In Your Own Mind
		By Jesse Smith
		http://slicer69.tripod.com


	Junk mail. Fliers. Ads. These are the only pieces of mail I find in my post office
box. As I close the box door and retrieve my key I shuffle the papers in my hands. Nothing
worth reading, it seems. Briefly, I wonder who receives their mail at post office box
#1. Is it reserved for internal use? Is it set aside for the Town? Can anyone be selected
to match with box #1? Does one have to specially request to be #1? How does the owner
of PO box one feel about getting the honour? Is it a joy (of being number one) which
passes with time? What sort of problems would arise from that single digit? I can
almost hear the conversation over the phone:
	"What's your mailing address, sir?"
	"P-O box one."
	"One what, sir?"
	"Just one."

	Or perhaps others would see the mailing address, "POBOX1", and wonder
what sort of street name is "Poboxl"?

	I toss the unwanted mail in the recycle bin and wave at the postal worker
behind the counter. I think she's new as she smiles at me, despite my unkempt appearance.
When they check you out of the mental hospital they, fairly, give you back what you
had prior to check-in. In my case, that happened to be some old jeans, a sweater,
a set of keys, my wallet and some spare change. What it boiled down to was
enough to take a bus back to my home town of North Port. Not much of a prize for
passing myself off as sane.

	"Do you have anyone to pick you up?" the nurse had asked me as I signed the
release papers.
	I had shaken my head. I didn't wish to admit I was afraid whoever I called
would suggest the hospital keep me.

	For a moment I think about asking the postal worker about the status of
PO box 1. Then decide against it. I've been out less than three hours; no sense in
convincing people I should be sent back so soon.

	In my pocket, along with my mail box key are my apartment keys. Curious as
to whether Brenda still lives there and having nothing else to do, I head east from
the post office. The trek is a couple of miles and the sun is setting behind bright,
autumn leaves when I reach my old home.

	My keys still work and I let myself into the building and open my old door.
Ah, how long has it been since I left? What changes lie inside? It appears, upon
entering my old place, that not much has changed. It's cleaner than I remember and
my favourite chair is missing. Otherwise, it appears untouched. Exhausted, I stumbled
into the bedroom. The bed is right where I left it and I fall into it, quickly
falling asleep.

	All my life I heard people, priests and members of our church, tell me to
be more Christ-like. Follow the path of our Savior and enter the kingdom of Heaven.
How odd, how contradicting, I found it when these same people spoke out against
my decision to fast. When I wanted answers to my bubbling questions, when I
wanted enlightenment, I turned to the Bible for my answers. I followed the
path of the Savior and turned away from food. I had no delusions about lasting
a full forty days and forty nights. A death wish was not my motivation; wisdom
was. However, after five days of taking into my body a minimum of water only, members
of the church staged an intervention. When I protested, weakly, for I was hungry, they
declared me unhealthy. Of course I was unhealthy! I was starving. But that was the
Way preached to me my whole life. Then, while I was following their own teachings, they declared
me an anorexic. A full week into my personal quest to find the Truth, I was hospitalized.

	I awake, staring at the ceiling. For a moment, little, green lights flicker
across my vision and I restrain myself from trying to physically brushing them away. Footsteps.
I hear footsteps in the dark.
	"Hello?" I call.
	The footsteps stop. Nothing. No breathing. Then there is a scratching sound
and dazzling light blinds me. Someone must have flicked the light switch.
	"Alex?" the voice is welcomingly familiar, even when it's not delivered with
a welcoming tone.
	"Hi Brenda," I croak. My throat is dry.
	"Alex."
	Is this conversation on repeat?
	I blink the light out of my eyes and take in the petite lady standing in the
bedroom doorway. Shoulder length black hair outlines a face laced with confusion.
	"You're ... home," she manages.
	I nod.
	"I didn't know you'd be coming."
	I'm not sure if she's observing or accusing. I mentally shrug.
	"It's nice to be home. Back in our bed," I sit up and hold out my arms.
	"Alex," she's not coming closer.
	"Yes?"
	"Alex, I want you to meet someone," Brenda turns and beckons to someone
in the living room.
	"Who is it?" I glance around for a clock, wondering who would be here at ... whatever
hour of the night it may be.
	"Alex, this is Steve. Steve, this is Alex. He's ... he's ..."
	I swing my legs off the bed and make an effort to stand physically, while caught
completely, mentally, off balance.
	"I'm Brenda's husband. Nice to meet you," I hold out my hand. To Steve's credit,
whoever he is, he takes it.
	"I ... I ..." something clicks in his mind, "Nice to meet you, Alex."
	"Same," I respond, looking to Brenda.
	"Could you excuse us for a moment, Alex?" Brenda responds to my silent questioning.
	I have to pee anyway, "Sure," I say and walk out past Steve.

	I sit on the couch, trying hard not to think about what they're discussing in
the next room. Sound travels too well in this small space. I hear my name. Steve and
my wife appear to be talking about sleeping arrangements. This man, in my home, with
my wife, is debating sleeping arrangements. Something is very wrong with this situation.

	Douglas Adams wrote that flying is merely falling and missing the ground. Walking
is (if you'll excuse the pun) one step away from this concept. Walking is, in essence, falling,
but landing, cat like, on one's feet, jumping and then falling again. When we step forward, 
we are really just pushing up and forward with our feet. As we come down, we struggle to get
our feet in under us in preparation to do it again. When viewing walking from this angle, it's
amazing how rarely most of us trip over ... well anything.

	Brenda and Steve seem to have come to some conclusion and Steve, with a, "Nice to meet you",
exits the apartment. His mood seems confused. Brenda looks upset, though she's doing her best
to look happy to see me. Why wouldn't she be happy to see her husband, locked away for
all this time?
	"Let's go to bed," she suggests. I rise from my place on the couch, "We could both use
some rest."

	We crawl on top of the covers, clothed. Friendly. Together we cuddle through the night,
Brenda and I. We fall asleep in each others' arms, like scared children. In the night I dream.
I dream of colours and of green fields and exploding stars. I dream of love making and of
falling from tall buildings of steel and glass. When I awake, I find Brenda has already left
the bed for the bathroom. Over the sound of running water I can hear her brushing her teeth.
	"Honey?" I call.
	"Yes dear?" she answers. I hear the water stop.
	I'm at a loss for words to express myself.
	"A lot of things have changed while I was away."
	She comes to the bedroom doorway, toothbrush in hand.
	"Yes they have," she replies.
	The translation of her tone is that I've been gone too long. Too much hope has been
lost. Love strained too much.
	"Where do we go from here?" I ask.
	She shrugs, "We'll see."
	Brenda turns. I can tell she's lost weight while I've been gone. She walks to
the bathroom and returns, perching on the side of the bed.
	"How do you feel?" she asks me.
	I wonder if she means simply am I hungry? Perhaps she means to find out if
I'm sane. Not wishing to risk either road, I answer simply:
	"I feel better than I have in a long time. It's really very good to be
home again," I take her hand in mine, "And I have my appetite back."
	At that she smiles, "In that case, I'll fix you something. Toast?"
	I nod.

	Brenda exits to the kitchen and returns with buttered toast and orange juice. Just
the thing to jump-start one's first official day of sanity. Then she heads back to
the bathroom to shower. By the time she has returned, wrapped in a new, white bathrobe,
I'm ready to face this new day.

	"Are my clothes still here?" I ask.
	She points to the dresser, "I never moved them."

	When I return from my own shower, shaved and dressed, I feel as if nothing
can stop me. I am a new man, ready to change the world.
	"Do you have any plans today?" Brenda asks me.
	I wonder if she'd like me out of her (newly washed) hair for some reason. Perhaps
to call Steve and smooth out the Husband Issue.
	"I'm going to go down to the store and see if they'll give me a job."

	Before I was, well, committed, I worked at a small electronics store in North Port.
Actually, the only electronics store in North Port. A small business in which I handled
high voltage equipment before some decided my eating habits were potentially harmful.

	When I enter the little store, my face is reflected back to me from the darkened
screens of a dozen TVs.	A young fellow, probably just out of high school, is standing
behind the counter. He appears to be testing one of those new, little music players.
Ipea or Epad or Ipod or Blueberry or Blackberry or Raspberry or whatever they're called
now.
	"Excuse me," I interrupt his gentle head banging.
	"Yeah?" he turns to face me.
	He looks familiar, but I can't put a name to his face. Hmm, two words. Sounds like...
	"My name is Alex," I extend my hand. He takes it and gives it a quick wet fish,
"and I was wondering if the boss is in?"
	My tone is upbeat and it puts the lad at ease enough that he is willing to
grant my request without further attempts at customer service. Bobbing his head
up and down like a broken jack-in-the-box, he walks out back. He returns and informs
me the boss will be "right out". Junior picks up his music player, leaving me to
examine the latest in DVD technology. DVD-R, DVD+R, DVD+RW. I assume the "R" and "W" letters
mean read and write, respectively, but I can't for the life of me determine, from the
package, the difference between "+" and "-".
	"Hi, you wanted to see me," I hear from behind me. I turn.
	Steve stands in the entrance to the back room, a smile slipping, ever so slightly,
from his face. My face joins his in the synchronized facial expression event.
	"You ... You ..." I clear my throat and try again, "You're the manger here, now?"
	"Yes," Steve replies.
	"Oh," I try to sound casual, "I didn't realize that, um, it was up for sale."
	Steve smiles again, "It wasn't, up until recently. Rob wanted to get out of
the business, run off to Florida with the family. I couldn't pass it up."
	Great, so you try to take my wife and my job. What a wonderful way to spend
my first morning on the Outside.
	"Ah," I fire back, all full of wit.
	"Didn't you used to work here?" Steve pours some salt into the wound.
	"Um, yes. Well, I did for a few years," I answer. "I had been hoping there would
be a position..."
	"Ah," Steve steps a little closer, "I wish I could help you there. We're
pretty well covered right now. But, you know, if anything opens up, I'd be happy to
see what we can do."
	"Right. Well, thanks, Steve. Oh and you know, I'm sorry about last night.
I didn't mean to interrupt anything."
	Junior raises his head from a Blender.
	"Yeah, well, no harm and no foul," Steve tries to shrug it off. "We'll all get
caught up some other time."
	Yes, Steve, let's all sit down. My wife, you and I will have brunch and see where 
it leads us.
	"Well, until then, then," I verbally stumble as I inch toward the door.
	"Yeah, thanks for coming by," Steve slips back into Store Manager mode.
	I wave and exit onto Main Street.

	"Alex?"
	I am checking my bank balance when the voice breaks into my train of thought.
My account had managed to collect several dollars worth of interest while I was pumped
full of uppers, downers, happies, poppers, smashers, brainers, inners and outters. That
is the good news. The bad news, the cherry on the sundae of my day, is the account
has also suffered service fees, automatic payments and the like of thirty times more
than the interest collected. In other words, I am closer to broke than when I last
made a deposit.
	I turn the greet the speaker, "Hi, James," I say.
	This is easily the best moment I've had today since managing to shave myself
without bloodshed.
	"Wow, it's good to see you. When did you get back?" James asks.

	Quick background note here: James and I are old friends. We'd shared an apartment
while I was dating Brenda. Inseparable, I'd thought, until I went Away. For a moment
I thought to ask why he hadn't written a letter or called.  Then again, maybe this
encounter will go smoother without that detail being dragged into the light of day.

	"Last night," I answer. "How have you been?"
	"Good," he says, "pretty good. Have you, uh, seen Brenda since you got back?"
	"Just came from there," I reply, "we haven't talked much yet."
	"I see," James says, seeing a chance to not talk about Brenda in case
he lets something slip I might not know yet. "Looking for work?"
	"Yes, actually," I acknowledge.
	"There is a new call centre just outside of town. You might want to check it out.
Not a great job, but it's a job."
	"Good enough. Just as soon as I can get a resume printed, I'll be there."
	"Good good. If you need it, you can borrow my computer," James offers.
	"Thanks, Jimbo," I say. I step aside to let a woman access the ATM.
	"Say, Jim," I ask, "have you ever wondered how their twist on the English
language must effect the Americans' thoughts?"
	Blank. Deer in the headlights. "No, I can't say I have," James says.
	"For example," I begin, "take the word `centre'. The British spell it
with R-E at the end," James nods, "but the Americans decided to spell it E-R.
For whatever reason, maybe an early President made a mistake. Remember the
potato incident?"
	James looks like he might laugh.
	"At any rate, the way we say `centre' makes the E-R ending seem more
sensible. However, it's a quick, and poor, fix to the English language. For
look at the way in which the language stumbles over itself when you start
modifying the word `centre'."
	James appears to be drawing a blank now.
	"Look what happens," I try to help him along, "when we make `centre' passed
tense. With the American spelling we end up with C-E-N-T-E-R-E-D, which just looks
wrong. Too many E's close together. R-R-E-D might have worked better. The British, wisely, 
just threw a `D' on the end of the word."
	"Um-"
	"Or if we point to something in the centre and call it `central', with the
British spelling it looks very close to the original. But since the Americans
use the same spelling of `central' as the British, it bears little connection to
the base word."
	"You may have a point there," James says.
	"Isn't language interesting? Anyway, I wonder what sort of effect these
language twists have on the American people."
	"Hard to say," James replies, "But, look old boy, I gotta run. Give me a call
sometime?"
	And he's out the door. Obviously in a hurry to get somewhere.

	Eastern Canada, which is also known, collectively, as the Atlantic Provinces, has
recently given birth to a new industry. Or, rather, a new-to-us industry. This is the call
centre boom. I believe, at some recent point in history, some companies who run call
centres took a serious look at the Atlantic Provinces. Here they found an interesting
combination of high unemployment rates, low minimum wage and a government willing to
offer huge tax cuts to anyone willing to get its citizens off employment insurance.
The birth hit a few complications. For one, many places in Eastern Canada are rural and,
as such, it can be difficult to find enough employees to fill the centres. This is
further complicated by a quirk in the personalities of these Eastern people: Not
all of them like being yelled at by random Americans who are fed up with poor service
and high bills. The combination of high turn-over rates in employees and low population
density have turned the birth of this industry into a still born.

	North Port's call centre, this is where I find myself. A week into training,
which basically involves tips on stretching the truth about company products and
sucking up to customers. It should concern some that we spend more time learning how
to cover up company mistakes than technical training. At any rate, the job has some
perks so far. The people with whom I train are a fun group, most of whom know not to take
themselves too seriously. However, the greatest perk of this job is the cafeteria lady.
Red hair done up under her hat, bright white uniform speckled with cinnamon, bright,
blue eyes, which sparkle like sugar crystals. Her laugh is as light as her muffins.

	This morning I am early for work and sitting in the cafeteria, working at a cross-word
puzzle. Warm, happy smells are flowing out of the kitchen. I look up as Miss Cafeteria
Lady comes out to the counter, wiping flour from her hands.
	"Good morning," she smiles when she sees me.
	"Morning," I reply. "Tell me, what are you cooking back there?" I ask, "It
smells like a little slice of Heaven. Nay, more like a treat from Hell, for the
very scent doth tempt me."
	The Mistress of Lunch Treats giggles.
	"Would my soul be payment enough for whatever you are cooking back there?" I enquire.
	"Now what would I do with a soul?" she asks.
	I pretend to think about it for a second. "I dunno, I haven't found a use for it,"
I reply.
	"In that case, I'll have to restrict you to cash only," she decides.
	"I'm sorry, I didn't catch you name," I say.
	"Gloria," she says.
	"Nice to meet you, Gloria," I say, "I'm Alex."
	"Hi, Alex. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go check my cookies."
	"Fairer words have not been spoken."

	On the bus ride home, I stare out the window as rain pelts against the window.
Drops of water form little rivers of baptism on the pane. The greatest threat to organized
religion, much like the nemesis of the military, is rational thought. Much to the good fortune of the Church
and government, rational thoughts are spread thin in our population.

	When I arrive home, I hear voices coming from the living room. Coming around the corner
I find two men in suits sitting on the couch. Brenda is sitting on a chair, facing the
two men. A third stranger, an older lady, is seated by the far wall.
	"Hello," I say. I'm tired. It's been a longish day and I'm looking forward to some
tea and some dinner.
	The men and the lady stand. Name tags are placed on the men's jackets. I catch the words "Latter Day Saints".
	"Elders," I greet them. They extend their hands.
	"I'm Elder Lewis," says the first. He's a rather short fellow, dark hair and thin.
	"Elder Richardson," says the other. He's taller, slightly lighter hair, also very thin.
	"Sister Mary Hogan," the lady introduces herself.
	"I'm Alex," I tell them, "please have a seat. Can I get you some tea or water or...?"
	"No thank you," Mary says.
	"Water thanks," Says Lewis.
	"Nothing for me, thank you," replies Richardson.
	I exit to the kitchen in search of water, a tea kettle and some cups.
	"Anything for you, hon?" I call.
	"No, thank you."

	Upon my return to the living room, I hand over the water to Lewis and pulled up a chair.
	"So, gentlemen, miss, what brings you by?" I ask.
	E. Lewis handles the question, "We came by to talk with Brenda, and you, if you wish, about
relationships. Relationships between men and women, families and our relationship with God."
	"Ah."
	The "Elders" are probably about twenty. Young men, likely just out of high school, who
have agreed to go forth and teach the ways of the Mormon Church. It's probably a great chance
for them to go forth and see the world at a young age. After all, when people vacation, don't they
often visit churches and cathedrals?
	"Would you mind telling us how you feel about God?" 
	I get the impression Mr. Richardson is new to his field. That is a pretty open question.
I give him points for getting straight to the point.
	Over the years, I have had ample time to consider my relationship with God and the Church. One
thing I've certainly decided is there is a distinct lack of connection, in my mind, between the two.
	I opt for humour, "Well, I can't say we've talked much of late," I begin. "God and
I haven't really bonded in years. I'm sure He knows me better than I feel I know Him."
	Truth be told, I haven't mouthed any prayers in His divine direction since the wedding.
	Elder Lewis sees the opening, "And do you think you would like to have that connection back?"
he asks, "Would you like to know more about God? About our Heavenly Father?"
	He has a smooth, eager voice. So full of drive and Truth. I wonder for a second, staring
into his eyes, if he'll still have those qualities in twenty years.
	"Well, I wouldn't want to close the door simply out of habit."
	"That's good," I can almost feel Lewis' teaching mode coming on-line, "We, Elder
Richardson and I, have some information we'd like to share with you about God."
	I nod.
	"Tell me, have you ever read any of the Book of Mormon before?"
	"I can't say that I have, really. Picked one up once when I was younger."
	"Really?" from my limited experience with Mormon missionaries, I've made an
observation. There is usually one front man and a backup. Elder Richardson's comments
and prompters shows me this duo is more evenly matched. Rather than being the fall-back,
he's taking an active role. I wonder, briefly, if the Church pairs their Elders this
way on purpose, or if the roles naturally fall into place with time.
	"At the time I wasn't really able to understand the concepts and the language," I admitted,
"but I'd be willing to try again."
	I catch Brenda looking at me from the corner of my eye. She seems surprised at my
willing participation. If so, it's a fair reaction. Before I was put away for odd behaviour, I
displayed a lack of appreciation for missionaries. Okay, to be honest, I'd invite them in,
offer them refreshment and show them no quarter in regards to discussing our Father in Heaven.
However, I'd had a lot of time to think of late. When dealing with something so great,
so amazing and so undefinable as the Divine, it seems foolish to reject any viewpoint. None
of us can be proved correct, nor wrong. Really, when it comes to this subject, do
such things as Right and Wrong matter?
	As it turns out, Elder Lewis does happen to have a spare copy of the Book of
Mormon with him. He scribbles a phone number inside the front cover, should I have questions,
and hands it over. Like the other book of the same title I've seen, this one is blue on the outside.
Once again my lack of experience prevents me from knowing if this is chance or design.
	"Well, I'm afraid we have another appointment to get to," Elder Lewis says, "but
we'd like to answer any questions you may have before we go..." he trails off, waiting. His
face is the picture of a mind both open and innocent. He, I think, has never been locked away for
following his Path.
	A dozen questions rush into my mind, most of which I can probably figure out by reading
the latest edition to my library. The rest would take too long to deal with in depth.
	Why are all the missionaries I see of such a young age?
	Is there a Mormon College for missionaries?
	Why is this silent woman, this Sister, travelling with the divine duo?
	How do the Latter Day Saints view the Pope?
	The Mormon Church has one of the largest databases on genealogical data in the world. Why?
	Is there a Judgement Day?
	What is the big deal, really, about homosexuals?
	Do Mormons really practise polygamy?

	"Nothing at this time," I say, pushing the questions away.
	Elder Lewis nods, "In that case, could we have a prayer before we go?"
	To my surprise, Brenda volunteers to talk to God on our behalves. After a short, heart-felt
monologue, we all stand. The threesome shake our hands and E. Lewis leaves us with an invitation
to call when we're ready to set up another meeting.

	Were humans to have exoskeletons, much like ants, yoga would probably be
a lot different.

	It is my last week of training and I am sitting in the call centre's cafeteria after
completing yet another test. This centre seems to believe that repeating the stats of their
products and sugar coating bad news will make their customers happy. Frankly, I think only
a frontal lobotomy will achieve this goal with the products and services I've seen thus far.

	While I sit and sip at my chocolate milk, I watch Gloria as she sets out items for
lunch. Her red hair, highlighted with frosting coloured streaks, shines under the glare of
fluorescent lights. It's hiding under a hair net, but its colours draw the eye. Her pink
cheeks almost glow with their own light. She is, I feel, my lovely lunch lady. She is
my cute cookie cooker. My beautiful bread baker. Oh that she knew she were. She looks up and
catches my eye and her smile warms my heart, previously set cold by the surrounding corporate
climate.

	Brenda, for those of you who are wondering, works as a chef in one of North Port's finer
restaurants. Her shifts bounce between mornings, mid-day and evenings. Tonight she is working late
and I've arrived home well ahead of her. This gives me time to tidy our apartment, start
dinner and place a few candles. Am I trying to atone for my adulterous thoughts today at work?
Do I wish to win her over from Steve? Am I simply trying to rekindle a spark in our relationship?
I try to push such questions as relating to motivation from my mind. I light a few candles in the
living room and turn to head back into the kitchen, where my nose tells me the lasagna is
done.

	There is a man standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He's wearing a suit and he has
a full beard. An old-looking pocket watch dangles from his jacket.
	"Who the Hell are you?" I demand.
	I turn to flick on the light switch and when my eyes return to the doorway, the man is
no longer there. Cautiously I walk to the kitchen and peer around the corner. The room is empty
but for the smell of my cooked creation.
	"Alex?" Brenda's voice calls from the living room. I put down the matches and return to
the living room.
	"Who were you talking to?" she asks.
	I open my mouth to answer. Obviously there is no man invading our home.
	"I was just singing, hon," I shrug, "How was your night?"
	"Tiring. Did you find it too dark in here?" she looks pointedly at the candles.
I'm reminded the ceiling light is still on.
	"Oh, I was hoping to surprise you," I cross the room and flick off the light. A soft
glow from the dancing flames reflects in her eyes.
	"Do I smell...?"
	"Lasagna."
	Brenda steps closer and wraps her arms around my neck.
	"That's so sweet, honey. Just let me wash up," with a kiss, she retires to the
bathroom. I retreat back into the kitchen to take dinner from the oven.

	"She's a lovely lady," a voice softly whispers behind me.
	"Yes she is," I answer.
	I freeze, the pan burning my hands through the oven mitt. Did I just
hear someone speaking to me? I set the pan down and turn to examine the room. No one.
	"It's too bad you're going to lose her," the voice says.
	This time I'm sure; there is no one in the room. I can hear water running
in the bathroom.
	"Who's there?" I demand.
	"Just thought you'd like to know. Brace yourself, kid."
	"What the Hell?" I wonder aloud.
	"Alex?"
	Brenda walks into the kitchen, "Is everything all right?"
	"Yeah, I think I...I thought I heard someone."
	She looks at me quizzically.
	"It's nothing. Have a seat, honey. I'll dish you up some supper."

	At the end of training, the call centre gives me a certificate and points
me to a phone. There I get to hear all sorts of interesting questions, demands and
quirky comments from my American neighbours.
	"Why isn't my Internet working?"
	"Is this Microsoft?"
	"I'm going to sue you. I'm going to sue your company. I'm going to sue your
whole fucking family!"
	"You've been so helpful. What's your address? I'd like to send you some fish."
	"I don't understand my bill."
	"Why did you turn my Internet off."
	"What are you wearing?"
	"Shut up! Shut up! No, not you, sir. Woman, shut those fucking kids up!"
	"Why am I getting charged for Internet? I've never had Internet service with you."
	"He set up what? Oh, I'm gonna beat that kid when he gets home."
	"Sir, I just want to make sure my momma is getting the best service possible. Now,
you, boy, and I are going to go over this package thing here and you're going to make this right."
	"I'm afraid of heights, but I love flying. Isn't that weird?"
	"Your company does NOT have an office in New York. You're just trying to make 
me go away, aren't you? Well, I won't. I'm going to get a whole group together. A thousand,
no, a hundred thousand people, and we're going to get our money back from you heartless bastards."
	"Hello? Can you make my computer attach to the 'Net?"
	After a long day, filled with such comments, I'm more than happy to leave. Sadly, my
last call ran late while trying to explain to a woman she had to pay our company in order
to continue receiving service. I have missed the bus. Standing in the doorway of the centre,
looking out at the rain, I'm building up the courage to walk home, when I hear a voice behind me.
	"Hey, stranger, need a ride?"
	I turn. It's Gloria, my silver tongued lunch lady. My compassionate cupcake creator.

	Gloria's car is a little, red Toyota something-or-other. An older model, it seems,
that has been coaxed to live a little longer and a little longer and a little longer. It
comes to life (with a growl, rather than a roar) on command and we begin the journey to North Port.
Small talk is the order of the day. Where we grew up? Which radio station would we listen to,
if this car still had a radio? Is green under-represented in the sunset? What's your sign?
	"Gemini," I reply to the last question, "though I don't place much faith in astrology."
	"Really?" her eyebrows go up.
	"The stars are a long way away," I say, "With all of the factors here on Earth which condition
us, it seems a stretch bodies so far away should effect us so strongly."
	"I agree," she answers, "but consider this. Astrology, real astrology that is, places a
great deal of focus on the planets in our own solar system."
	She pauses and I nod.
	"Bodies, which are much closer," we've stopped and she turns in her seat to face me better,
"bodies, like the moon, which controls the tides and the sun, which gives us light. There are
larger planets and closer heavenly bodies than those. Might they not have minor effects on
us?"
	"You have a point, my pretty pastry preparer."
	Gloria giggles, "Your what?"
	I redden, "Just an on-the-spot nickname. Sorry."
	"No no, that's cute. Different, but cute. I'm so used to
`babe' or `doll', I can handle being a ... a pretty pasta-"
	"Pretty pastry preparer."
	She smiles, "Yes, one of those."
	I'll see that smile and raise you a thousand sunrises, Lord.

	While I was serving my time, my debt to society for being crazy, I didn't
get out much. Until I learned to exercise on a regular basis, my sleep schedule was
thrown off-balance. I'd lie awake all day, weak and unmoving. During the night, I'd fidget and
pace and count ceiling tiles. They have a solution for such problems: pills.
	Specifically, sleeping pills. These little workers of modern miracles kick down the
mind's defences, pin the body to the bed and leave one to the mercy of the sadistic Sandman.
It didn't take long for me to learn ways to avoid the mental midnight molestings. Exercise
during the day and meditation in the evening keep the pills away.
	But the damage was done, the flood gates were open. Barriers in the mind, once removed,
are hard to rebuild. I saw images in my sleep, symbolic and colourful representations
of the skeletons in my mind's closet. One, which rattles about, despite the closet door
having been shut, concerns Hell.
	Hell, it has long been held, is down. That is, the Gates of Hell lie below the ground.
God rules above, Satan rules below. With every minute, another non-believer dies and is
sent below to the Dark Lord's domain. This made sense when the Earth was believed to be flat.
Souls could descend endlessly into the depths of an infinite space below the Earth's surface.
However, European exploration being what it was, the Earth was proved to be, beyond a shadow
of a doubt, round. The religious probably didn't see this problem coming. For once the
Earth was observed to be round, it became obvious it was a finite size. One can only go
down for so long before one begins to come back up. This greatly restricts the size of
Hell. The Devil would run out of rooms, no doubt, with all those coming to join him. One
might say, my abused mind said, there is no way Hell can physically exist. That isn't
so bad. That thought alone would actually be rather comforting, if it wasn't for an idea
which flew in right on its heels: There is no Hell, therefor there is nothing from
which to be Saved. We need no Savior. The Sacrifice of Jesus, if it happened, was purposeless.
	This was not just another LEGO block of my Faith being removed. It was the
whole wall being kicked over by Joey, the neighbour's angry child.

	Gloria is looking at me. Her eyes are so soft one could use them as a pillow.
	"You may have a point," I say, "about the planets, I mean."
	She nods. I reach over and turn the key. The car's engine dies. This close
I can smell fresh baked rolls, chocolate desserts and apple pie. When I turn my head I can
see her skin vibrate with her pulse. I lean forward and kiss her lightly upon the
lips. They're soft, warm. I realize what I've done and pull back a few inches. Gloria doesn't.
Her eyes are closed, her lips still forming a responsive pucker. I set upon them then,
kneading her lips with mine, rolling them, exploring them and devouring every
bit of her tender smile.

	If my ting-tong tingle
	Makes my wing-wong wingle
	Then should we find the plastic
	We must ask it
	Why the basket
	Of my fin-fong fingle
	Has run out of ringle.

	Such are the thoughts which churn through my mind at 8am when
I greet the new morning, somewhat reluctantly. My dreams have been filled
with angry news anchors. They informed me of impending doom, snow flurries
and poverty on the dark side of the moon.

	Beep! My phone signals another customer demanding my attention.
	"I've been on hold for nearly an hour!"
	Beep! Incoming thought.
	Gloria. Brenda. Where do I stand with each of them? Where do I
wish to stand? Where should I stand? On the one hand, Brenda, my wife,
seems to have enjoyed the company of another man while I was away. Gloria,
Master Chef of my affections, has warmed a feeling deep inside me, a feeling 
I thought had died in the crazy house.
	Beep! Incoming call.
	"This bill can't be right. How could it be $500?"
	Beep!
	Thoughts of love, lust and fidelity race through my mind. I slept
little last night and the nagging news anchors left me with a tired, lost feeling.
What is lust? Is it destructive? Is love more permanent than lust? Love is highly romanced,
does this lessen lust any? Romance novels, while they toss around the word "love" usually
base their plots on raw, physical lust. What sort of connection does this suggest
in our society?
	Beep!
	"When I click on my Firefox, my Google doesn't work."
	Beep!
	Love is probably talked about more in music than any other subject. More than
drugs, more than government, more than violence ... maybe as much as sex. Love hurts,
love is a good thing, love keeps no score of wrong doing, love is forever, love is
fleeting, love is need. I love, you love. There are so many words for sex. Our society's
tunnelled focus on sex has produced innumerable ways of discussing the topic. But how many
words can you think of which mean love? There are so many types of love
-- love between family, between lovers, between friends and peers -- yet there
remains just one word, love, to describe our feelings.
	Beep!
	"What are you going to do about my computer? This is the fourth time I've
called you guys!"
	Beep!
	In these modern times, it is less common to find a person over the age of
twenty who has not been sexual active, who has not had previous sex partners. It is generally
accepted, even assumed, that our current partner has "been with" someone before us.
This is, essentially, serial polygamy. So why do lovers find themselves so upset
over the thought of their current partner being sexual active with another present
partner? Parallel polygamy is much less accepted than serial. Many of us have obviously
not learned to share...
	Beep!
	"I just got a good look at what you crooks are charging my mama for Internet
service. How the Hell can you justify these prices? Huh? You're gonna give her her
money back!"
	Beep!
	Marriage is a tool. Whether used to gain property, to bond kingdoms or
to climb the social ladder, marriage is a tool. Love, if it enters the equation
at all, is a bonus. Being a tool, a marriage requires hard work to produce the desired
results. Our romantic bondings are more legal than loving. Look at all the paperwork and
licensing and money poured into a modern wedding. Where, in this picture, is the simple
bond between the two people? Somewhere behind the priest, next to the giant, plastic
wedding cake.
	Beep!
	"I think there is something wrong with my computer. When I click on the blue
thingy, it just stops."
	Beep!
	Coming out of high school, I thought I had it all. Brenda accepted my marriage
proposal, I got the steady job I wanted and we moved into a nice apartment together.
For what more could a man ask? I was living the rural, middle class, Canadian dream. Good,
clean existence with love and money and a future. But man cannot live on bread alone.
I met all the people in town, I heard all the gossip and I enjoyed all the
great, but eventually predictable, sex. Where, I wondered, do I go from here?
	Brenda and I talked about starting a family, but neither of us wanted to rush into
having children. We talked about travelling and didn't know where to go. We were, as
it were, in a rut. A safe, profitable and dull rut. Thinking the dullness might be a sign
that I wasn't fulfilling my Purpose on the planet, I started looking for answers.
I found a lot of answers. What I didn't realize was I should have been looking
for more questions. Someone should not tell you the answer to "What should I
do with my life?" Rather they should guide you to ask, and answer, questions
which will lead you to the correct answer.
	This is, for many, not a quick enough fix. The result is a disturbing
lack of gurus asking questions and far too many spouting answers.
	Beep!
	Beep!
	Beep!

	When I come off of the phone for lunch, I'm not feeling so well. My mind is muddled,
my tummy is trembling and my bladder is bouncing.
	"You look like you could use a snack," Gloria calls to me from across the cafeteria.
	I nod, "In a minute," I gesture toward the washroom.
	Yes, something to eat would be nice. It's been a stressful couple of days
and I've been too distracted, really, to chow down. A little snack will be just
what the doctor, or in this case, my gorgeous gingerbread gourmet, ordered.
	But as I'm looking in the mirror, taking in the thin face and weary eyes, I
suddenly feel...
	Faint.

	Somewhere in the back of my mind I'm sure I am dreaming. The book held before
me contains words, but they move about and slide off the page. Letters dance back and
forth, swapping places like dance partners.
	"Pop?" I hear a small voice float into my dream-ears.
	Lowering my book, I see a small boy, probably in the age range of ten
or eleven. Brown hair, freckles, horizontally striped shirt.
	"Yes?"
	"Pop," I must be his father, "I don't want to be on the wrestling team anymore."
	I'm trying to imagine this little kid on the wrestling mat. He looks a bit like
The Beaver, with severely bucked teeth. Unless they've relaxed the "no biting" rule, this
boy doesn't stand a chance.
	"Why is that, son?"
	"Well, the older kids said that, when I lose my first match, they're going to radish
me," he looks nervous.
	I have to think about it for a moment, "Radish you? Don't you mean ravish you?"
	Focusing on the subject a little more, it occurs to me even "ravish" doesn't
quite sound right. A bunch of teenage boys ravishing a teammate after losing a round?
	"No, pop," the bucked-toothed Beaver swallows and flushes a little, "if I
lose, they're going to rip off my pants and ... and ... shove a radish right up my-"
	"Dear!" that voice must be the child's mother. Too bad she's out of sight, I'd
like to know who she is ... and what her teeth look like.
	"Now, son, I know this may sound frightening, even painful, but this is
one of those things we talked about."
	The kid is obviously drawing a blank.
	"It builds character," I provide, "And character is...?"
	"A good thing?"
	"Right!"
	"Dear!" This time the exclamation is aimed at me.
	"Well, I'm sorry, but better a radish now, something he doesn't eat
anyway, than a potato later. Right? Besides," I turn back to face the child, "you know 
I don't like being called 'pop'."

	I awake. The ceiling is white. There is a beeping noise. I seem to be lying on
my back. It would appear I'm in a hospital bed. Turning my head, I see Gloria sitting,
watching me. Ah, what a beautiful face to which to wake; My delightful date dicer.
	"Good morning," she says.
	"Morning," I mumble. My mouth feels like the home of a cross-breed of steel wool 
and dust bunnies.
	"Water?" I ask. She nods toward the bedside table.
	I smile my thanks and turn to pick up the glass. Brenda walks into the room.
	To my credit, I don't choke.
	"Hello," Brenda greets me.
	"Hi," I croak.	
	Gloria stands, "Hello."
	"Um..." Brenda replies.
	"Brenda," I decide this is good time to jump in, "this is Gloria. She works
at the centre."
	"Ah."
	"Gloria, this is my wife, Brenda."
	While they nod and smile at each other, I try to sort out in my
mind if I've just got the names and titles right. Probably, since neither of
them is picking the flesh from my bones.

	"Well, thanks for bringing him down here," Brenda is saying.
	"Oh, no problem," Gloria, my temping, tasty treat answers. With that,
she waves a vague good-bye to me and slips out the door.
	Brenda closes the door behind her and turns to look me over. Briefly,
the interrogation scene from Dragnet flashes through my mind; "It's
just you and me. Your balls...And this drawer."
	"How do you feel, sweetie," she asks, perching on the edge of the bed.
	"I've, ah, felt better."
	"All they told me over the phone is that you'd passed out at work."
	"Yeah, I don't know what happened. Thanks for coming down, hon."
	She smiles, "You're welcome."
	"What time is it?"
	"Four o'clock."
	I've been out for ... three hours?
	"Can you bust me out of here?"
	Brenda grins, "I'll see what I can do. In the mean time, don't bend over
for the soap."

	After a light dinner, I crawl into bed. It's only 9pm, but I feel
the need for a nap. Brenda tucks me in, brings a glass of water and leaves
me in the dark. I can hear the turning of book pages coming from the livingroom. 
Whether they are Bible pages, the latest edition of Harry Potter or a medical text, 
I have no way of knowing.

	I dream.

	The phone gives me a morning wake up call. Pushing aside webs of
sleep (the snooze spiders must have been hard at work last night), I grasp
for the receiver.
	"Good-morning," I mumble.
	"Oh, hey, buddy. Didn't mean to wake you."
	"Jimbo?"
	"Yeah, sorry 'bout that. I just heard you were in the hospital yesterday.
Wanted to see how you're feeling."
	"Ah," I search through my mind, doing a quick status check, "I'm okay.
A little run down, but otherwise okay. Just had the most unusual dream, though."
	"Oh?"
	I sit up, "Yeah, I dreamed I was watching the Muppets perform Star Wars,
the original one, as an Italian opera."
	There is a pause on the other end. I suppose it probably sounds as odd
to James as it does to me.
	"The Muppets do Star Wars?" he asks at last.
	"Yeah. Crazy 'eh?"
	"Well, not entirely. Miss Piggy as the Princess?"
	"Yeah, though I don't suppose Carrie Fisher would appreciate the image. 
And Gonzo was Darth Vader. Kinda funny, really."
	"Yes, it was."
	Something in the way he said that ... "Oh?"
	"You're talking about The Muppet Show Star Wars special, right?"
	"You mean there is actually a song and dance Muppets Star Wars?" I demand.
	"Well, yeah. I've got it on DVD. Mark Hamill did the show back in...
'81, I think."
	"Oh ... That's interesting. I didn't know that."
	"You probably saw it, way back when, or something."
	"Yeah, I guess that makes more sense than channelling Star Wars and
Muppets. The opera thing is a little odd though. Any opera on that show?"
	"I don't think so. Look, I gotta run, buddy. Let me know if you
need anything."
	"Will do," but James has already hung up.
	
	I decide to take the time to call in sick. The Sandman may have dropped
spiders in my ears, but he didn't leave anything but morning breath in my mouth.
It's time to eat.
	I wander into the kitchen and glance in the fridge. Eggs, I could go
for eggs, I decide. While I crack white shells over a black frying pan, I
reflect on the conflict in my life. Brenda, Gloria and Steve. My stomach
adds another item to the mental list. While I'm as hungry as a piranha,
my guts are shrinking away from the smell of frying eggs. Surely, that
flock of moths in my tummy is from a lust for food, not for-
	I run to the bathroom, barely making it in time to empty my
stomach contents, or lack thereof, into the toilet. Acid burns in my
throat and warms my tongue. I stand, double over and heave again.
	What the Hell is wrong with me? Why does my body rebel so?
Maybe bread and water would sit better. From the kitchen, I hear
sizzling, which remind me the stove is still functioning. Returning
to the burning mass of would-be breakfast, I turn off the stove and
look about for the bread. I take a few slices, finally understanding
the phrase, "greatest thing since sliced bread," and pour a glass of
water. Slowly, I nibble at the edges. Sip. Nibble.

	I am rushing to the bathroom for another purge when I hear
Brenda's key in the lock.
	"Home early?" I call from the bathroom floor.
	"Just wanted to come back and see how you were feeling," she answers
through the door.
	"That's nice of you."
	"So ... How are you feeling?"
	"Oh, I'm-" I'm interrupted by another heave. My second would-be breakfast
is expelled.
	"Not so good, huh?"
	I emerge from the bathroom and collapse on the couch, "Yeah, not so hot."
	"Anything I can do?" Brenda asks.
	I shake my head in a negative fashion, "No, thank you, hon. I'm already 
sure you'll be given a nabla in the after-life. No need to cater to me further."
	"Okay, dear," she comes over and kisses my forehead, "I'll head
back to work then. Can I pick you up anything?"
	"Nothing comes to mind."
	"Okay then," she heads for the door, stops and turns. "What's a nabla?"
	I think for a second, "Can you use it in a sentence?"
	"You just did: `I'm already sure you'll be given a nabla in the after-life.'"
	I did?
	"It means harp," I supply, "It's the Hebrew word for harp."
	"Ah, I see," and with that, she's gone again.

	How many angels can dance on the head of a pin? Perhaps a better question is:
What dance are they performing? 
	Do angels waltz or tango? Do they swing, jive or square dance? Angels are
famous for their singing, not their dancing. Perhaps all angels are wallflowers.

	After a restless night and failure the next morning to choke down more than
a handful of crackers, Brenda insists I go to the doctor. Whether out of concern I
might not make it alone, or fearful I might conveniently forget to go, she takes the
morning off work.

	The doctor who happens to be on call at the local hospital looks a bit like
a white-garbed Santa. Dr. Nick, grey beard and all, ushers us into his office. He
takes out some small spectacles and opens a folder. He confirms my name, my reason
for wasting his time and confirms I am not on any medication. I half expect him to
ask if I've been naughty or nice.
	"Naughty," I mutter.
	"What?" he asks, not the most jolly, old elf.
	"Nothing," I say quietly.

	The lab-coated Santa asks if I have any sickness, records my symptoms and
probes me to confirm what I've just told him.
	"Stress at work?" Making a list.
	"Yes."
	"Stress at home?" Checking it twice.
	"Not really."
	"Any other symptoms beside nausea?"
	"Restlessness."
	"No medication?"
	"No."
	Scribble scribble, "I'm going to recommend some mild medication. Basically,
Graval. It should settle your stomach and help you relax a little."
	"Good," sighs Brenda.
	"No."
	"No?" Santa looks at me in a manner which suggests I've just been scheduled to get 
coal in my stocking this year.
	"If I wanted meds, I could have gone to the local dealer and gotten something cheaper
than what you're about to prescribe."
	"Alex," Brenda touches my arm.
	"Look, if that's all he's going to do, push drugs on me, I'll go elsewhere."
	"Where?" he asks, raising a bushy eyebrow.
	I lean forward, "None of your fucking business, reindeer fucker."
	I fall out of my chair.
	While lying on the floor, gagging at the smell of deodorized carpet,
I'm given time to reflect. My conclusion on the whole situation is penguins are a lot
cuter than ducks. Bugs Bunny would never have let Elmer Fudd shoot the penguin.

	They're coming to take me away, ho-ho-ho, he-he, ha-haaa. To the funny farm...



	Author's notes:

	While trying to write this story, I may have experienced the worst
case of writer's block I've ever had. I'd sit down to type and my mind would go
blank, like someone had held down my Delete key. In a way, I think it helped.

	The basis for this story came from an experience I had awhile back. I'll
skip the details, but what it boiled down to was I found myself unable to keep
food in my system for about a week. During that time, I experienced strange
thoughts and some visions. Reflecting back, I realized this was probably the
motivation for spiritual fasting: the breaking down of mental barriers. 

	At any rate, with the combination of irregular thought (and altered behaviour) it 
occurred to me (after the fact) I would be crazy to put myself through such an experience 
on purpose. However, as I just noted, fasting is a common spiritual practise. So, what
appears crazy to one may seem sane, even common, to another. This begged the question,
how would people react to someone (such as myself) purposefully starving themselves?
When teenage girls do it, it's called "anorexia nervosa" and treated as a mental illness.
What would happen if a young male did the same and claimed to be on a path to
enlightenment? This was, in a sense, my worst case scenario answer.

	This piece is hereby dedicated to all the wonderful people who
helped me through my "fast". I don't think I would have made it without each
of you. Thank you.