Faina, he wondered how much of it he could blame on her and how much of it could he deny as his responsibility. Faina had turned back to the streets, yet she thought of what Peter said. She quickly glanced at his hands. They were tightly clamped around the handlebars.
"Peter, does it not hurt your hands to hold like that?" "Yeah, a little. But it's worth it."
"What is worth it? To ride the bike for money?" "Yeah, that too. If I couldn't ride, I wouldn't be out here with you right now. So yeah, it's definitely worth it." Faina didn't turn to Peter, continuing to keep her attention on the cars, bikes and people whirling around. Peter stole another glance at Faina. A small, happy smile was perched upon her lips making Peter feel stronger in that moment than he could remember since his adolescence. Peter's mind flashed back to a wellness teacher his parents had encouraged him to visit a few years back. He had been having asthma attacks and his parents thought his problem could be addressed by a holistic approach. Throughout most of the talk, Peter day-dreamed, constantly checking his watch to see how much longer he would have to remain. A few minutes prior to the end of the speech, the teacher spoke of the importance of happiness and joy. She spoke of its healing power and the energy it gave people. Now, pedaling for Faina, Peter recognized that joy. It had been years since he had felt so invigorated and he wondered why it had been so long since he had this experience. "Peter, may we drive by the beach?" Faina's soft voice, filled with gaiety and delight, drew Peter forth and answered his question. -It's because of her! Not even when I was younger did I feel this good! Peter's mind swarmed with fascinating thoughts as he careened off the streets and neared a bike path. Once he was close to the beach, he slowed the bike down until he reached a mounting hill. Just a few hundred feet from the ocean, the resting area was situated on a grassy knoll that overlooked all of the Pacific and San Paderno. Stepping off the bike, Peter walked toward Faina. He smiled to her as he reached across from her and unlocked a small handle that swiftly came crashing down on the platform in front of the bench Faina sat. Peter reached within the compartment and retrieved a large yellow blanket. Faina watched him with interest, amazed at how gentle and kind he was toward her. At the same time , though she refused to show it, she was scared and upset. Not only was she fearful for what could happen to both her and Peter when she returned but Faina couldn't help but feel Peter as foolish. -How can he do this without thinking what will happen? Does he even care what this night will do to me? He can't really care about me if he is willing to do this! Finally, Faina's fears and thoughts ruined her countenance. She bit her lip again, thankful that it was so dark that Peter couldn't see the tears slip down her face. Hide it though she tried, Faina's voice gave way to irritation as Peter asked her if she wanted something to drink. "Are you ok? Faina, you alright?" "Don't you see what will happen? You need to take me back now!" Peter was momentarily shocked. So focused on his own happiness, Peter couldn't understand what Faina meant. He saw her smile and he heard her laugh. How was this not enough? "I don't understand. I thought you were having fun? Are you talking about the men …?" "It is bigger than that! Bigger than you, me and many more!" "Faina, listen to me, please. I can talk to them. Maybe I could buy your time or… or something, right?" "Peter, you can buy nothing. I am theirs and theirs alone. And… and there is much more that you do not know." "Well, then tell me! What don't I know? Are they hurting you? What? What is it? Are they threatening you?" Having enough of the conversation, Faina leaned in toward Peter. He was frustrated and upset yet it would be a cold day in hell when he would refuse her advances.

"Let's just stay here a little while longer."

Peter thought for a second before he spoke. He suspected that if he asked her to run with him, she would say no. Yet, he wondered what he would do if she said yes. Would he actually go through with the whole ordeal? Would she be worth a life of running or at least the few years of hiding which would be necessary to say the least? And what about James, would he be affected by any of this? Probably. In some shape or another, they would get to him. One aspect of Peter's personality was that he was wet behind the ears like many men in their late teen and early twenties yet he wasn't so naive about the world that he was dangerous to himself or others. He knew about man's nature and the lengths some men would go to maintain what they possessed. And he knew how others intentions could spark the anger in the ruthless. "Faina, why don't we get out of here? Like, right now. We could…" Faina sat in the back of the pedicab, very relaxed and with a tiny smile on her face. She continued to listen to Peter speak, allowing him to feel as if he was trying to be brave and defensive for her. Faina believed that if Peter really wanted to take her away he would have already started to do so or he would have spoken to her differently. If Peter was hellbent on getting her out of the business, his demeanor would have displayed more demand and less democracy, Faina thought. Maybe it was that Peter didn't even know he was unconvincing. Faina mused over these thoughts as she pondered that perhaps Peter imagined he was very deliberate and honest, with no tinge of uncertainty. In the end, for Faina, it didn't really matter. She cared for him no mater whether he was fully conscious or not. "Peter. Please, stop. I know you want best for me but I cannot go anywhere. There are many reasons why. What we do, though, is enjoy tonight." It was simple, direct and so beyond Peter that he almost missed her point. Yet, whether it be fate, divine connection or simply the synapses were finally firing in the proper places for Peter, he understood Faina. It was difficult for him, for in a way he wondered whether she really wanted to get away or simply mouthed the words. But in the end Peter understood. No matter what the reason behind it, Faina would remain with him tonight and then.. "… we can go wherever you want or .." "Why don't we just stay here?" Faina lifted her chin, suggesting that they simply remain on the knoll. Peter smiled and held Faina's hand as she stepped off the pedi-cab platform. He tossed the blanket, its edges reaching out and grasping for blades of grass. It was way past sunset, being that there were no traces of the sun at all. Peter looked at the stars, thousands of speckling lights against space's canvas of black tar. Both Faina and Peter crashed onto the blanket. For Peter it had been a long time since he had kissed a woman, let alone touch one. With Faina stretched out against his own outstretched body, Peter ran his fingers along her torso and listened to her breathe. While they sat there, Peter still tried to fathom a way in which they could be together. Everything Peter came up with was useless. The reality of the situation was enough to make Peter feel defeated. Faina felt his touch lighten and even under the dark sky she sensed his eyes avert her own. Knowing that there was nothing she could say to alleviate the problem, Faina brought Peter closer to her own body. In the quiet that ensued, two breaths reared violently against the backdrop of what was fate. When nothing could be done but advance toward and eventually through the unfortunate truth of certainty, Faina led Peter into a paradise of intimacy. Subsiding under the night's umbrella, Faina turned into Peter. She supposed that no-one would come looking for them until daybreak yet she wanted to return. Every moment she lay with Peter was simply delaying the terrible reality of her situation; a return to being owned. She eagerly convinced Peter to take her back to apartment #9 though he seemed confused by her demand. Nevertheless, Peter relented, pulling her along the streets of San Paderno. They rode silently through the streets. Faina was like before, catching sight of everything and everyone. Being that it was four o'clock in the morning, most people were asleep yet here and there was a drunk couple wandering the streets or a homeless person wading through a trash can. The air seemed to grow a bit warmer. Faina let the crisp air brush against her shoulders as Peter zigged zagged through the cities streets. Though Peter had one of the best nights of his life, he couldn't help but feel the melancholy pull of sadness upon his heart. Though he and Faina seemed doomed from the start, Peter had hoped for a miracle or a sudden lapse in life's script for continual disappointment. Faina, however, knew this feeling and as she watched it reside upon Peter's face she felt a sudden charge of courage. When it came to herself, she had believed that the fates were written. Yet as she watched Peter's strong body seemingly crumble under the yoke of dismal grief, she suddenly felt indignant. More so, she felt invigorated in a strange, angry way. As they neared their apartment, the blue paint shining under the night stars, Faina placed her hand upon Peter's shoulder. He suddenly stopped the bike, sensing that Faina wanted to talk to him face to face. He had parked the bike under a yellow streetlight, the artificial beams bouncing off her pretty face. As Peter looked into her shining green eyes, her resistance to what was, felt overwhelmingly contagious. Faina stepped toward Peter, cusping his face into her hands. What had once seemed like a full moon, absent of nothing but a seemingly jarring glow, was starting to reveal a whole universe full of new cosmic possibilities.


THE END