When I first started this blog I thought everything I would write would be about screenwriting and my struggles of becoming a paid screenwriter. During that time I wrote a couple short stories and one that became more like a novel.

I posted two, maybe three of these on this blog. One of them was entitled, "Lying and Recycling". After writing that, I started thinking of the other characters that found their way into that story.

I ended up writing two more short, character driven stories of characters that appeared in the original piece. I think I'll write one more about the owner of the store, but I might not.

Anyways, here we go.


COMPACT disc (a selection)
inspired by the writings of Arthur Nersesian and Joe Meno

(read the short story "Recycling and Lying". The three stories work off of that, original story.)


The Rock Section

I could be a victim of identity theft but I wouldn’t care. I have, let me think… less, counting what I owe on my credit cards, about three hundred to my name. I don’t know what those guys do when they are away from there computers, stealing other people’s identities, but I’m sure their lives are better than mine. I think about this as I sit at a public computer at the local library. The guy across from me, who probably noticed me since I look hot today, keeps looking in my direction. Maybe he’s a hacker. Hacker or not, that guy is cute. Now. Okay. This is the time to focus…

Shoes should fit your body style. A stiletto is probably the right choice. I go back and forth, thinking that I may need a thicker heel, maybe a “Cuban” heel. I'm told it’s not the best choice for most girls. Maybe a pump. I'm also told woman with skinny legs look good in pumps. Since I have skinny legs, I should go with a pump. What brand is good? No, wait. A bootie. A ankle booty, maybe.

The flashing light on the bottom right hand corner of the computer screen means I only have ten minutes left on my hour, internet time. This could be just enough time to look up some Nine Inch Nails videos. I watch Trent as much as I can. He doesn’t like to be photographed or YouTube’d, but he his. He is so beautiful, my Trent. He usually wears black, but most lead singers in bands wear black; especially in rock bands. Some people call it industrial rock but I won’t stand for that. It’s rock.

I guess it’s about time to get ready for the day. Today is a big day. After spending over a hundred dollars on the pair of pumps, I am down to about two fifty. I really need the job. I need to look good for my interview today. That's what's important when going to an interview, you have to play the part. The part I will pay will be the cute blonde.
I’m beautiful and I‘m not shy to share it. I have big boobs, a small waist, and freckles just below my blue eyes. Some say I’m Farrah Faucet-ish. Not in her fifty, bed ridden days, but when she was a Charlie’s angel - in the nineteen seventies. I was born in the last year of the seventies. I don’t think Charlie’s Angels was still on then. I don’t know though.


I shouldn’t be worried, Right? I’ve started new jobs a couple times, even last year. This year shouldn’t be any different. I heard Blockbuster was a great company to work for. My best friend in high school told me she worked there a few years back. She doesn’t work there anymore. It had something to do with finding something better, maybe a job at the mall. Or, let me think… that’s right. She went to college. She, Dorlene, I mean, had to go to college in another state. It must be crappy to be pushed by your parents to leave your home town to go to school. I feel sorry for Dorlene. Maybe this summer I will get to see her. Wouldn’t that be a kick? I’m broke, so… you know.

I don’t have any other CD’s in my car other than Nine Inch Nails. This is a choice. I am Nine Inch Nails. I know every word to every song Trent and the boys have ever written. I even learned his live performances when I would accentuate a particular word or something that really made him sing differently, like most singers do in concerts. He would really belt out certain lines in his live shows. Sometimes when I’m listening to one of their songs I would sing it like he would do it in concert. I visualized each word as I do this, eventually not missing any other words in the recorded song. My favorite CD is Pretty Hate Machine, their first. My most favorite song is “Terrible Lie”. Here it is now. I’ll sing, but bear with me.

hey god, why are you doing this to me?
am I not living up to what I'm supposed to be?
why am I seething with this animosity?
hey god, I think you owe me a great big apology
terrible lie...terrible lie...terrible lie...terrible lie

hey god, I really don't know what you mean
seems like salvation comes only in my dreams
I feel my hatred grow all the more extreme
hey god, can this world really be as sad as it seems?
terrible lie...terrible lie...terrible lie...terrible lie

Great song. I love it. I would sing it as loud as I could right now, but I'm a little nervous. It makes me feel so good when I listen to his music so I listened to it on my way.

Ten thirty eight. I have an eleven o’clock appointment with some girl named Becky. Becky was my second best friend in high school. Not this Becky - Becky from school.. She would have been my first except she slept with my boyfriend to be, if he wasn’t already. I miss high school. I was popular in high school. I can’t believe it’s been three years since I graduated. I remember senior picture. I looked really good then. I said goodbye to a lot of friends after senior picture.

I had expected to see a big metal case where people could drive up and drop off their DVD’s. This Blockbuster didn’t have one. I’m sure to tell Becky we should have one after she hires me. If only that stupid cunt dude would leave already. He got in his car, like over two minutes ago. How long does it take to drop the DVD on the passenger seat, back away, and give me my space? I didn’t want to be late to my appointment with Becky. My brother, Sammy, was late to an interview once. He didn’t get the job. Sammy said it was because the manager was a “hommo” and because he couldn’t handle someone like him. It will be different for me, I know it.

“Hello," Becky says as she walks over to me as I stand between the drop off hole, cut in the counter, and the front door. "You must be Jennifer."

“Jen, it's Jen. Nice to meet you,” I respond with a giant grin, hoping she remembers that it's Jen and not Jennifer.

Bewildered and taken aback a bit, Becky motions for Jen, not Jennifer, to follow here to the back room. I stay no more than five feet behind her. That is one of the suggestions I read in a magazine about what to do at interviews. You, as the interviewee, want to be close, but not too close to the interviewer. I hope I didn’t use too much perfume today.

“We take the DVD rental and the game rental stuff really serious here. They want what they want, the customers. And we give it too them.”

“I’m good at the customers,” I say, waiting for Becky to look me in my eyes (that was another interview tip). “I told one guy once, working at the Bean ‘n’ Go, that he should get some gas," I pause, really making sure she's listening; This is my big selling point. "See, I saw the red light of the little gas pump sign on the dashboard of his car indicating he needed to get gas soon. I thought I would help him. I heard that's what being proactive means.”

“That’s exactly what we’re looking for. Initiative.”



With that I am now a member of the Blockbuster team. I only know two in the area, but I assume there are more. With a long hand shake and a word of encouragement, I was out the front door on my way to my car holding a couple blue shirts, one pair of khaki pants (I’m supposed to get the second pair on my own. Becky suggested Old Navy) and a name tag with a scratched over name, probably the person I replaced.

My first day consisted of me watching a bunch of videos the company wanted all new employees to watch. Becky checked in on me a couple times, usually to change cassettes. She told me that they were going to switch to DVD one of these days. Since VHS cassettes were replaced a few years ago and since this was a place that only rented DVD‘s, I was a little bit surprised. One cassette I watched had a kid younger than me in a taped interaction with a customer, probably an actor. A little message in small words, on top of the screen, said that the customer acknowledged they were being video taped. Legal stuff I think. I thought I could do better. It wasn’t because the kid wasn’t nice, but because she could have offered the customer a different movie. She was probably horrified that she was being taped.

“Time to join the big time,” Becky says with a smile and her hands on her hips. With that, I was off to the floor.

The new release movies were placed on the big wall in the back. Since it was my fifth day on the job, I knew where I should place the new DVD’s that came in. They had already been removed from there original packaging and placed in their Blockbuster case, sticker included. Transformers came out this week. There was a big poster on the window to the right of the front door encouraging our customers to rent it as they entered. I was to stack the movies that day. Lucky for me I didn’t have to place them on the shelves in a alphabetical manner.

“Transformers, wow! Get that.”

I was easily distracted from my duties. Several kids, maybe a gang, were quickly approaching. “Do you know where I can find Debby Does Dallas?,” the leader of the group, I assume by his stupid question, asks.

“Fuck that man. Don’t be so crude, stupid ass cruncher,” the skinny guy, probably sixteen, says to the leader who is dressed in black pants, gloves, and a necklace that wore tightly around his neck.

“Sorry miss. I meant Debby Does Dallas… four.” Yet, more laughs.

I wanted to tell him to screw himself, but that was against store policy. Can I suggest a movie that might fit your liking,” I say as Becky walks past me, watching my every move.

“I would like a blow job. You know how to do that, don’t you?” a younger member, probably the necklace wearing kid’s younger brother says, to be cool.

It was getting late. The new Transformers DVD’s weren’t going to be set on the shelves by themselves. I’m not bothered by kids, especially boys, acting like kids. My younger brother did it to me on a daily basis.

Before I knew it, the young kid with the necklace had motioned for the others to go away so he could get my full attention. He was a different person now. This time, it was business. With a look around the store, making sure the manager, Becky, wasn’t around, this kid bellies up to me. I was on my third to last shelve, trying hard to ignore him. “You look old.”

“Excuse me?,” I said.

Even more serious now, not to disturb anyone else that may walk by looking for their DVD of choice, the young kid says, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but my friends can be pretty crude. I have be like them, you know?”

I was once popular in grade school and high school so I understood him. In a way, I felt sorry for the young kid. Maybe he won’t make the choices I made.

“I was… kind of thinking… maybe you could help my friends and me out?” With a short pause, I pondered his question. There weren't any details yet, but it probably wasn't a question like, where's the bathroom.

“I’m sorry… sir. Maybe it’s in the drama section.” I say, as I take a DVD out of my full arms, handing it to the kid.

“There’s a party. I’m kind of…” I could feel his intensity increasing. It seemed as though he was up against some sort of time limit. It wasn’t like me hoping the eight would become a nine, closing time, he was more desperate than that like his whole social status hinged on this conversation and my willingness to help him.

“If I don’t get some booze, I lose my rep. My rep is important to me. More than important to me then what happens tomorrow. I could be someone else. I don‘t want that.”

“I don’t want that either.” I say, abruptly, and even louder than I thought I heard in my mind.

“Then you’ll help us then.” The necklace wearing kid says, almost speaking right into my neck. Quietly, I say, “Meet me in back. Twenty minutes, but make me look good, rent something. I get kudos for signing people up for Blockbuster Rewards.”

Backing away, showing a quick smirk which I assume was a smile, the necklace kid, motions for his boys, in the action section, for him to join him up front. Luckily for me, the kid grabs the cheapest DVD in the sale section, stands in line, trying not to look at me. Proud, smiling.


The store was set in a lot tucked in the back, away from the street. There were also a couple parking spots in the back where the street lights couldn't reach. Unless you knew better or stumbled upon them, you would never know. With three kids, hiding their heads in the back seat of my car, I exit the Blockbuster parking lot as I see Becky locking the front door. With a quick smile and an even quicker wave, my new buddy’s and I were off to commit a crime.

“Okay. I think we’re fine.”

“Shit lady. You are off the hook.” An over excited kid, probably third in the coolness line in this particular friend set, says, as he readjusts in his seat.

With a couple looks outside the car’s windows, on each side, the others chime in. I was the coolest person on the face of the earth to these kids. If only Bobby, my crush from eleventh grade, with the frosty yellow highlighted hair, could see me now.

“Shut up!” I yell.

“What up, lady?”

“Listen.” I say. The song, Down In It was coming up next. The short pause after the last song, indicated this fact. I owned the car and the kids new it. They were my prisoners. The leader could not get the alcohol needed without me. I heard “Shhh” as I started singing the song.

kinda like a cloud I was up way up in the sky and I was feeling some feelings you wouldn't believe. sometimes I don't believe them myself and I decided I was never coming down. just then a tiny little dot caught my eye it was just about too small to see
but I watched it way too long and that dot was pulling me down.

With about a minute of silence, I kid yells out, “Fuck it up old lady. This shit is raw. Boom, boom. Pat, pat. This is some techno shit.”

“It’s industrial. Industrial rock” I say, almost yelling in the car.

“Dudes? Just shut the f’ing up. Alright?”

The words weren’t important, but the attitude was a plenty. Regardless of the many of times Stevie said dude, like the word would be lost if he didn't use it every chance he got, his monologue worked. It got quiet. Everyone could hear Trent Reznor’s words. For a couple red lights, the car was almost silent.

I got the necessary alcohol from a Seven Eleven, just off seventieth and Elizabeth. The extra cautionary clerk from Asian American dissent, checked every inch of my ID. He twirled it like a CIA agent looking for the smallest detail not worthy of a twenty one year old buying nothing but a large amount of beer and a hot dog for the youngest in the backseat, next to his older, but only, slightly, older brother. Leaving the convenience store, just south of a big park I know where the local families often came to play and enjoy themselves, I was off to deliver a bunch of delinquents to a party.

“You should come with us,” Johnny, the younger brother of Greg, blurts out.

“Fuck that. She’s just the messenger,” Greg says, in defiance.

“Nobody’s gonna do a God Damn Thing,” Stevie, the boy with the magical necklace, says. “We’re gonna sit here and listen," Stevie says, looking at me with a gentle smile. "We're going to listen to my darlings music for as long as she wants us too."

What he said made me blush. This warranted the next CD.


Nine Inch Nails are a pretty amazing phenomenon when one considers what they--um, he--have done with just a few studio recordings. The Downward Spiral, NIN's second full-length album, is just as packed with vitriol as Pretty Hate Machine and the EP Broken--and has just as solid a base of pop hooks that go a long way toward explaining NIN's popularity. Most recognizable is the down-tempo single "Closer," which remains a staple of dance clubs everywhere. But for the most part, the album is all heavy beats and aggressive guitars--industrial music with a pop angle. That winning combination is what makes Trent Reznor a law unto himself, becoming insanely popular while the main body of industrial music retains its subculture status. -- Genevieve Williams


The speakers in my car started to crack a bit, last month. My friend, I used to flirt with, was kind enough to look at it. The only advice he gave me was to get another stereo system. With that being said, I continue to blare my Nine Inch Nails, ignoring his advice.

It was time for another fill up. The high school kids gave me about three times the amount of money to buy the beer. The deal we made didn’t include gas. If I knew how low I was, I would have included it in our negotiations.

“Twenty in my hand or I drop you off right here,” I say, leaning around my seat and toward the back so everyone could hear.

“Turn the music down.”

“Oh, shit,” I say. He was right. It was a little loud. “Sorry.”

Stevie made the rest of the kids cough up the gas money. After that, I let the boys get out of the car since it was, probably, two to three hours since the kids last loaded up on junk food.

As the youngsters searched the, one size too small, AM PM, I sat, listening to my music. If Trent Reznor was singing, I was listening. The tank had filled up a few minutes before I had noticed. With a quick nod to Stevie, who was picking up a bag of Cheetoes, as a strawberry Charlestoon Chew stuck out of his grinning mouth, I nod to him that we were ready to continue our journey to a destination and a future for the kids I didn’t want to think about.

It was the last song on The Downward Spiral CD that I wanted the kids to listen to:
Hurt.

This world rejects me
This world threw me away
This world never gave me a chance
This world gonna have to pay

I let them off at the second house to the left, past the deadwood tree which leans out onto the street where that old woman lives with the old Chevy. The youngest of the group was in charge of carrying the beer down the street and into a house surrounded by twelve to eighteen years olds watching for anything that resembled cops, including ER personnel. They didn’t know what ER personnel meant, but one of them saw it on TV one late night while their parents were asleep. Apparently these people have a special relationship with the police, often carrying people, bleeding, yelling, wanting help. They wore the same blue and white uniforms.

I sat in my car for a few songs, watching the kids have fun with the beer that I bought them. In a way, I felt responsible for bringing joy into their lives. Whatever happens next, I did one thing; I introduced them to the best rock band ever assembled. Anyways, it was a long drive home. Although I have a paycheck waiting for me at work, knowing I have twenty something more dollars in my pocket, going to the “buy me some new shoes” fund, I was a happy little girl. Not only that, but I had a long drive home where I could listen to some more Nine Inch Nails. I love his music, it makes me so happy. After putting in the third CD, I knew I could drive home, go to bed, knowing I have a good future ahead of me.


The next day…


COMPACT disc opened at nine AM. Nestled in the quiet part of downtown, just north of the major business district where a bunch of twenty and thirty something’s went to work, wearing shirt and ties entering a bunch of high rise buildings of commerce, COMPACT disc was the spot to buy the best used CD’s. Somehow, between waking up with bigger headaches caused by alcohol bought by a sleeping girl with an automobile big enough to seat three to six youths, the kids found their way into the store; To the rock section they went. They, being headed by Stevie, was quick to go to the ‘N’ section where the whole Nine Inch Nails could be bought for those looking for them.

The cashier stand was being tended by a lady old enough to be the manager. The kids didn’t know what a retired topless dancer looked like, but they stood in front of her, throwing down every Nine Inch Nail CD they could get their hands on. Across the store, a young man stands, head down, organizing the jazz section. He seems only bothered by a large man in Khaki pants and a yellow tie.


Bobby Sumter (Jazz Section)

This is Big Bobby Sumpter. Except for his grandmother, Bobby is ignored by most people, almost like he’s going through each day unrecognizable. Bobby Sumpter is big. He was big enough at an early age to be called fatso. He was called worse but he doesn’t remember the exact names. Ten or more years later, Bob F. Sumpter never lost the weight.

His grandmother once told him a story when she, as a student, was taken in a dark room, just south of the girls locker room where an older lady made her take off her shirt to “measure” her. At the mid section, grandma was poked, pinched, and prodded. She was told that, to be healthy and liked by the other students, she had to lose weight. A true story or not, it didn’t persuade Bob to lose any of those extra pounds. He carried his weight and everything that went into being fat, past grade school, high school, and through his college years.

The University library is a big and spacious place. Friday nights at the library were often scarce. This is where Bob found he could best memorize just enough to pass his college exams and enter the real world. The real world meant he was still fat but nobody said “fatso” out loud. In the real world, people said those things by their body movements, their looks away, or leaning one way or the other to let the likes of Bob get past them.

Bob tried once week to eat a salad for lunch and dinner, skipping breakfast. He would go for more than a week, meeting his plan, but losing the battle to a double burger with extra bacon. Who could blame him? Diets, usually seen on TV where most overweight people spend most of their time, would almost always include a “sensible” meal every day. Sensible to some is not sensible to others.

Bob was careful in his numbers. He became an accountant. He knew how to cut corners, finding the hidden dollars. The hotel where he worked had a back door where he could sneak into his office. Set up to succeed is what was taught in business school. He was forced to attend every summer during high school. To this day, Bob takes this with him. He is the organizer champion, but unless you went into his office, you would never know.

Bob waited every lunch, for over two years, to make a joke to Bobbi that they shared the same name, but he didn’t - he wouldn’t dare. Bobbi was a girl defined by perfection. She had the perfect office space, the perfect greeting to whomever entered her office or called her extension, and the perfect friends and husband. Jackson Dewitt came every other Tuesday and Thursday. What Tuesday and Thursday they made an arrangement for, nobody in the office knew. They were alternate. I guess that counts.

“You are so silly,” Bobbi says in the office just past the shared wall between the two rooms.

With his left ear to the wall, his belly and small waist protruding toward his work space, hands digging into his pockets, Bob listens for every possible intimate moment that could happen next door. Besides a quick snort by Bobbi and a grunt by Jackson, that could be sexual, Bob heard nothing but “I love you’s” and I can’t wait to see you on the treadmill. Bob is careful not to be seen by anybody that could see him doing what he was doing, that would be weird.

The summer scene was his favorite. This had Bobbi waiting for him on the beach, dressed in a bikini, her legs gently resting, kind of rubbing against each other. Her left big toe pointed off into the sunset. Rodolfo, the waiter, who looked awfully similar to Jackson, would often come to his and her aid, wanting to refill their drinks; her a margarita, his a wine spritzer. Rodolfo was often sent away from the scene so Bob and his love could cuddle, her legs uncrossing and, slowly straddling a smiling Bob until…

“Bob? Bob? Wake up.”

Daydreams were something Bob didn’t have any control of. Sure he could shut the door for a masturbatory session, that was a planned event. Daydreams just happen.

“Sir. I’m sorry, sir,” Bob says as he removes his hands from his khaki pants.
“You got that detailed information on where we are with the Sullivan account, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Got it.”
Before looking up, feeling ashamed, Bob tries to hide his erection. Lucky, and I guess, unlucky for him, this was easy.

Two and a half bus stops later, Bob was close to getting home - grandma’s house. It was the only family he had left. Both his parents, now deceased, were dead in memory as well. This led to grandma being his only caretaker. After Grandma Jane’s retirement checks, which didn’t come to much, Bob was the main provider for the household. That was fine with him except for the one time when he could bring a girl back home…

“That would never happen,” Grandma Jane says from the dining room table, waiting for the cold pasta primavera, Bob’s favorite.
“I’m not saying it would, I’m just saying it would be nice if you weren’t home if it did happen,” Bob says from the kitchen.

“Nonsense, Bobby boy. I’d have better luck for a hot meal around here.”
“I cook you spaghetti every week. Now stop that,” Bob says as he strolls in with two plates of pasta in one hand and two cokes, extra ice, in the other.

“When you gonna get those porno tapes out of here?” Grandma asks.
“When I’m done with them, I guess.”
“Is that gonna happen anytime soon?”
“The morning after you stop talking about them, I guess,” Bob says as he twirls his pasta around his plate.


The bathroom upstairs was the last room down the hall. Just to the left of that was the place where Bob’s parents held him in their arms, once, a long time ago. Bob believed it never happened. Bob’s room, from the beginning of third grade, after they moved from Boston, was the door before his parents. When he was a kid, Bob would often come into his mom and dad’s room. This lasted for about a year before young Bob was kicked out for being too “movey”. (His arms moved uncontrollably when he slept. What could he do?)

“Bobby?” Grandma Jane yells from downstairs. “You wouldn’t dare be late to his funeral, would you?”

“I was late once, I don’t think he remembers,” Bob says, on his way down the stairs to his Granny who wears a pink dress and a grey hat.

“His friends are coming this time.”

“He had friends?” Bobby asks, on his way down the stairs to his elephant colored Grandma.

“With, or without friends, you’re still important. This time, his friends remembered him.”
“You mean, YOU made them remember.”
“One funeral, shame on you. Two funerals, shame on us. Three funerals, you’re coming.”
“So you invented his friends?”
“We all have friends. You just have to believe that they like you.”
“I like you,” Bob says.
“That could change.”

A bartender’s earnings and a mother that didn’t like to work, meant that the bartender's burial site was less than impressive. The regulars at the bar his father worked at, for over thirty years, would often place half full bottles on his gravestone, in memory, but that led to the even less desperate to steal off his grave. Anyways, Bob’s dad, who kicked his boy out of his bed more than a dozen times, was not one to make friends outside of work. Like father, like son.


The area sectioned off for the funeral took about twenty to twenty five yards of cemetery space. Bob figured out the math the second he saw the setup for Grandma’s funeral for her only son. This was not a big setup. If filled, we’re looking at a dozen or so people, at best. Even with three days, and three separate invitations that would fall into Bobbie’s mail slot, Bob didn’t expect for her to show. Even if she did, heaven forbid, Jackson would probably be with her.

With his hands dug deep into his pocket, going in and out, Bob thinks about Bobbi.

“Careful there, sailor.”

Bob looks up to see a man. It’s a man calling him sailor even though he’s never seen him before in his life. With careful deliberation and a scent of “covering up your tracks”, Bob is quick to ask how he’s doing.

“I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

“And how did you know my father?”

“Shits and jiggles, mostly.”

“You mean, shits and giggles,” Bob replies.

“No, Champ. I mean jiggles. Jiggles is the lady that found him… in the shitter.”

Bob, kind of laughs as he throws his hands in his pocket, out of discomfort.

“So. When does this thing happen? I’ve been waiting for this since nineteen sixty six.” The man asks.

The horn sounded. You don’t hear horns at a funeral, but this funeral was different. These people were guests of his grandma. She didn’t know who would show, but I think she knew it wouldn’t be the “usual” bunch of funeral participants. After the horn sounded, the participants, sectioned off, in relation to the size and scope of the cemetery, like sheep in a small room, found there way surrounding the gravesite of Bob’s father.

Shifter, known as Stanley Shiff in college, was quick to speak. He had been invited to the first two funerals, but didn’t show, for whatever reason. We know now. Shifter slept with the bartender’s wife but no one knew. After twelve long, one hour sessions of Karate and meditation, Shifter was ready to say goodbye. Besides his extra long beard and skinny frame, Shifter seemed normal, almost business like.

We didn't know he was here for a speech. It seemed like Shifter saved this moment to throw out every word he ever knew, like he was auditioning for the New York Yankees after finding out he had a fastball no one could catch up to. Words flowed, almost mesmerizing some. Some just waited patiently, taking drags of their cigarettes, and/or sneaking swigs of their hidden flasks, and others just walked away.

“Holy Shit. Holy shit,” Bob says, trying to hide the second “Holly Shit” but not being successful. Everyone heard him.

Bobby, as a young kid, on more than one occasion, would back himself in a corner, often hiding, watching the cool kids from afar. This time, he was the popular one. Bobbi, the pale, but warm young gal from the office next to him, came to the funeral of his father. Bob instantly put his hands into his pocket, digging… digging, wanting something more; Hoping for someone to take him away.

“You look so good in your yellow tie,” Bobbi says, looking at Bob’s face, eventually landing on his shoes. “And your shoes. Where did you get them?”

“Honey.” Jackson says, pointing across the open space to the funeral crowd.

“We’ll talk later, alright… honey?” Bobbi says, reaching for Bob’s tie, but never reaching it. Bob just nodded in acceptance, wanting her hand to land on the bulge in his pants.

Shifter was coming to a head. Bob wished he would go on in prologue so he could thank him for bringing Bobbi here close to him, but Shifter chose to end the speech thanking everyone for listening and thanking God for not resorecting his friend so he could kill him for sleeping with his wife. Most found it amusing, others thought that they would rather honor the man with a drink, maybe two.

Bob wanted to yell across the cemetery that his love was standing next to him, but that wasn’t possible, not practical. No one would listen to him anyways. He wanted every drip of sensuality to fall off of Bobbi’s body and land onto his. Bob envisioned her head on his crotch, taking it in as deep, pushing her head into his being like some Beattles, 1960, wild acid trip. He saw her legs extend past her knee length black dress and dig deep into God’s great earth. Bob thought how much he loved this woman. It wasn‘t all sexual. Only if she would see past his belly fat and inability to make friends, possibly leading to sex. He wanted it, thinking about it dearly. Daily.

“And I thank the lord for him being in my life.”

The crowd, less than a dozen or so, claps. They even hail the grave like, without Bob’s father, they couldn’t have lived. In a way, a bartender is like that. People needed his juice to feel human, a person.

“I want to thank you, Bob Sumpter. With this bit of memory, we have become closer,” Bobbi says.

Bob wanted to say something to her. He also wanted to belt some laser beam into Jackson so he’d disappear. All he could do was thank them for coming and wish them good luck on their way home, masturbate, fall asleep, and hope for a good dream.

Mesmerized by Bobbi’s ass and the way she looked in that mid length black dress,walking up a hill to a future without Bob, Jackson turns and asks for his attention. Trying to think that Jackson doesn’t exist, Bob doesn’t notice this being talking to him.

After assuring this treacherous being that he would be fine at the third attempt at a funeral for his father, Jackson heads up the hill to a waiting Bobbi.

“Do you know the way to a woman’s heart?” Jackson says, as his pant legs and ear length hair, flows in the oncoming wind.

“What’s that?” Bob yells, up wind.

“Jazz. My baby loves Jazz.”

Shit. Jazz. Her calendar. Her fucking calendar. She has it starred. The twenty second. The fucking twenty second of this month. It’s the twenty first. Shit. It’s the twenty first.

Bob searches his mind further. Everything has changed now; He found the way to his baby’s heart. Jazz. It’s the music, her music. Maybe talking to the love of his life in a deep way, for the very first time.

“Whose the best jazz artist out there,” Bob asks some freckled boy with a vest and a name tag at the closest Barnes and Noble. “Chris Barbur, I guess.”

“Where's his section?”

“We’re out, dude,” the pimpled vest wearing kid says. “Try Tower Records, or something like that. But ask for his greatest, Dude. Nobody Else but Me.”

Running away, Bob remembers the name and the album. Shoot, Tower Records was only three streets west and six streets north. With help from God and the street lights, he will find an answer to his loneliness - jazz. If only those street lights would change. Bob dug his hands into his pockets, back out again. In. Out. In. If only these street lights would change.

It wasn’t until a failed attempt at Tower Records, did Bob remember that little box of a store downtown that had a big selection of used CD’s. It was his only chance. He knew he had her right where he wanted. She knew Bob was at a sad part in his life, and a new CD of her favorite artist, a kind gesture, could only bring her one step closer to find Bob worthy of her attention; at least that’s what Bob thought as he entered COMPACT disc. The jazz section was in the middle of the store. A young kid, who looks like he worked there, stood over a bin arranging the CD’s. Bob thought the quickest way to buy the CD and get it over to Bobbi, was to ask the employee.

After being told to check Barnes and Noble or Tower Records, Bob leaves COMPACT disc dejected. He had only one place to go. On his way out the store, Bob went back home to his Grandmother's where a bunch of strangers co-mingled.