This is the story of the mysterious civics paper. Be warned; this is not a funny story, and is rather scary. If you are laughing, then you have serious problems and should greatly condsiderseeing a psychiatrist about your childhood trauma.

As I walked down the hallway, I thought about different things. As I entered my first hour class, I noticed that everybody was staring at me. Especially Darby. She has problems, that girl.

I sat down at my desk, and opened my notebook. Suddenly, I heared violins playing, as if I were in a Stephen King book or something. I looked up, and then I realized that the band members were playing Christmas songs in the hallway (although it was August), on violins. I continued to open my notebook to the back page. I looked down, and saw...a Civics paper! And it isn't even mine! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! What was it doing in my notebook?! I don't even have Civics! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!

Note: This was based on a true story (except for the part about the band members playing violins in the hallway)!

He turned. The features on his face metamorphosed as the light played on his facial features, sinking into the crevices and rising over the peaks of his face. His image transcended the pure construction of reality and became at one with the room. As he lowered himself into the bathtub the warm, frothy water permeated his skin and was absorbed into his body and he became as a water bomb, and the water inside of him pushed at his skin, crying out to be released in a furious, vengeful explosion of hatred and lust. Finally he became so consumed by the desire that he could not constrain himself any longer and suddenly and viciously he liberated himself from the bath. The soapy water dribbled down the walls, coursing through the cracks in the paintwork in rivulets of desire, released from oppression after an eternity of surface tension. The froth dripped and plopped from the ceiling to the floor, and he was free, released from his skin and capable of reaching new pinnacles of freedom. He stood, naked and dripping all over, spilling all over the floor. His mind reverted and lulled itself into a hypnagogic state and his mental meanderings eventually carried himself away from this place, away from this dank, dark chasm of a bathroom and towards a better place. Reinvigorated and having experienced for once the light of day (at least in his mind), he reached out a hand. The hand forced itself through the air, cutting through the atmosphere like a knife through cheese. The hand was liberated from his body and became as itself, feeling and sensing on behalf of itself. The hand returned to its position of submission and servitude and the man toweled himself dry, transmutating from wet to dry and, in return, moving the water from himself and thus translating the towel. The towel returned and so did he, and curled up in a foetal position that recalled inter-uterine memories suppressed and locked up in the back of his mind, he lowered his eyelids and gradually allowed his subconscious to take control.

He was in a room. There were people there with him. They were touching him, prodding him, fucking him around. He had no control and he was experiencing a wide spectrum of thoughts, emotions and ideas. He took off gradually; he was not in any hurry. He circled, experiencing the exhilaration of independent flight for the first time. He was liberated as a bird. He had no wings. He plummeted towards the ground, falling faster and faster through the cumulonimbus with the premonition of thunderstorms. The lightning crashed and stabbed and the noise was deafening and he found himself flailing wildly, spinning around and around, turning in midair. But this time there was no metamorphosis to seek refuge in, no possible refuge to be found. The choice that faced him was not a favourable one. Faced and confronted with a future as bleak and undesirable as his past, he surrendered himself to transmutation and desire and closed his eyes once more. As he commenced his final, twisted plunge towards conclusion, he imagined the friends that he did not have. As he left everything behind, the voluntary muscles in his face flexed and contracted and his mouth became frozen in a concave arc.

The water had long since become cold but still continued its dripping, collecting in a small, dirty puddle on the bathroom floor.

My English teacher once told me that you have to go and write and write and don't stop writing for a specified interval of time. One minute I think you don't stop you don't revise you don't edit you just write write write. Don't even look at the stuff you just wrote. Even if it's all hosed up beyond belief you just keep on writing. That's what I was trying to do here, but I fucked it up completely on account of the fact that before this sentence I went back and revised...I defy anyone to find it (parentheses for no reason).

So what! I just went back and fixed some more; commas in the proper place, a few capitalizations. Is that okay? I mean, I am using a computer, for God's sake. And I have to capitalize the "G" in God, otherwise I'm completely fucked.

People should brush the backs of their tongues. You know, the part that is just before the throat -- where you're afraid to stick your toothbrush because you're afraid of gagging? I bet there'd be less bad breath if people did that.

Holy shit! What was that all about? Completely unnecessary digression. Utter self-indulgence. Pah! Ha!

So, I'm looking back over this entire essay slash (no actual slash...after all [brackets for no reason] this is experimental absurdism) stream-of-consciousness piece and saying, "hmmm, what am I trying to say here." Is there a secret code, a secret code by which you can translate the Jaime Christley phenomenon into common, widely held ideas? Yes! Hang on, I'll get it. Okay, I'm not really getting it, there's no such a thing. I was just being silly with an undertone of irony, since it's already a foregone conclusion that nothing in here is remotely translatable into any organized series of ideas. So why read it? Because life is boring, and your synaptic relays need a bit of exercise. Otherwise they'll stop clicking.

That last bit was the message/moral.

It was in his typical dramatic fashion that he let the cigarette dangle before sucking deep the last breath of ash that singed the tip of the filter before burning itself out. It was with this same thespian flair that he disposed of the butt while holding the vapors in his mouth and throat before casually exhaling in perfect time with the music. His gaze followed the trailing smoke around the room before his eyes came to rest on her.

He had been living out west for two years now. She was the one who had stayed behind, yet it was her who had done the leaving. Their hometown had been as interesting as potting soil, but she had taken root anyway. Meanwhile, he traveled coast to coast, border to border, desert to prairie, ocean to mountaintop. And now she was leaving him again.

Perhaps it was because of the drugs, again. Perhaps it was because of the art, again. She was always jealous of that. Maybe his odd sense of humor had run dry and begun to agitate her once again. That never took too long. Or perhaps the sun was just a little too bright this time.

It didn't matter. Could've been the fucking price of tea in China for all our hero cared. She was leaving. That's all. She was leaving. All that was left was the awkward fumbling for the appropriate, weepy, sentimental words when sometimes even just "goodbye" is overkill and the sun is setting over the water on the coast and even the beach volleyball players are calling it a day and, god, he would so much rather be there than right here in this godforsaken moment breathing this stale air and wishing she would just get it over with and leave so that he could watch the porno he had rented earlier in the day.

So, with other things on his mind, he told her to "keep in touch, and write small- you know how I like to read between the lines". She smiled, the heartless wench, promising postcards and Christmas cards and best wishes at birthdays. She even promised a phone call or two, but he knew it would never happen. He didn't have a phone. And eleven digits is a hell of a lot of numbers on a rotary dial two-thousand miles away when all she was thinking about was a flashier cowboy a little closer to home.

Oh, God. They had found him.

He knew he was in trouble when he stuck his key into the lock of the row of mailboxes under the concrete stairs in his apartment complex; the latch didn't turn as easily, and something crunched inside: a soft, plastic squish.

Eight months was his record. He'd move to a new place, and those that send junk mail and knew things about his life would take any number of months to find him.

It wasn't so much the mail. It was that Thomas adored isolation, and he considered the types of junk mail they sent him invasive. It meant they knew stuff they shouldn't. He had explained this over the phone to his "best girl" once.

He'd been sitting in his favorite black leather chair, and spring breezes were pouring into his apartment.

"What are you doing?" She had asked him.

"Opening junk mail," he had said. "Oh, God, honey, they found me." He'd pushed up the sleeves of his green sweatshirt. "Did you know that the cold, calculating watcher of someone's mail can get a clear personality profile of who you are just from what you receive?"

"What do you mean?" She'd asked. He'd heard her start the water running to wash dishes.

"Let's say," he had leaned back, stretched his legs out, wiggled his bare toes. "There's someone watching the mailman when he puts mail in your box. They can tell whether you're rich or whether you're in financial trouble; if you're married or single; what you eat; if you smoke or not; whether or not you like to read, to mountain climb, whatever. Called your mail profile."

She hadn't responded. He had been sure she was thinking of the things that arrived in her box: her writer's magazines; science fiction collectors' pamphlets; secured credit card offers; threat notices from collection agencies; several offers from historical societies; cards and photos from friends.

"I hate this," he'd said to her. He didn't want to tell her what he was looking at in his lap at that moment: an offer from health magazines; some ads touting the wonders of the newest allergy medication; life insurance policy offers; a hiking gear catalog. How the hell had anyone found that out? The thought of someone knowing he loved being in the woods by himself made him shudder. His quiet place had been violated.

"You could just move again," she'd said. "You could just keep moving around to escape your junk mail." And she had laughed, that sound like fairy chimes.

He had chuckled. He had wanted to say, 'I love you,' but then decided not to, because then he might have to do something like commit to her, stay living in one place. It had sent a chill up his spine.

Then again, he had said all this to her without realizing that he had let her in a lot farther than he should have already. Sometimes she would send him "junk mail": little articles she saw in magazines that reminded her of him: "here's something that was in today's paper about Dali, and we were talking about him the other day," or places she wanted him to take her: "Look what's playing down at the IMAX!" Or, "The Museum of Natural History's new planetarium is open!" Articles about his favorite baseball team. Sometimes there'd be a nice card: "You taste - better than chocolate!" Her mail really annoyed him. An indication that she knew too much; she was too close. But he liked her return address labels. They had books and glasses of wine on them or sometimes fruit. He would peel these off very carefully: collect all four --and leave them, curled up, on the counter. He didn't want her to know he was saving them, but she would notice when she came over, he was sure of that. The girl was too fucking observant. She knew that he loved her, too, and that was the worst thing of all, since he'd never felt comfortable enough to tell her.

Well, that had been in Atlanta. Thank God that was over. The woman in Houston had never found him; the one in Seattle had, but he was really into screening his calls, anyway. The one in Seattle - what was her name, Sue? She only seemed to call at 3 a.m. on a Sunday morning, after she'd been drinking. And he was usually in bed by ten on Saturdays anyway and would turn off the ringer on the phone, so he'd never make the mistake of answering when he was too sleepy to know better.

Now he was in Connecticut. Far cry. Fucking Observant Girl would never find him up here; she'd never think to look.

So, what was in today's pile? Oh, God. An offer to join a dating service. That meant someone, somewhere knew about that, too; they knew about Fucking Observant Girl. Find another one? Find another woman so he could move again? It didn't matter. The fact that someone knew he was single would mean there were women out there, stalking him, waiting for commitments from him. What else? The local supermarket. Didn't they understand that he didn't like anyone knowing he shopped at the small markets instead of the big places? Fruit coupons. My God! Did they know all he could eat was fruit? Another ad: Brookfield Glass and Auto. Oh, shit. Someone knew the sunroof on his car leaked. His hometown newspaper. Well, he didn't mind that. He liked to know what was going on in that Irish Catholic Long Island town of his. Keep tabs on his former friends, if they were married yet.

A plain envelope, no return address. DO NOT BEND.

He recognized the handwriting.

Oh, God.

She had found him.

Kay. Fucking Observant Girl. How the hell had she found him here? When he left town he was always careful to leave no forwarding address. Once he left, it was over. Done. He'd only call his individual creditors to let them know where he'd be! Oh, Kay. Go away. I don't want to remember what I felt for you. I don't. I didn't love you, I don't want to talk to you. Why are you still sending me junk mail?

He leapt out of his chair. There was no other furniture in the apartment, really. He usually would let his best girl in any city do that, and then when he left them to move, he'd leave the stuff behind.

This place hadn't been decorated yet. He didn't have a best girl here, yet.

He went to his map of the country on the wall. It was peppered with push-pins: green, red, blue, yellow, white...all the places he had lived. So that he could ensure he spaced them all out enough, to run, to get away. In the lower part of the map, there was a huge white-space. No cities anymore; that was his mistake, moving too close to cities. He needed somewhere remote. Very remote, with woods. He didn't need culture...he only needed his television, somewhere he could get CNN. Yes, that would be all he needed. And an internet hook-up, so he could continue to work from home.

Somewhere with very few people, fewer people to deal with, to let in. You let them in, they'll love you, then they'll want to mess up your little plan.

Arkansas, yes.

He would move to Arkansas.

He moved a little black push-pin to the center of the state of Arkansas. Then he looked down at the envelope in his hand. There were photos inside; he pulled them out.

There they both were: Thomas and Observant Girl, smiling. New Year's Eve, before the jazz club and after. She'd been nice enough to send these. "For your photographic record," she'd written. "I know how much you love your pictures."

He felt a small pain in his heart. A longing. He remembered her hair, her laugh, the look on her face when she'd been caught smoking a cigarette.

Oh, Kay. Why the fuck are you doing this? Why are you sending me this junk mail? These coupons for my heart?

Oh, God.

She had found him.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Jim swiveled around in his seat to look at me. "Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

He didn't wait for an answer, but turned around and began shouting instructions at the pilot, some seventy year old Cuban Jim had picked up in Miami.

"Just head it straight for the runway. They'll get out of the way."

I leaned forward over the two front seats and looked out of the cockpit window. The runway ahead of us was filled with rioters, most of whom appeared to be in the midst of some sort of lynching. I started to form an argument against landing on the rioters, but before the words could leave my mouth, the plane descended sickeningly and I found myself clutching the arms of my seat, trying to maintain consciousness.

As Jim had said, the rioters pretty much moved out of the way once they realized they would be facing a propeller were they to hold their ground. I relaxed my fingers, which had long since turned white, and leaned forward again. Jim was chatting with the pilot.

"You'll be in Haiti for a while, right?"

"Hell, no. You'd be insane to stay here!"

Jim paused for a moment and turned his head to look outside the plane. I followed his gaze and saw the crowd outside the plane. Most of them had clubs or rakes in their hands and were waving them over their heads. A good number of them appeared intent on ripping the plane to shreds, apparently to get to us.

Jim turned back to the pilot. "This place is perfect. I love it."

"You're mad. Look, I can't just dump you two here. I'll come pick you up next Monday."

Jim smiled and dove for the pilot's hand. "It's a deal!"

He undid his seat belt and turned back to me. "Grab the bags. We're going to have to make a run for the town."

"Why am I here?"

Jim didn't answer, just smiled and reached across me towards the bags.

1) A girl with pale hair, which in all probability was dyed walked through a park on a bike path near the fountains. She stepped on a condom, and turned her head towards a fragrance she remembered well. Synthetic watermelon. Sara's smell. The girl's lips were moistened.

2) Two boys, seven and nine, rolled around thrusting, punching, and head butting over what was said. The horror of insult lingered after the words had drifted to the place in the stratosphere where all vehement expressions of passion die. Not forgetting themselves, or forgiving themselves their friendship, they brushed themselves off and shared a kiss that they would never share again. Not in joy. Not in sorrow.

3) Passionless she leaned back, as her husband watched. The stranger was enough like her husband but larger.

4) Two young lovers at a neighbor's party snuck into a bedroom as the party swelled. Their cool skin cautiously held their organs in with the help of bone and muscle.

Looking down on a penguin,
But it is me.
Wow.
That is eerie.
A vase is on its head,
But it is my head.
Now I’m really confused.
Bullets are whizzing by,
But no one is here, save the penguin.
Um, I mean I’m the only one here.
Running away. Well, waddling, if you’re going for accuracy
I fall the vase shatters,
The light enters.
Goodbye, Bill.

The cold wind stung Collaborator’s ears as he walked down the hill for a hot cup of joe. "If it’s like this tomorrow, I’m either wearing my ear-flap hat or making my own joe at home," he said to the squirrel which was frozen at his feet. "Whatever," the squirrel would have said if it were alive and could talk.

Inside of five minutes, Collaborator thought he was about to freeze to death, but fortunately, he reached The Joe Joint just in time. The manager, Extra, looked very, very glad to see him as she looked up from her book of crossword puzzles.

"Hi, Collaborator. You’re sure a sight for sore eyes. I haven’t seen a soul all day."

Collaborator looked at his watch, which had stopped on the way there because the battery acid froze, but it said 3 p.m. "Good Lord! not a soul?"

"Not a single, solitary soul."

"You opened at six in the morning as usual, right?"

"Six in the morning as usual."

"And in nine-plus hours, you’ve had just one customer?"

"Assuming you order something, I’ve had one customer. Looks like everyone’s making their own joe at home. I can’t get anyone to come into work, not that I need them. I wouldn’t be here myself if I didn’t live upstairs. Hot cup of joe?"

"Yes, of course. I didn’t know you lived upstairs, Extra. Come to think of it, I don’t know a thing about you. I come in here every day, get me a hot cup of joe, chat with you about the weather or the lottery jackpot or the reasons Sanskrit died as a language, but I don’t know you at all."

"That’s true," said Extra, handing him his hot cup of joe. "I don’t know where you live either. You must live awfully close to have come here on a day like today. I’m sure your car couldn’t start."

"Quite correct, and my camel won’t leave his hut," said Collaborator, sipping his hot cup of joe. "So are you just going to stay here and work the whole day yourself?"

"No, it’s hardly worth the gas to keep the heat on down here," she said, tossing her pretty head coyly. "I’ll probably just go up to my apartment and watch a movie. Do you like movies?"

"Sure do," he said on his way to the door. "Welp, see you tomorrow."

Extra watched him walk the block-and-a-half up the hill to his house. After the spring thaw, she’d throw rocks at it.

"Never let Harvey ride shotgun. Never." These were the first words of wisdom-- the "if you know what's good for you" kind of speech-- that all new employees got their first day on the job. I listened to my boss' words intently, not knowing what the hell he was talking about, but doing my best to look interested and appreciative of his sage advice. The warning was obviously well-intentioned, but it was as meaningless to me as if my boss had given me instructions in Chinese on how to change a light bulb.

I didn't have a clue what he was talking about, nor did I know who Harvey was. But I also didn't want to look like as big a dunce as I felt, so, instead of asking my boss a simple, straightforward question such as: "What the hell are you talking about?" or "Who's Harvey, and what's riding shotgun?" I nodded and said: "Sure, thing, Mr. Wheaton. I've got it. No riding shotgun for Harvey. No, sir. Not ever."

Mr. Wheaton smiled, looked relieved and exhaled: "Good. I'm glad that's clear. Believe me, Jack, it's the best advice you will ever get while you work here this summer. Remember, if you ever let Harvey ride shotgun, you'll regret it. He'll jabber and blabber, piss and moan. He'll drive you -- and everyone else -- absolutely bonkers.

There's only one place Harvey rides and that's in the wayback. Got it? The wayback seat. Make sure he's strapped in, though. Everyone rides with a seat belt. Don't let him hang out the rear window. He'll end up splattered in the road, if you don't watch out, like some big run over whale. Any questions?"

Well, I thought to myself, when was the last time anyone saw a whale splattered on the highway? But I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut.

"No, sir. No questions."

Besides, I thought I was starting to get the message. The code was getting a little clearer, a little less cryptic, because as I looked out the window, I saw my chariot, the vehicle in which I would be transporting our clients. That's what we called the retarded men and women we drove around to the movies, the mall, ball games, restaurants, whatever. We called them "clients." And I was their wheel man, their driver, their "community relations counselor" as my job description stated. Well, I quickly learned that I would be doing the bulk of my community relations counseling behind the wheel of a dilapidated, beat-to-hell, nine-passenger Buick station wagon, the kind with the back seat, or as Mr. Wheaton called it, the "wayback seat" facing the rear so that the unfortunate occupant of that not-so-coveted throne would ride (and therefore view the world) backwards.

I also learned that Harvey was one of our clients: a 33 year old, 250 lb. ( give or take an ounce) retarded man. From what I learned during the next several minutes of vintage Wheaton instruction, which was part pep talk, part military briefing, I concluded that this big, fat, retarded guy was a royal pain in the ass. I also learned that he would be the first client I'd pick up on the route and the last one I'd drop off once the evening's festivities concluded. I was told that I had five clients to transport; and I was told to make sure that each always sat in his or her assigned seat in the Buick station wagon. Obviously, Harvey would sit in the wayback, "scouting up the rear," as my boss said. Monica and her brother, Eddie, a vaudevillian-type comedy team (Monica, the straight man or in this case, straight woman, and Eddie, the card), who also happened to be retarded twins in their late 20's, would sit behind me along with Richard, a 48 year old retarded man who delivered newspapers on a bicycle for a living. Richard was the most intelligent of our little group -- excluding me, of course. He'd been able to hold down a regular job for a considerable period of time--longer than I ever had at least. Richard was okay, I was told; and more important, he was good at giving directions, so if I got lost (which was likely), he'd be there to help. He knew the route really well. Richard the Navigator, I came to call him. He saved my butt on more than one night when I had no clue where we were supposed to be going.

Finally, little Bobby Knowles rode next to me in the front seat, riding shotgun. The place of honor. In addition to being retarded Bobby was a midget, or sure seemed like one, a little over four feet tall. He talked a mile a minute and was, in his own good natured way, a toady, the perfect "yes man"-- always full of compliments, "yes, sirs," "attaboys," and "right ons, righteous brother." Where he got that crap from, I will never know, but apparently, whatever Bobby said was pretty much copacetic because Bobby's parents were on the board of directors of the social service agency that now employed me. So I assumed they pulled a few strings and, lo and behold, Bobby got to ride shotgun. As usual, my assumption was wrong. Bobby got to ride shotgun for a much simpler reason: because he played the role of sidekick best. Besides, he was so short that without a booster seat, he wouldn't have been able to see anything if he sat in the back seat.

As we drove around in the beat-up old Buick, to kill time we listened to the radio, mostly top 40 tunes: The Eagles, Queen, Elton John, Billy Joel--good, classic stuff even today. Usually, I'd listen to the music and try to keep my mind off the inane, thoroughly repetitive dialogue I'd get night after night from Bobby, Monica, Eddie and Richard. Bobby's "yes, sir, no, sir" and "my righteous brother" stuff were starting to wear on me, even though he obviously admired and looked up to me. I had heard all of Monica's and Eddie's comedy routines to the point where I had better timing on their punch lines than either of them; and Richard was just incredibly boring -- good at directions -- but incredibly boring. All the guy ever did was give directions and talk about his paper route. Dull, dull, mega-dull.

Harvey was another story. Sure, he'd ask, beg, cajole and even occasionally threaten me every time I picked him up: Harvey always wanted to ride shotgun; and every time, consistent with my boss' very clear and very plain instructions, I'd tell him no.

"You know the rules, Harvey, my man. It's the wayback seat or nothing. So what's it going to be? You coming or not?"

Of course, Harvey would always come. These community relations experiences were the highlight of our clients' lives. Pretty sad when you really think about it, but for them going to the movies, out to dinner, shopping, or to a ball game was a small slice of humanity in an otherwise very dehumanizing existence.

So Harvey would stomp his feet, turn red, hold his breath and yell out: "Hell, hell, hell!" Then he would exile himself to the wayback seat and we'd be off to pick up the rest of the crew. Usually, Harvey would mumble to himself back there; but at other times he would carry on quite the conversation with whomever he was talking -- we never learned the identity of his invisible friend, or was it an invisible nemesis? Who knows? I could never figure out the point of these conversations, but they usually (to the extent I could hear, or had the slightest interest in listening) dealt with sports. Harvey would run down the day's scores with incredible accuracy. He displayed an encyclopedic knowledge of box scores, baseball statistics and the like. He wasn't an idiot savant, nothing like that. He was simply a retarded guy who was a crazed sports fan and had nothing better to do with his life than memorize the morning's box scores.

Then one day it happened. We were driving along on the way to the mall, as I remember, and a Four Seasons' song, Big Girls Don't Cry, came on. I loved that tune, so I turned up the volume loud enough that even Harvey could hear it in the wayback seat. He heard it all right. The most ear-piercing, brain-aching, bone-chilling sound came from the wayback seat as Harvey swayed back and forth, with his head bobbing up and down to the music, belting out the words to the song in a grotesquely high and brutally off-key voice. Everyone covered their ears in a vain attempt to shield themselves from the torture inflicted by this tone-deaf falsetto. I, of course, had to drive so all I could do was grit my teeth and yell at him to stop. It seems that hearing the melodious voices of the Four Seasons, and particularly, the wonderful falsetto of Frankie Valle, sent Harvey off, triggering some buried-down-deep desire to sing. Once it started, it was almost impossible to stop. Harvey knew the words to every song after that one; and he managed to butcher song after song (many that I really loved, but still can't listen to today) in his screeching, irritating, off-key falsetto. I changed stations, but no matter what kind of music was on -- country western, easy listening, golden-oldies -- Harvey would manage to sing along. Not hum along, sing along. I still don't know how he did it, but Harvey could even sing along with classical music. I never even knew there were words to some of those high-brow tunes. I never liked classical music much, but after hearing Harvey put words to these melodies, I literally couldn't stomach the masters: Mozart, Bach, Beethoven. I'm much better now--no more pangs of nausea when I hear a symphony. But, for safety's sake, I still avoid the stuff when and if I can. Strange, I know; but on reflection, I figure it's no great loss. At least I still have classic rock.

Finally, I got the brilliant idea of just turning the radio off -- and miraculously, Harvey stopped. No more singing. No more calamitous cacophony. No more fear-generating falsetto. But Bobby began to cry. Then when he started crying, Monica, Eddie and even Richard joined in as a tearful chorus, because they knew what was coming: the singing really hadn't stopped, it was just about to change. Harvey started singing Negro spirituals, a capella and beautifully. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Harvey had a wonderful voice, deep and resonant and mellifluous. I was moved, deeply touched by his singing. But for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why everyone else was crying. The tears were spreading like an unchecked virus in the beat-up Buick station wagon.

I tried to calm things down. "Hey, guys. What's up? Why the tears? Isn't Harvey's singing great?"

"No. No, it isn't," said Monica, between sobs. "It's awful. Bad, bad, bad. Harvey only sings like that 'cause you made him. You shut off the radio. Turn the radio back on so he can sing with it. Turn it on now!"

It was the first command that I had ever been given by a client.

"Yeah, Jack. Turn it on," echoed Eddie.

Even Richard chimed in: "Better do it, Jack," he cautioned.

"Yes, sir. Radio's coming back on. Yes, sir, Jack's righteous. He'll do it," peppered little motor mouth Bobby.

I was stunned and confused: "I don't understand. Harvey sings beautifully without the radio on, and his voice is terrible when he sings along. Let's face it, guys, and pardon my French, but Harvey really sucks when he sings with the radio. But this Negro spiritual stuff is beautiful."

"We don't care. We don't care. Turn it on now, Jack, or you'll pay." The

threatening words came from Monica's mouth, but the evil looks came from everyone.

"Harvey only sings like that because he feels like a big, old slave, with no freedom. Harvey says he's in chains and it hurts. That's what he told us. Yes, it is. He told us all right. Let him go, Jack. Please. Please let him go," begged Bobby.

His tears and those of Eddie, Richard and Monica were real. I didn't understand them -- but they were real.

I was getting frustrated by the whole experience and, for the first and only time, I let my frustration show as Harvey sat in the wayback seat oblivious to what was going on, singing beautiful spirituals, one after the other.

"What the hell! If you guys are going to be assholes about it, then fine. I'll put the radio back on. But you're going to get what you deserve." I then turned the radio back on. Appropriately, Elton John's The Bitch is Back came on and so did Harvey's off-key falsetto voice. The crying stopped, but the "if looks could kill" glances remained.

"Now, what's wrong?" I asked.

"You said a cuss word. You said a swear. You're in big trouble now, Jack. Really big trouble. Not righteous what you did. No way. No sir," Bobby stammered on and on.

"Hey, ease up, Bobby. I didn't mean it. I'm sorry. Let's just forget about it. Okay?"

"No, sir. No way. Not righteous to forget about it. No way, man."

I decided it was best to just drop it. And when I dropped everyone home that evening, Monica, Eddie, Richard and Bobby, they all acted as if nothing strange or untoward had happened.

I had learned not to challenge these people -- instruct them, yes, challenge them, no. So I said nothing further and simply let it be.

But when I was alone with Harvey, I asked him what was going on and, in particular, I asked how he had learned to sing so beautifully. He was silent. He either didn't hear or was purposefully ignoring me.

" Hey, Harvey," I asked, "can you hear me back there?"

"Yup," he answered.

"Well, I want to know. Where'd you learn to sing like that?"

"I'll only tell if you let me ride shotgun. Then I'll tell you."

I had been warned repeatedly about not allowing Harvey to ride shotgun. In fact, I had been warned so many times that I assumed getting caught would be grounds for dismissal. So I chickened out.

"Sorry, Harvey. You know the rules. No riding shotgun."

We rode the rest of the way in silence.

The next day I was fired for swearing at the clients. Little Bobby Knowles, my right on, righteous pal, turned me in to his parents, telling them how I had used the cuss words, "suck" and "asshole." I admitted saying these words when I was confronted by Mr. Wheaton; and I apologized to him just as I had done to the clients. But it was to no avail. So long summer job. No matter, I didn't hold a grudge against any of them. Anyway, the job did suck and summer was just about over. I got over it. And over time and after many years, I not only forgot about being fired, but I also forgot about Monica, Eddie, Richard, my little sidekick Bobby, and even Harvey.

Then the other day, while I was in the supermarket, hunting as usual in the cracker and cookie aisle for something very special to calm and silence my ever- grumbling stomach, I spotted Harvey. Sure, it had been almost 20 years since I had last laid eyes on him, and, yes, he was older and his hair was graying, but it was Harvey. He was with two other disabled-looking men of about the same age, I'd say early 50's, and a counselor, a friendly-looking, idealistic twenty-something year old kid, not unlike me years ago. They were out shopping for food, learning "basic survival skills" or something like that. I figured that Harvey and the others probably lived in a group home.

I decided to watch as they went aisle to aisle, gathering up their supplies, feasting on words of instruction and encouragement from their counselor. I kept my distance though: I didn't expect that Harvey would recognize me, but I also didn't know what I'd do if by some chance he did. I figured it was a real long shot, with me having gained 30 pounds of pure flab and having lost 50 percent of my hair since Harvey and I last met. But I'm a pretty conservative guy and I decided to stay at a safe distance, out of sight, just in case.

Harvey and his comrades went through the checkout counter and wheeled their cart up to a big, new red Minivan, today's upscale version of the Buick with the wayback seat. Harvey helped his two friends load the grocery bags in the back and then they all filed in. Harvey's two buddies got in the back seat and he eased himself into the passenger seat, riding shotgun.

It was a warm July night and they began to drive away with the windows open, smiling and laughing. Harvey looked happy, contented and truly free of any worry. I was happy for him as well. But I was also saddened by the thought that I had never let Harvey ride shotgun. And, for the first time I realized that although Harvey may have been "slow," I was the one who had been disabled by ignorance. I never saw, or treated, Harvey as a real, unique, valuable person. I just accepted what my old boss, Mr. Wheaton had to say, adopting his opinion of Harvey; and, therefore to me, Harvey wasn't human, but only a big, fat retarded "client" and a royal pain in the ass. I never listened to Harvey, or tried to see the world from his perspective. I never gave the guy a chance.

As they pulled out of the parking lot, I heard Harvey begin to sing a Negro spiritual. The words may have been mournful, but carried on the wings of his angelic voice they sounded uplifting and inspirational. And that's how I felt -- inspired by his voice, his special gift -- as I watched the back of Harvey's head bob up and down, his body swaying side to side, keeping time to the music, perfectly accompanied by the flash of tail-lights as the Minivan braked just before it exited the parking lot and eased onto the roadway for its trip home.

The floor of the upstairs bedroom was strewn with brown cardboard boxes. Dirty strips of yellow masking tape with hairballs stuck to the adhesive dangled off of them and crumpled-up wads of old newspapers spilled out of them and onto the floor. There was dust all over the place and sweeping out the room he raised a small swirling cloud of it like a little twister. He mopped the floor, taking off his shoes and socks first, and then opened the window once he was finished and walked out and sat down in the hall. He picked his toes for a minute and then ran his hands over the soles of his feet before slipping his shoes and socks back on and going out to the car again. He brought in the last of the odds and ends---notebooks, albums, cassettes, t-shirts, clean and dirty linen and a calender of Ansel Adams photographs from the year before---and then leaned against the wall and wondered why he had bothered to mop in the first place because he was only going to have to do it all over again anyway. He took out and flipped open the calendar and leafed through the shots of Yosemite until he got to the picture of Daly City. He looked at the wall and he looked at the picture: it sure would make a cool poster there.

Scotty was moving in at last, into the house he was to share with Eric and Gael. They were late. It was noon now and they had all agreed to meet at eleven-thirty to help each other clean the house and unload boxes. But Scotty had gotten antsy just waiting and had started without them. There was no time to lose: only another week and the fall semester would begin. Scotty had gone to West Valley Community College (that was where he had first met Eric) and had transferred up to State. He knew he was going to work hard: this was a real four-year university. And not only was he going to have a lot of schoolwork but he was strapped as far as cash went. It would be tight but just for a couple weeks until his grants came through and Eric paid him back. Then he could get his books.

It was good to know a guy like Eric. You just knew he was going to go far. He knew what he wanted and he knew how to get it and if you listened to him long enough you would want it too. He liked his beer and even though he did not think of himself as a smoker he always had a cigarette tucked behind his ear like a pencil. He had a way too when drinking of toasting where he tucked his head into his chest and raised his glass high above his head in just such a way that it splashed everyone but himself.

Scotty and Eric had run into each other again at State where Scotty had been looking at the listings of rentals. Eric walked by and did a doubletake and slapped Scotty on the back: same old Eric, same old Scotty. Eric asked what was up and Scotty said:

---Looking for a place. You know, a studio, or a one-bedroom, maybe.

---Hmm.

---Why Hmm?

---It's just that, well, how much do you want to pay?

---I don't know: three-fifty, I hope.

---Hmm. What are you doing now?

---Nothing.

---Come on. Let's go for a ride. We can look around.

The two walked across the quad which, although it was still three weeks until classes commenced, was full of students hurrying from here to there, buying books, milling about and talking to one another. Eric and Scotty made their way along 19th Avenue to the lot at Petrini's supermarket where Eric had parked his Volkswagen bus. You could get a ticket for parking there if you were not a customer but Eric always got away with it. They piled into the bus and Eric drove off. He painted houses and the back of the bus was filled with buckets and trays, brushes, rollers and cans of paint, which all rattled and knocked together as they made their way down bumpy Ocean Avenue.

Pulling into the parking lot of a paint store in the Mission Eric asked Scotty where he wanted to live.

---Downtown, maybe, or SoMa.

---That's a serious commute you're talking.

Eric set the emergency brake and they got out.

---Don't you want to be closer to school? You know, the parties. Hey wait, hold on a minute! I have an idea.

Eric explained the situation as they walked through the aisles of the store. He and Gael were living in a cramped one-bedroom in the Inner Sunset that cost six-fifty a month. It was nothing special. All one-bedrooms cost that much at least. Eric handed Scotty a can of paint thinner for emphasis:

---At least, man, at least!

The checkout clerk rang up Eric's purchases. He paid and Scotty helped him carry it all out to the bus. Driving along some backstreets Eric continued. Cheap studios were as a rule no bigger than closets (you had to look out for the telltale cozy that the owners liked to put in the newspapers ads) and were only to be found in real greasy parts of town like the Tenderloin. Eric knew: he had seen them, he had painted them. It would be far from campus and dangerous to boot. Eric jammed into third gear:

---You'd have to walk that walk and talk that talk. You'd hate it. You need calm, man, to study. State isn't like West Valley, you know.

Eric drove along Laguna Honda. He and Gael had been thinking of moving themselves. They had talked about it with a couple of friends but their lease was not up for a few months so they were not ready now. But what about this? Scotty was looking for a place. Eric and Gael wanted to move. They were all doing the same thing, studying, going to school; why not share a place? Not an apartment, not a flat, but a house, a real house. It would be the kind of place you would want to come home to, to bring someone to. There would be lots of room. And since nobody would be living above or below, you could play your music really loud, have parties and not worry about anyone complaining about the racket. And to top it all off you would save on rent: at least fifty bucks a month. And fifty bucks sure bought a lot of beer.

---No doubt! Scotty said.

What Eric said made good sense. It was true that Scotty had been getting a little worried about the whole thing. Nothing seemed to be going his way and it had started to feel all wrong. He had been making the drive up to the city from San Jose where he lived with his mother. She was no help. She had no money and knew nobody so he signed up at a rental agency on Lombard Street. That cost him fifty bucks right off the bat. Granted, twenty-five was refundable if he found a place some other way. All he had to do was show a rental agreement or a lease. If the place was not on the rental agency's list the refund was all his. He looked in the papers and went to open houses and took down numbers. Now that he thought about it Scotty realized that what Eric had been saying was absolutely true: all the studios, flats, apartments and rooms he had seen had been horrible: dark and dank, smelling either of fish or garbage or roach killer or all three mixed together. Scotty did not want to live anyplace like that. Eric could count him in. Eric said:

---Now you're talking, man. Now you're talking. Gael'll be up for it, I'm sure. Just wait until you meet her.

Eric downshifted and wheeled into the parking lot of his apartment building. They took the stark lit elevator up to the third floor and Scotty helped Eric cart up the painting supplies. Eric set down what he was carrying and unlocked the door and walked in. Scotty walked behind him and left what he had in the entryway. An agreeable smell of spaghetti sauce simmering hung in the air: oregano, pepper, onion, tomatoes. Eric came up behind Gael and hugged and kissed her. Scotty went back and got the rest of the supplies and set them down in the entryway. Eric introduced him to Gael:

---Hi.

---Hi.

---That smells pretty good, Scotty said, sniffing. Did you make it yourself?

---No, it's store-bought.

Gael invited Scotty to eat with them. She started talking about how she had tried to live in New York and then in Los Angeles. Both were all wrong for her. Fate was trying to tell her something. She came to the city and that was it: fate, karma, kismet, whatever. Scotty nodded. Gael went on. You did not choose the city; it chose you. This was meant to be her home and she knew it and would never leave. Did Scotty feel that way? He did. Soon they were all formulating a plan. It was going to be a little tricky because Eric and Gael had told their landlord they would stay on for another six months.

---Nothing binding, though, Eric added.

Eric ran out and bought a couple six-packs and Scotty offered Eric some money which he at first refused. A while later, empty beer cans lining the countertop, they all three argued and debated about political issues, military affairs and the government. Governor Deukmejian was cutting back on student grants. It was a conspiracy: they wanted to keep young people stupid so they would not be able to make informed choices. The same old status quo wrinkly-neck politicians would stay in power and cut back and cut back and soon nobody but rich kids would be able to go to college. They could not let that happen.

It grew late and Eric nodded in his chair. Gael woke him and he went off to bed. Scotty crashed on the sofa. They agreed the next morning over coffee and poppyseed muffins to hook up the next Saturday and start looking. Eric had a bad hangover and asked if it was not too much trouble could Scotty just take the bus back to State. Gael walked him out to the street, kissed him on the cheek and said:

---See you on Saturday.

---Yeah, see you on Saturday.

Saturday came. It was a sunny day and Scotty headed up to the city early. He stopped by the rental agency and asked for a list of houses. The woman at the agency thought it was a weird thing to ask for and she acted all put out. But he got the list anyway and tooled out to Eric and Gael's apartment building. After coffee they piled into Scotty's car. Eric said he had spilled paint thinner in the bus and it stank. Gael brought the Chronicle and folded it over to the classifieds: the houses she had called to arrange a meeting for were circled in bright red ink.

They looked first at the houses on Scotty's list from the agency. They went to one after another but all the houses were as bad as the studios, flats, apartments and rooms Scotty had gone to before. Many were not even houses: they were either flats or worse, converted garages. They were ugly too: red carpets, paper windowshades, dirty walls or shabby peeling wallpaper. None was anywhere even remotely cool; they were all in places like Ingleside and Bayview. Eric made jokes:

---Esthetically impoverished.

---At least it'd be easy to buy crack.

---I suppose after a while you could get used to the sound of gunfire.

They went by a few houses from the classifieds. At most nobody was even there to show them the interior and none of the rest really grabbed them. Most of them cost about nine-hundred a month; they would probably have to pay more to get something decent. There was no need to rush things. It was only the first day and it took patience to find a good place. Scotty stopped for gas. They looked through the ads again and got into the twelve-hundred dollar range before they hit on one that sounded all right.

The house was in the Outer Sunset at Quintara and 42nd. It took a long time to get out there because the area was residential and there seemed to be a stop sign at every intersection. It was surreal, just like the photo of Daly City Scotty had on his Ansel Adams calendar. The houses ran in the same long rows and had the same small lawn cut in half by the same straight path leading up to the same metal gate. The streets themselves were deserted, lined by walls and wooden fences stretching away into the distance towards the ocean.

As they counted off the address numbers and came up to where the house was supposed to be Eric pointed ahead and said:

---Will you get a load of that?

They looked. It was a Spanish-style, two-story house, cream color, with a red tile roof. There was a red stained wooden fence around it and Scotty stopped the car alongside it and they all got out. Some sort of coat of arms, swords crossed in a field of blue, was embedded in the sheetrock exterior. Gael asked:

---What do you think?

---It's kind of expensive, Scotty said.

---Yeah, Eric said, but we'll never find anything as good as this. I mean, just look at it. It's got a lawn, for Pete's sake.

---Well, yeah, but maybe it's a total dump inside.

---You haven't even seen it yet.

---I'm just saying...

Gael broke in:

---All right, all right, let's call the guy, take a look. We don't have to take it if we don't want to.

Scotty drove around and drove around: either every payphone was broken or had somebody on it. They found one. Eric dialed the number and a gruff voice answered. They talked. Eric hung up. The guy had to drive up from San Bruno and would be at the house in forty-five minutes.

They drove around, circling the area, and looked for more FOR RENT signs. When they got back to the house the man was waiting outside. He had a bald head and a potbelly and was leaning against a car and smoking a cigarette. He introduced himself as Doug MacLachlan and he shook hands all around. He offered everyone a cigarette and Eric took one. Mr MacLachlan lit it for him and ushered them in through the gate. The lawn rose gently to the house and was parted by a stone path that wound up to the front steps in a lazy curve. Weeds poked up along on both sides and bristled, here and there, in little clumps that looked like tumbleweeds. Mr MacLachlan was talking:

---A yard like this takes a lot of upkeep. But you won't find another like it anywhere in the city. Just look at it. You know, all this was sand dune fifty years ago. But it's okay in an earthquake: the house just rolls with it.

They climbed the front steps and Mr MacLachlan unlocked the front door on which was a doorknocker in the shape of a bagpipe player in a kilt and stockings and a tall Black Watch hat. Scotty stared at it: what kind of schizoid put a Scottish doorknocker and a coat of arms on a Spanish-looking house? What was he doing, going for a new style: Scottish hacienda? Mr MacLachlan stopped and picked at the doorknocker with his thumb.

---Put this on myself. You see I used to live here. Needs to be brushed. Ocean air makes it turn green. Salt, you know.

Question answered, Scotty thought, and proceeded inside, where his jaw nearly dropped to the floor. The house was humungous, with a gigantic kitchen, acres of counter space, and an attached dining room that seemed to stretch off into infinity. There were enough cupboards for a small army and a walk-in pantry besides. Without lingering, they turned back and went into the living room. Bookshelves were built into the wall, wooden shutters covered the windows and a fireplace sat enclosed by a heavy metal screen.

---Does this work? Gael gasped, pointing at it.

---It sure does.

Mr MacLachlan gazed off for a moment and then said:

---It's hard to find good tenants for a place like this. They don't appreciate it. They let it go. Look at these nice hardwood floors. Russians and Chinese always want to put carpet down.

Mr MacLachlan lowered his head and began to shake it.

They went upstairs to where the three bedrooms were and stopped in the short hall between them: the large one took up the whole east side and the medium one and the small one took up the west. The small one was rather small but it had a bathroom going for it. Eric nodded and, pointing at the large bedroom, said:

---This one could be ours. Scotty, you could take the middle one.

---We could use the small one as a guest room.

---And Scotty, this could be your bathroom and we could use the one downstairs for ourselves.

Mr MacLachlan looked at the three of them and said:

---You could always take on another roommate if you wanted. Just check with me first.

---We might just do that.

It was settled: Eric and Gael would take the large bedroom and Scotty the medium. They could wait and see about another roommate. In the meantime they could use the small bedroom as a workroom. Eric could put his desk in there and then that would free up some space in the bedroom.

Mr MacLachlan handed them the application forms and offered another cigarette to Eric; Gael protested. Scotty filled out the forms: he was the only one with a credit card. It was only a student Visa with a credit line of just five-hundred dollars. It was maxed out but he always paid the bill on time so it was better than nothing.

Mr MacLachlan went over the conditions. There would be a one-year lease. He did not like looking for new tenants and did not want the place to stand empty: he was getting ruined paying the taxes on it. The rent was twelve-hundred a month. The move-in would be first and last plus a six-hundred dollar security deposit. Under his breath Eric asked Scotty:

---Could you cover part of Gael's and my share? Just until we get our deposit back from the old place. Like, about a grand?

Scotty did a quick mental figuring. He squinted his eyes and his lips moved silently as he counted to himself. After a few moments he said:

---Sure.

---It'll be just for a week or two. You know, until we get our deposit back from the old place.

Mr MacLachlan checked over the completed form and said:

---Okay. I'll check your refs. I'll get back to you in a few days. Maybe by Wednesday.

Wednesday came and late in the day Mr MacLachlan telephoned. Everything had checked out. He would give them a shot. When could they meet him to sign the lease?