Without argument, he left steadily enough and meandered over to a nearby field, sat down harder than anticipated on the freshly cut grass, and pulled a flask of Wild Turkey from his inside coat pocket and lit a smoke. The moon was almost full; the sky, clear as the proverbial bell; his stars were out in force.

From his position he could see the east end of the river, a thin black band separating town from the wasteland on the other side. The west end cut out of sight behind a hill to his right, a hill that stood at the head of the street he had just navigated. What traffic there was at this hour cruised by far enough away so he was essentially unnoticed on the dark field, sitting lotus fashion on the cold ground.

He was entertaining no thoughts and didn't welcome any. He was out to get shit-faced, and at that he had become an accomplished master. But his mood left him unguarded preparing the way for a familiar yet long unheard from visitor. He spoke outloud, uncorking the flask as well as something else.

fisherman: "I remember when being fearless was religion to me; any opportunity to give testament, to bear witness to it that came my way was gratefully appreciated and accepted."

shadow: "What do you mean, religion?! You've never had the backbone for such, and you never will, hypocrite! What you call religion was just paranoid obsession. You couldn't look away from a point in space for fear your real self would emerge. And we both know how distasteful that would've been, would be."

fisherman: "Bullshit! I took on all comers, focused, zeroed in on their puny minds and hearts, froze them in transit, made them squirm. They deserved it and I enjoyed it."

shadow: "Just a minute now! I give you that you're bright; and I give you that you're strong of will and concentration, but you wasted your talents, your insights, on petty displays of bravado and meaningless exercises of personal indifference and recklessness. You get the prize for mediocrity. Hurray!"

fisherman: "No, no, no, no, no. I was a freedom fighter for the world. I was a bodhisattva, living to free Man from the tyranny of those who pleasure themselves by intimidating and coercing, browbeating others too gentle and sensitive to fight back. I took up that banner, my allegiance was to God, to Nature, to the One from which we all owe our very existences. I had no doubts as to the truth of what and who Man is and should be. I've given my life for that belief. It was, I mean is, my religion."

shadow: "Words. Just words, not worth the air they're written on. You imagined the whole thing; you imagined your whole life, from the moment you dreamed you had realized some kind of breakthrough, a satori, or whatever you called it then. Yes, you've known power, personal power. But where did it take you; what did you do with it? Wasted... all wasted. You could never get rid of your darkest fear, and the rage, the hurt, the pain, all there, fueling this illusory power on which you based an empty life."

fisherman: "I ran into some trouble, so? I didn't expect the way of the warrior to be easy. I knew there would be occasional setbacks. I ... had... to... live... according... to... the truth! I had to teach by example, do what I wanted, at all times, unrestrainedly, and fight for others to live and be the same, to grow into their trues selves, to act in the moment of action, to express without fear, and all who opposed this truth were my sworn enemies. That is the Way, God's way, Nature's way. And as God knows Himself, Itself, through each and every one of us, we must be free to be. There is no other choice. That is my religion."

shadow: "More words. You clothe your weakness, your cowardice and selfishness with high-sounding words. Pitiful, pathetic, a creature of profane desires, filled with hollow promises, promises to your self never kept, promises to others given with conditions, conditions that set you free, free to be irresponsible, self-indulgent, isolated. Your 'religion' is an excuse, a rationalization. You've learned nothing in all these years, nothing but pain and unhappiness. You are unfulfilled and dissatisfied, short-tempered and joyless. Was that the intention from the beginning? To experience profound loneliness and despair?"

fisherman: "I despaired of others. They would not listen, I tried to teach, they had but to listen to free themselves from fear, to experience for themselves the power of God coursing through their veins, the exhilaration of knowing who they are, truly who they are, no longer to act with restraint. I am alone, that is true enough. I long to return to the One, the Source of all that is, to be a part of the grand consciousness once again."

shadow: "Pish posh. You were afraid to feel. You hated your self. You believed you were a coward to be afraid so often as you were when a child. You knew much abuse, the abuse of not being recognized, of being treated as though you did not matter. You had to beg, to grovel and humiliate yourself to receive so much as the slightest attention. And from that, from that experience, the seed of a powerful rage was planted, to grow into uncaring and unforgiving willfulness. A wound that has never healed. And, Oh yes, you did get back at them, the world, the enemies you imagined, created in the likeness of all who denied you the simplest joys of tenderness and caring..."

fisherman: "Enough! You're wrong, dead wrong. O.K., so I grew up without my father and my mother wasn't there a lot and I had no friends and on and on... so what! A lot of people have had it a hell of a lot worse. That's life, I've accepted it. No, you're wrong, I have been, was, acting for the sake of a larger truth, to actualize God's way, the way Man should be living, fearlessly and with all due respect and dignity for Himself and others, transcending differences and make-believe identities and walls. In order to grow, we must have the freedom to act, at all times, for ourselves. That is the truth I have learned."

shadow: "Is it now. Well, I'll give you some truth if it's truth you want and love so much. You, sir, are afraid to be human. You want to bypass your humanity and know Godhood here on Earth. You have never accomplished this goal, this end you think you've known all this time; all this time during which you've dug a deep, deep hole of remorse and suffering for yourself. Have you noticed that when you've had a home no one ever comes to visit you? Have you noticed no one is overly pleased when they see you on the street? Oh, yea, they're pleasant enough, they even act glad sometimes. But it's a lie. The light you thought you were bringing to the world is in truth the darkness of your own mind turned in on itself."

fisherman: "I've heard enough! I have to go now. I have much to do before it's all over... and as far as I'm concerned... "

shadow: "There, there now; sometimes the lightbulb won't come on 'till ya' screw it in tight, tight enough to break."

He stood in one motion, angry, pained and seething. The movement was too much for him; suddenly light-headed, he dropped to one knee to recover, breathing deeply. Leaning heavily on his left arm, he began to cry, then caught himself short. His daughter's name was on his lips, but he could not say it. Instead, he whispered, "I love you, I'll always love you."

"Hey, what are you doing? Stand up slowly, place your hands behind your head," came a voice from behind and to the left. He turned his head quickly in that direction to be blinded by a high-powered flashlight. Standing not twenty feet away was what looked like a cop; it was difficult to see clearly; besides the flash, the street light was directly behind this apparition, another thirty or so feet beyond. The night is a door you can close behind you; not this time, someone had found the door.

Rising slowly, the silver flask still in his right hand, he turned to face this intruder into his sacrosanct space. The cop bent his knees slightly at this movement, apparently unsure about the flask glistening in the light.

"Drop it! Put your hands behind your head and drop to your knees," the cop said a bit nervously, remaining perfectly still and alert.

Common sense was fighting a losing battle with the fisherman's alcohol soaked brain. His angry mood had not changed significantly by the present turn of events. Quite the contrary, in fact, he felt violated and affronted by this infidel treading on holy ground.

The cop repeated his demands in a much louder voice. It broke the spell. The fisherman dropped the flask to the ground, but remained standing, still as granite. After a brief interlude, sufficient for the cop to register that he had dropped the silvery thing, the fisherman began to walk towards him, one rock-hard step at a time. He felt no fear, his legs did not go watery and weak, he said nothing.

"PLACE YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD AND DROP TO YOUR KNEES," bellowed the cop, both hands firmly holding the gun, finger on the trigger. But without so much as the barest hesitation, the fisherman continued walking directly towards where the cop stood. The angle of the street light had altered allowing him to see the face of the cop. He locked eyes firmly, aware of nothing else save his deep rhythmic breathing. He steadfastly ignored all entreaties from the shadow to reconsider his determination not to bend. He was operating outside the lines, identifying with dimensions of himself crystalized into being by this attack on his vulnerability. It was too late to back down; the self that would've done so could not find the reason, so it relinquished the field.

From the corner of his left eye he spotted another cop approaching quickly, casually carrying a shotgun by his side. "What's going on here?" he demanded. The fisherman stopped his forward progress and turned to face this new arrival who continued past his partner. Behind him the fisherman could see a squad car. How long had that been there unnoticed, he wondered absently, suddenly detaching himself from the tension of the scene. The first cop relaxed at the sound of the voice, lowering his gun and straightening.

Standing toe to toe now with the shotgun wielder, the fisherman stared fixedly into the cops eyes, looking for what, he was not sure. The other officer went passed the duo to retrieve the flask. The fisherman did not feel good about the situation; he had heard rumors that the Kenai police liked to work people over, especially people who would not bow to their rule. But he resigned not to show submissiveness, sometimes that's all it takes to invite disaster.

"What are you doing here, what's your name, let's see some I.D.," spat the shotgun wielder. The fisherman held his ground as the other officer came up to stand alongside. Both cops were a good three inches shorter than he and not as heavy, and he had just completed two months of steady longlining, plus he was drunk as shit, he feared no evil. But they had the guns and there were two of them. He took his wallet from his back pocket and produced an I.D. card. The cop to his side grabbed it bruskly and examined it with his flashlight.

"You're from Cordova?" he finally asked, breaking the silence.

"Isn't everybody," the fisherman replied, refusing to even appear congenial. The sound of his own voice worked to focus his energies and galvanize his already rigid spine.

The cop at his side glared ferociously, then threw the card hitting the fisherman in the chest. He did not flinch, neither did he try to catch it as it fell to the grass. He returned the glare with a look of amusement twinkling in his bleary eyes.

"Are you off one of these boats?" asked the shotgun wielder, gesturing with a nod of his head towards the river, half-heartedly attempting to ground the electricity in the air.

Continuing to stare deeply into the eyes of the cop at his side, he replied in a familiar tone, "Yea, I'm busy celebrating, enjoying the ambience of your friendly little town."

The shotgun wielder laughed slightly at this arrogance. It was difficult to tell whether this was from understanding or resentment. Nonetheless, the fisherman turned his way, seeing a possible out for the first time. He surmised that this was the guy in charge, no use wasting energy anymore on underlings.

The shotgun wielder blinked once as he caught the fisherman's gaze. After a momentary pause, the length of one deep breath, the cop matter-of- factly stated, "Listen, go to a motel and sleep it off. If I see you on the street again tonight, I'll run you in, got it?"

The fisherman responded in kind, "You betcha, I was heading that way when this guy showed up." With that he held out his hand to the other for his flask. Reluctantly, the man at his side handed it over. The fisherman put it back into his inside coat pocket, cautiously bent to retrieve his I.D. card, carefully keeping his eye on their feet, straightened as slowly as he had bent, nodded to both cops, and proceeded to walk away towards his motel.

"Remember what I said now," came a warning voice from behind. The fisherman did not acknowledge this in any way, walking steadily. He smiled to himself; his anger was gone, he felt peaceful and satisfied for the first time in months; he almost burst out laughing with the sensation of release, but managed to restrain himself. Why tempt fate, he thought.

The following morning he awoke with a start. Sitting on the edge of the bed, holding his head with both hands, images from the previous night flooded his awareness. Images of police cars.

Jesus God Almighty, he said out loud, I have to get out of here, pronto. It was around 10:00 AM. Packing his gear into the brown trash bag he had been using as a suitcase he checked out hurriedly. Not having the stomach for breakfast, he glugged down several cups of coffee laced with bourbon at the restaurant across the street. He needed to think about his next move. Cordova and friendly faces seemed light years away. For a reason he could not guess, going there just yet wasn't on the itinerary. He was on another one of his cruises and would not come down for awhile, this he knew. His mind was ajumble; the bourbon only helped to soothe his worn nervous system.

Suddenly, as it happens, a face, a name stood out from the crowd of blurred overlapping images. He remembered a man he had fished with a few years previous, a resident of Homer, Joe, his name was, Joe..., the last name would not emerge from the morass. It didn't matter; he'd go to Homer and find him; Alaska is a small town. He arrived at the tiny Homer airport terminal that afternoon with his trash bag luggage. There was no security gates to plod through at the Kenai airport, so his silver flask was still safely stashed in his inner coat pocket, a source of security and a measure of his affluence. The terminal consisted of one long room containing a ticket desk, bathrooms, a couple of vending machines, and a pay phone. He called a cab.

Ten minutes later it pulled into the gravel parking lot. He half jogged to it and poured himself into the front seat.

"Where to?"

"I don't know, never been here before, what bar is in the center of town?"

"Oh, there's a couple of them,..., how 'bout Hobo Jim's?"

"Let 'er rip," he said as he pulled his flask out, offered a pull to the driver who declined because of an ulcer problem, and proceeded to sip his way into Homer. Saturday morning, heavy dew on the rough timber steps, the slightest bit of a chill in the air, the windowless door stood ajar. Pausing at the bottom of the brief stairway, he took a deep breath of moist salt air. Head cleared, somewhat, he practiced saying 'wild turkey and coke' as four distinct words.

The barmaid was Irish and outgoing; she older-sistered him onto a stool as she took his request for those four magic words. He hadn't realized how badly worn his nerves had become; her voice and manner dispelled, or at least took the edge off, his anxiety and loneliness. The well-worn and cigarette-burned hardwood bartop was reassuring as well; he leaned heavily onto it, oozing into the surroundings one step at a time. He had decided on the flight not to think this day, or maybe for the next few days.

Initiating conversation with strangers did not come easy for him; it was just a habit, a habit he often wished was not so ingrained. He usually waited for an excuse to say something; more often than not, however, he just waited, content with his solitude and his thoughts. But that would not be allowed him this day.

The long-haired man on the next stool began talking as though they were old friends. The fisherman had never bothered much with small talk finding it annoying and strangely demeaning, but now he welcomed it, drinking it in, understanding as though for the first time that it was simply a conveyance, a means to create an atmosphere of familiarity and equanimity, friendliness. You also used it to feel another person out.

Encouraged, the fisherman bought a round for the house, ringing the large brass bell hung conveniently at his end. A few hours went by in this way, voices slowly rising in enthusiasm. Suddenly, as though to obey some inner directive, the entire bar of twelve or so rose and, without saying a word, filed through the side doorway.

"Was it something I said?" he asked sarcastically of the barmaid.

Standing directly in front of him, smiling, she pointed towards the door and said, "Go."

Never one to let pass an opportunity to investigate a mystery, he did as she ordered, irish women had that power over him, anyway. Leaning against the rail on the tiny porch just outside the door, he looked first towards the street to his right, then towards the back of the bar. Standing around in small groups in the backyard was the entire contingent. He stood still and said nothing, not wishing to appear forward or expectant. As if that thought was telepathed, the man who had engaged him in conversation waved him over and handed him a pipe.

Sunbreaks tunneled through the thin cloud cover glinting off damp stones, jewels twinkling. Shadows accentuated, edges growing in intensity and crispness, then quickly fading to a soft smear. He turned his face upward like a cat. No one asked where he was from or what he was doing in Homer; they could see he was a fisherman and no cheechokoh. He spotted a couple of women who made his blood run a little faster, but not knowing the lay of the land, as it were, he stayed even, content to discuss the vagaries of boat design with a samll group of men, deep keel penetration versus speed had somehow come up.

Almost as one, again to answer an unheard directive, the men went for the door. The women lagged behind regrouping in a circle like birds at a pond. The fisherman paused, he was being pulled in two, nonetheless, thirst and common sense got the better of him. Turning towards the street he spotted a lodge on the other side. He grabbed his trash bag from the bar and bought a room for it, stopping long enough to see if the cable worked and to take a piss, then returned to Hobo Jim's where the air was getting thick and loud. It was about midday; the sky had almost cleared; the dirt parking lot was filling up with old pick-ups; saturday in Homer.

He had long since forgotten about Joe. There had been no morning flight from Kenai. Cab? He had always been here, always, there was no past or future to think about or wonder over. He commandered a round wood table that had more supportive chairs.

The sun was angling through the open front door glinting sharply off his shot glass. Staring ponderously at its shadow, working his way into the rough grain of the table, and beyond into his dark snakey mind, he first caught a whiff then watched two women sit down on either side of him. One had reddish brown hair tied in a braid running down to her ass, big tits and legs that went on and on, and a mischievous sexy smile that gave Jeb a rush. The other seemed a little doubtful about the whole thing, but she had a body that looked solid and supple at the same time. A warm, friendly, crooked smile from Jeb relaxed her somewhat.

Time separated from its moorings; Jeb filled his soul and life with the moment; the booze and bullshit did flow, neverendingly. The one with the big tits rewrote and edited until the story of her hospital-bound niece spilled out and piled up in such a way as to end with Jeb giving her a hundred dollar bill, for what, he didn't know exactly, but the moment had arrived, she paused like a fuck video that needs another quarter, he saw it and plunked it in. The floor of his resolve opened up, he fell through, willingly.

It was late afternoon; the doors of the bar were wide open; the sun played shadow games across the floor interspersed by quick gestures and easy movements. Ambers lit from within faded to browns, then rekindled to caramels; red and orange plaids warmed to the foreground, then back again to the shadows; blacks ate the light giving off only the faintest trace of digestion. Atavism, family, skeletons with flesh, eccentricities pushing boundaries, bodies in transit, bodies at rest.

Jeb got up to play the jukebox after asking the ladies what they wanted to hear. They said something, he nodded, then forgot it immediately. On the way, a dark melancholy enveloped him pulling the plug on his festive mood. He stopped midway, staring through the open side door to the sunlight glinting off pieces of gravel. Longing, pain, loss, rage, and despair mingled and danced vying for attention. His softened eyes moistened, his will and determination struggled to plug the dam. A tiny voice, barely discernible, worked its way through the muddle: 'See the beauty, see the beauty that surrounds you.'

He fixed his gaze on the playful light twinkling off the stones in the yard; he made himself walk towards it. Leaning against the door jamb, he collected himself. A woman approached to ask if he was OK. He nodded quickly saying he just had to clear his head for a moment, too much booze and tiredness; he thanked her. This light touch of concern was all he needed.

Direction returned, direction to the jukebox to play some ass-kick rock and roll; then to the bell to give it a good hard ring.

Nightfall found him at another bar out the road a ways, he wasn't sure just where and didn't care. There was a band playing and an animated rowdy crowd dancing the dance of break-up time; cabin fever from a long hard winter was sweating itself out, muscles and sinews loosened, bones easily carried the exuberance.

The two women were still with him; he was still buying; he took turns dancing with each. Exertion on an already tired body plus copious quantities of bourbon were beginning to show, first in his muttered speech and clumsy gestures, then gradually in his waning interest in the two damsels. The struggle to stay on top of his mood was being seriously compromised. Moroseness tugged at his heart, irritation began to show.

Suddenly, an old, deeply ingrained instinct from his big city days kicked in; it was time to go. Without so much as a goodbye-nice-to-have- met-ya,' he stood, with some difficulty, using the table for support, then turned towards the open doorway not ten feet away. Forward momentum carried him down the wide stairway to the lot below. He had no idea where he was in relation to his lodging; it was pitch black past the lights of the parking lot; there were no stars or moon to help. But whatever deity is in charge of watching over drunks compassionately provided.

A taxi pulled up to stop directly in front of where he wavered. The lot was half full of others standing around in small groups, smoking pot and drinking. Enough wit remained to inform that he'd better act quickly before some other drunks did. He propelled his worn body towards the cab presently disgorging its full load from the aft compartment. Half falling against the driver's door, window down, he attempted to secure the services thereof, trying desperately to remember the name of his lodge. He decided that 'Hobo Jim's' would be good enough, he had no trouble remembering that name, and, what the hell, he thought, a nightcap might be a good idea.

Leaning down to eye level with the driver, he began his speel in drunkeze, trying to find the right sequence and syntax instead of saying everything at once, when a loud, piercing "hey, Jeb, what the fuck!" caught him short. Sitting next to the driver was his old fishing buddy, Joe whats-his-name. He felt saved and suddenly revitalized, sobering slightly at this unexpected warmth on an otherwise chilly spring night.

"Don't just stand there with your jaw hangin' out, get the fuck in." Directness was his method, abrasiveness, his religion. Jeb climbed into the back seat and leaned forward, one arm resting on the back of each of the two forward seats. The driver threw it into reverse, backed out, then spun sharply to the right on the narrow, unlit dirt road.

As Joe carefully unfolded a piece of flattened foil revealing a large quantity of white powder, he gave Jeb a hard time for not calling when he arrived. Using a tiny silver spoon dangling from a chain around his neck, he offered some powder to the driver who declined stating that he had had enough for one night. Jeb didn't have the heart, or the nerve, to tell him he couldn't remember his last name, so he said instead that he was too busy having fun. On the way to Joe's, they snorted and talked, Jeb taking an occasional nip from his flask.

Tucked within a stand of trees and brush, half a mile from the main road, stood Joe's sprawling, peek-roofed, two story house. It lay incomplete both outside and in. He had built it for his girlfriend who left him for a poet part way through construction, little had been done to it since.

The cab dropped them at the head of the narrow trail leading to the back of the house. Following as closely as possible, the overcast sky offering no help, Jeb staggered over something hard and unforgiving just as the motion lights came on. Timing is everything, he thought.

The second floor was one room, forty feet by twenty; three stout six-by-sixes held a rough hewn massive beam that ran the full length as one piece; the walls were sheet-rocked but untaped; the floor, two-by-eight spruce planks; windows, eight feet by four, were evenly distributed in three of the walls, the back being covered by more planks; three skylights faced south. Spacious and earthy, a steel drum on legs resting on a red brick hearth in the center of the room served as the wood stove. Furniture was everywhere, couches, chairs, tables, spontaneously and haphazardly arranged by functionality and according to mood.

Jeb plopped down on a couch nearest the back wall and picked a small twisted chunk of jagged steel to examine from among the clutter on the coffee table.

"What's this?" he asked.

"A piece of the Exxon Valdez. I cut a lot of steel from that son- of-a-bitch. You could drive a volkswagon through the hole they had me on. I got sick of the whole fuckin' deal and quit. It was great money, terrific money, but it just made me ill, the whole shiteroo. I'm tired of cuttin' and welding anyway, man, fishing, longlining, that's what I want to focus on. Fuck welding under the fucking water, Christ Almighty. You gotta come see my boat tomorrow, twenty eight feet, deep keel, it'll handle Cook Inlet. Here, have another snort."

After a moment to clear his sinuses once again, Jeb said, "There was a few times, back in Cordova there, when I was a little short with ya.' Sorry 'bout that, I was quite a bit enraged at the time, shit happening in Valdez there, hard times, man, hard. I'm not out of it yet."

"Hey, are we bros or what? I can see it in you still, right now, the way you hold your body, your shoulders, when you walk. You're hurtin,' man, hurtin.' You got reason to be. And you're mad, pissed, really pissed. So, it's OK, understood, understand?"

"Yea, yea, gotcha," he said, as he leaned back into the comfort of the couch, breathing out and relaxing his weight.

"You got this, this, holding you down, it's got you frozen underground. This..., somethin' inside you broke, man, froze, disintegrated. Your spirit has seized up, strangled. You can't let go, you can't go backward and make it all happen the way you wanted, and you can't go forward. You risk your skin all the time, you like it, out on the edge, that's where you live, out there, away from the pain and the strain, you forget out there, on the edge. But when you come back, back to what we humans call 'society,' you freeze up, let life pass by. I don't know, man, I don't know."

"I know. My dick is in the dirt, man, in the dirt. I never felt so much pain in my life, didn't know it was possible, running off with my daughter. I don't where she is now, don't even know; that bitch, cunt, that fucking cunt. Yea, there's something broken inside of me alright. I wake up every morning and it's the first thing I think of. I think of them, that man, living my life for me, with my family. Just like that, my dream, wiped, WIPED, and where the fuck am I? Limbo, man, limbo. I've had so much shit happen in my life..., I don't expect anything good to happen anymore, I just don't. "

"Hey, man, you're sittin' here enjoying the company of the world's premier interior designer; look around, every piece meticulously arranged, the ambience, incredible, man, incredible."

Jeb wanted to say something but could only laugh and shake his head. Joe laid out another line on an old copy of National Geographic, roled up a hundred dollar bill, handed it to Jeb and said, "I need to do some things to the house here, as you can see. If you're into staying around for a while, I could stand the help."

Jeb had a little trouble negotiating the snort, but he managed nonetheless. After a moment, "No, maybe later on down the road. I'm just on a quick turnaround. The skipper went to Anchorage to see his fucked-up wife for a few days so I took off. The boat's in Kenai, a hell of a town, if you're an oil worker, uptight, you know. That's why I came down here to see you. Got distracted by a couple of ladies, and here I am. No, I see what you need to do, though. We oughta finish this fucker off, man. If you can wait 'till the season's over, I'll help ya.' No problemo."

"Well..., maybe I oughta concentrate on my boat then, get it going. You come back, we'll do it. Alright, big guy?"

"It's a deal, or, as Bruce says, it's a dill, man."

They laughed at the reminisce. They talked and laughed more about the characters they mutually knew from Cordova. Jeb gradually slid into a reclined position on the couch. Together they shared the quiet space without talking, just feeling each other's friendship. Eventually Jeb nodded off. Joe threw a blanket over him, stoked the fire, and retired to a loft attached to the back wall.

Footsteps, talking, strange voices, Jeb opened one eye at a time. He watched two men moving about the room; he lay still, hand going for the buck knife he always carried. From the way they talked, they knew Joe, but why were they looking for him, he thought. Sitting up was not easy, but he forced himself. They noticed him for the first time and came over to sit nearby. He asked pointblank who they were and what they were doing; he felt protective of his friend and would brook no predators. They sensed Jeb's reason and explained themselves quickly. Friends, looking for Joe who had already left to go about his business, whatever that was. He introduced himself and likewise explained his situation. One of them, Paul, produced a joint. Good hangover medicine, thought Jeb, and a good ice breaker. They talked a bit, about Joe's trip mainly, warming the atmosphere from confrontational to friendly. Jeb asked if they were going into town, not knowing where he was in relation to it. Saying yes, they offered him a ride. Ten minutes later, after a second joint, they were gone.

It was after eight, the bars were open, he had them drop him off where he had started the previous day, Hobo Jim's. He nestled into the same stool he owned the day before and ordered a coffee with Baileys. CNN was on the tube, he feigned interest, news from another world, another planet. He was on a role and was going to stay on a role, three days is all he had, three days and a thousand dollars to burn.

Two other men sat around the horseshoe-shaped bar staring off into oblivion. They had mixed drinks in front of them and were looking kind of surly. It might be a different day, thought Jeb. Working his way through his third coffee and Bailey's, a crowd suddenly broke the silence. They were animated, talking and laughing, four of them were women which Jeb picked up on immediately, astute as he was. The atmosphere changed abruptly, the prospect of a party reared its lovely head, Jeb's senses aligned with the forces of the Universe, in a coarse-grained kind of way, for the first time this morning.

Folding change was devoured by the well-stocked jukebox; the sun was making swiss cheese through the thin cloud layer; colors, freed from their electronic arrest, danced to the music; the juices did flow, both inside and out. No formalities, everyone knew why they were there and had zero compunctions about getting right to it. Liberating, lubricating, enlivening; accordingly, Jeb switched from coffee and Baileys to Wild Turkey and coke, the zone was there and he meant to get into it.

Leaning against a stool set a few feet from the bar, he overheard a guy say he was driving to Kenai in the early afternoon. Jeb quickly introduced himself and presented an offer: he'd buy the beer for the road in exchange for a ride. His driver had one proviso, however; he wanted to stop at "Good Time Charlie's Saloon," a strip joint, along the way.

Being 'in the zone,' for those who are unfamiliar with the expression, or the experience, is a magical dimension where glorious opportunities abound and agreeable affinities of purpose are drawn to one as though to an energy vortex; all one has to do is keep one's eyes and ears open and get off one's ass as they come by.

Check-out time was fast approaching for his trash bag across the street so he left to see if his traveling companion had had a good night and to ask if it wanted to go to a strip joint up the road. Always ready for a party, Jeb grabbed it by the neck and took it back to Hobo's.

Heading north, the sun was splitting the trees along the two-lane road through the Kenai forest. Jeb's driver produced a couple of joints, they smoked and drank and talked like old sea-mates as the cherry-red Mustang, top down, cruised effortlessly, a Joni Mitchell tape oozing from two speakers set on the floor. Time was not a factor here, its notice of passage never came up.

"Good Time Charlie's Saloon" did, however, come to pass as they rounded a bend, a beautiful glorious sight to behold, standing alone, surrounded by trees; the show was on at three in the afternoon. Only about a dozen or so customers were in attendance, a few on either side of the runway, which was active with naked dancers, and the rest scattered about, table-top dances taking place against the far wall in the mostly darkness of a large sparsely furnished room.

Jeb wasted no time, he ordered a tequila sunrise and took a seat by the runway. He watched a man down the end fold a bill and put it up the pussy of a dancer who had momentarily ceased girating for the occasion. Not thinking it through a hundred percent, Jeb folded a twenty. A dancer nearby spotted the action and approached to receive said bill in the place designated. He did this a few more times before he realized that a one dollar bill would have worked as well. But, he was a little excited at this point in time not having seen a woman's body for longer than he cared to remember, so we'll have to forgive this oversight, not like it never happened before or wouldn't again, you understand.

The dancers took a break, Jeb retired to the pool table set over in the lighted section of the room. Sitting on one side of the U-shaped bar were the lightly clad dancers, on the other, the male customers. The men eyeballed and snickered but otherwise remained steadfast, a little too steadfast, Jeb thought. One dancer had increased his heart rate considerably; she had a tatoo of a lion on the right cheek of her butt. With pool cue in hand, he approached decisively and asked if she would like to play some pool. She looked him up and down like a piece of meat hanging in a butcher's shop, caught his eyes with hers for an eternity of pauses, slid from her stool, and, smiling, walked to where the cues hung on the far wall. Two minutes into the game, watching her move and bend and stretch over the table, he popped the question, "How much?"

It took her all of two seconds to comprehend. She said, "Just a minute, I'll be right back."

Jeb was stretched out along the side of the table preparing to shoot when a voice in his left ear said, "Two hundred for all night."

He turned his head abruptly, smiled and said, "No problemo, sugardoodle."

One catch however, not untill after the show, a few more hours. He had no problem with that either, he couldn't imagine being anywhere more preferable than where he was at that moment in time. His driver however had other plans. He informed Jeb that it was time to go; Jeb informed him of the change in circumstances and that it had been nice knowing him and thank you, it was fun and enjoyable but, he wasn't going anywhere, so, good-bye, take care of yourself, and that was that.

By the time the show ended, Jeb was roaring along behind vast quantities of bourbon, pot, and tequila. No signs of slowing down, however, recorded themselves on his expectantly energized recording devices. In other words, he was focused on one thing, and nothing was going to interfere, not all the booze in the world, it served only to fuel his resolve and commitment to a goal, a goal that a man who's been at sea for a couple of months wrestling longline gear can easily appreciate to the point of forsaking all other worldly concerns. The ordinary affairs of men seem trivial to meaningless by comparison with a roll in the hay with a good looking and eager hooker. That's my opinion and I'm sure Jeb would agree.

Fully clad, tight black jeans, a frilly white pull-over cowboy shirt, boots that went allmost up to her knees, and a jean jacket, the lady in question snuck up beside Jeb and grabbed his crotch.

"You coming, honey?" she asked.

Wanting no long pauses in the flow of events, Jeb had already called a cab in Seldotna, seven miles away. The driver walked in right behind them as Jeb turned to her to smile.

"Somebody call a cab?" the driver yelled. Timing is everything, thought Jeb. His miserable trash bag of clothes, none of which he had recourse to since he jumped ship, was sitting over by the door; he choked it on his way out and threw it onto the floor of the backseat.

He was rambling on about practically anything, trying to keep the enthusiasm going as though he was on a date or something, but she managed to get a word in edgewise, nonetheless, that she'd like to stop along the way to purchase a gram of coke and a fifth of bourbon if he'd agreeably pay for it. Perfect, good idea, he thought, realizing they were heading for a motel room without party favors, empty handed, as it were.

Their arrival at the Seldotna Motel was by storm. Jeb kicked all eight cylinders into play as they entered the vacated office, trash bag in one hand, the lady of the moment holding the other. Slightly agitated at this bump on the road, he told her to wait where she was, take a seat in fact, he'd be right back. There was no time to waste.

Stepping outside he stood perfectly still, maybe a little waver now and then, hard to say. All senses open, as open as one can get behind copious amounts of booze and assorted drugs, for information as to the surroundings, he heard water pouring intermittently. Jogging, he found the desk clerk around the other side of the building watering flowers. Urgency, almost desperation, radiated from his every pore, especially the ones on his face. At first the desk clerk froze, flower watering container drowning one lone daisy; but quickly caught herself, intuited, from vast experience no doubt, the circumstances at play here, and teasingly, accompanied him back to the office at her own slow pace.

The room cost seventy-two dollars. Jeb threw a hundred on the counter, almost said keep the change but caught himself, grabbed the key, listened to directions as though the future of mankind depended on it, placed his arm around his companion's waist, shoved the door open, forgot the trash bag until he was three feet down the path, returned hastily to retrieve it, and off they went.

Morning light through the half-closed blinds seared the retina of his left eye, barely open in a head that was dangling from the bed. Feeling every inch of his body as he moved, Jeb rolled over to inspect his partner laying there next to him belly-up, dead asleep. The room was a shambles: clothes strewn on the floor, the chair, the writing table, hanging from the headboard. A tattered piece of tin foil on the otherwise clean night stand was all that remained of the coke, the fifth was knocked over on the floor, hard to say how much had been drunk.

He breathed her in deeply, the aroma of pussy and warm skin filled his tired muscles, caressing them to softness. Unable to resist, Jeb stroked her soft, smooth, flat belly. Awakening with the slightest of crooked smiles, her eyes still closed, she asked, "How do ya' feel now, honey?"

A question, he wasn't prepared to think, his brain felt like a wad of wet cotton without edges, it was difficult, but the answer had to be only one way, didn't it? Unfortunately, he simply could not remember the details of the previous night, try as he may, it was a total blank. Dismay and treachery by the gods wrenched him through his guts.

Without answering her question, he asked, "Did we have a good time?"

She laughed. "Honey, you wore me out, WORE me out; we quit when it started to hurt; been a long time since you had some fun, huh?"

Jeb, sitting on the edge of the bed now, slowly knodded his head between his hands. "Yep," is all he could said.

The hooker walked around to stand in front of him, her belly button at his eye level. Impetuously, he reached out to hold her hips, kissed her belly, then rubbed his face slowly over it. A strange forlorness overcame him as he did so. Sliding sideways into that private underground world, the shadow pulled and tugged his heart towards that dead zone of loss and melancholy fabricated for his existence. Refusing to yield however, Jeb grabbed his wallet, removed two one-hundred dollar bills and placed them carefully on the nightstand table. Hesitating for the briefest of moments, she picked them up just as carefully and proceeded to gather clothing, as did he.

His mood shift did not go unnoticed; she responded with understanding and a soft tone to her voice. Small intimate talk turned to the suggestion of breakfast at the restaurant next door; good basic home cooking, she confided. Before leaving the room, she phoned a friend to arrange for a ride.

Sitting opposite one another in a booth for four, they talked about nothing, it was the tone Jeb found soothing, relaxing; his nerves were a little rawer than usual at this point. They sat and sipped Bloody Mary's while waiting for her friend. Fifteen minutes of this and she arrived; she was wearing a tight black body-stocking, a black leather jacket and sandles. A quiet Mmmmm sound reverberated in Jeb's throat just barely discernable by the two ladies who responded with eye twinklings in his direction. She sat with her friend and began to chit-chat.

Jeb took charge of the ordering after getting the nod to do so from his companions of the moment; More Bloody Marys and spanish omelots all around. They talked as though they were alone, not shy about anything. He felt relief at not having to participate, content to quietly drink in the two reasons-for-living sitting not three feet away.

He couldn't eat very much so he sipped his drink and listened to their talk. The other girl said she had gone home and fucked her roommate, shrugging her shoulders at the event.

"Yea," she whispered to her dancer friend, "I fuck that guy and you end up with this stud," emphasizing the last word and gesturing her head towards Jeb. He laughed but appreciated and warmed to the compliment, feeling genuinely good about his physical prowess although a twinge reminded him that he couldn't remember a damn thing.

Practicality reared its ugly head probing tiny fingers of light into Jeb's seriously burnt awareness. Beginning to get up, with some effort, his bed partner of the previous evening asked where he was going. Looking regretful, he said, "to call a cab for Kenai, time to get back."

"No, no, no," she said, "we'll drive you,' relax, man, drink your drink, let's get another round and we'll head out." The other agreed adding how much Jeb was going to love her sound system.

Done and done, thought Jeb, smiling contentedly, his body falling, crumpling, back into the booth.

When they arrived in Kenai around noon, the two dancers suggested hitting a few bars before dropping him off at his boat. They wanted to tease the populace, make them drool, wallow in their uptightness. Jeb was still in the zone, he couldn't pass this up, not for nothing, and, he liked the role.

Huge smile on his irish mug, striding into the first bar they came to, a beautiful stripper on each arm, Jeb was perfect, he knew then and there that he was alive and would always be so. They stroked his arms and pecked small kisses on his cheeks; smiling deliciously, sexily, but only for Jeb.

He met a few glares of resentment and jealousy with a shiteatin' grin he could not, would not, wipe off. There were also a few smiles and snickers from the more astute. One drink in each of three bars, kissing in the car on the way. Jeb lost time again, cared nothing for it, he was in heaven and felt no compunction to relocate. However, the girls had other plans in Anchorage.

He got their phone numbers, contact phone numbers, the number of "Good Time Charlie's Saloon," and the number of the lady-with-the-tatoo-of- the-lion-on-the-right-cheek-of-her-ass's grandmother in Seldotna. He made a date to see them again, after the next trip, both of them this time. They gladly agreed, they liked him, he was fun and uncomplicated and knew just what he wanted. Getting exageratedly grave for a moment, Jeb told them he couldn't remember having a more honest and direct channel of communication with any women. Laughing gently at this heart-felt confession, they teased him by desrcibing lasciviously, in minute detail, some of what the two together would do to him. A weird shyness tried to close him off from the divine presence of the two seductresses but he forcefully pushed it out of the way by saying to himself, I WANT THIS!.

When they pulled onto the dock behind Kenai Packers, the tide was high, the ninety-foot power scow sat abreast of the dock surface. They stopped thirty feet away, directly ahead of them was the rest of the five- man crew taking in the sun, apparently, sitting a few feet apart from one another on the top rail of the dockside. Their eyes grew wide and stayed that way, they remained perfectly still, no one moved. Jeb deeply kissed the girl in the tight body-stocking sitting in the backseat, then the other even more passionately, afterall, they were lovers, weren't they?.

They reaffirmed their next meeting; he promised saying he'd have lots of fun tickets to spread around, they all smiled that smile of mischievous children with a secret plan. He got out, with difficulty, and the one in the back climbed over the seat to sit next to her buddy. He reached through the open window of the back to claim his trash bag travelling companion and waved nonchalantly with a certain air of debauchery as they backed away. They paused before turning to throw him a kiss, then sped up the dusty cannery road.

He said nothing; the crew said nothing. Carelessly he dropped the trash bag of clothes onto the deck below, then climbed down the dock ladder after it, went through the galley to his stateroom, fell onto his bunk, removed his rubber boots, and with the slightest of smiles on his whiskered mug, fell iimmediately asleep. For a day and a half he slept, still as death. No one bothered him. He was the hero of the moment; he knew it, and so did they.