Letters From the Lost Man, Part 10

The silent black...what a welcome feeling. Here, where death is my friend, my confidant, nothing can hurt me. One would think the emptiness would drive you mad, but this is where I find no less than my self...my true self. Unless, of course, I'm already crazy. But how can I be crazy? That doctor bored open my skull and took out...

What? What's been taken from me?

I reach up and feel my head. It's wrapped in gauze. I feel a soft pressure over my entire back...the bed. I'm in a hospital bed. It's dark.

"Richard!" a voice whispers insistently.

I blink a few times...still dark. "Hmm?" I moan.

"Shh!" the voice urges.

"Who's there?" I whisper back.

There's a pause. "Richard, I don't know if you remember me, but I'm an assistant to the doctor who's...treating you. My name is Loretta Vine."

The way she hesitated before choosing the word "treating" resonates in my head. I sit up, feeling a little woozy doing so. "I sort of remember," I mutter quietly.

"Richard, there's something terrible going on. I...I don't have much time."

"What's wrong?" I ask dumbly.

Loretta sighs anxiously. "Everything is a lie," she hisses.

That seems to make sense, but at the same time, I'm a little confused. "Everything?" I prompt.

"Yes, everything you remember...everything they told me. This whole project is a lie," she answers.

I shake my head, a pointless motion in the darkness. "Wait, start from the beginning."

"Not now," she whispers hurriedly. "We need to try to get out of here before they find out I'm gone."

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. "Let's go," I say eagerly.

"There's a guard outside the door," Loretta explains. "I need to deal with him first."

A little light suddenly clicks on. At first it seems blinding, but as my eyes adjust, it becomes clear that it's just a pen light. Loretta holds it in her mouth while manipulating a syringe and vial.

"What's that for?" I ask a bit nervously.

"The guard," she says, clicking off the light. "Lay back down."

I'm not entirely sure of what's going on, but seeing as how it's a familiar feeling for me, I obey. I hear her walk across the room and open a door.

"Guard," she says with slight concern in her voice, "I need your assistance, please."

There's some shuffling as the guard enters the room. "Are the lights work- Ah!" exclaims suddenly. "What the hell was that?" I hear him ask.

"I'm sorry," Loretta says mechanically.

"What did you do?" the guard asks. His speech sounds slurred. There's a thud.

"Okay, Richard," she calls to me.

I sit up. From the light coming through the open door I can see the silhouette of the guard slumped on the floor. My heartbeat quickens as I feel what I can only describe as reality. Stepping out of the bed and onto the cold floor intensifies the sensation that I am finally in the real world. My legs shake a little as I stand on them for the first time in...well, who knows how long? They feel weird, kind of like I've been bicycling nonstop for days. I steady myself against the bed.

"Are you okay?" Loretta asks.

"Hang on," I answer, "let me get my bearings." I rock from side to side and try lifting my legs one after the other. I can sense Loretta's impatience, but she says nothing as I try to reacquaint myself with using my muscles this much. At least I can stand. I couldn't have been confined to a bed for too long.

I take a step away from the bed. Then another one. It seems to be working. I move toward the door. I'm a little stiff, and I imagine I won't be able to move too quickly just yet, but with the possibility of finding out what's really going on seeming finally within reach, I'm sure I can hold it together long enough to get out of here.

Loretta stands from searching the guard. "You don't, by any chance, happen to know how to use one of these?" she asks tentatively, holding out a familiar shape.

I take it in my hands. It feels as familiar as it looks. Somehow, even in the dim light offered by the corridor outside my room, I can tell it's a Smith & Wesson SW40 Sigma series semi automatic pistol. It's very comfortable in my hands. I can't help but worry that this feels a little surreal all of the sudden. Loretta snaps me back to reality.

"Let's go," she says, stepping into the hall and hurrying out of sight.

I follow as quickly as I can, sliding against the wall where I can. I meet her at the end of the corridor. I can't help but noticed that she's dressed like me. She doesn't look official at all, not like the last time I saw her. Maybe that should worry me, but it doesn't.

"Hide that somewhere," Loretta says with a nod to the gun. "If someone notices us on the camera it will be a lot better if they don't think we're armed."

I look at my clothes. While the airy light-blue pants and white short-sleeve shirt are better than a hospital gown, they are definitely not made for every day use, and certainly not for concealing weapons. I tuck the gun as best as I can into my waistband and try to cover it with the shirt. I'm not convinced, but it should be hidden to a security camera.

Loretta nods in apparent agreement. "The way down this hall is clear," she tells me. "We need to get on the elevator and go down to the ground floor. There's a rear entrance that's used for subject transport. We might be able to make it out that way, but we'll have to sneak past the night receptionist."

"Will that be a problem?" I ask, not really sure if I want to know.

"Not compared with what we'll have to get through to leave the compound," she says ominously. "Let's go quickly."

Together we run down the hall and to the elevator. When the door opens, we step in and Loretta presses "1". I look at the numbers over the door. We are on the 25th floor. It seems to take forever to make it all the way down, but we do without interruption. It's silent most of the way down.

"Loretta?" I ask as something occurs to me.

"Hmm?" she replies, watching the floor numbers tick down.

"Was my door the only one with a guard in front of it?"

For the first time tonight, she really seems to look at me. It's only for a second, though, as she turns away almost immediately. "Well, one of very few," she says softly.

The ensuing silence almost becomes uncomfortable, but fortunately the elevator doors slide open into an empty hallway. Loretta steps out and waves for me to follow. I can feel my heart beating in every part of my body as I watch the end of the hall. Please, no one come marching around the turn.

We make it to the end and Loretta peeks around the corner. "No one in the lobby. The receptionist is sitting at the desk. I can see her reflection on the door," she informs me.

I lean over her to get a glimpse at the scene. There's a plain lobby with drab carpeting and a few simple chairs. A set of glass double doors reveals little about the world outside in the dark of night, but the resultant reflection shows the receptionist is indeed seated behind a counter, staring at a computer screen.

"Okay," Loretta says, pushing me back in hiding. "You stay here. I'm going to go distract her. When she gets up, come quickly down the hallway and we'll both leave. Our time will probably be up after that. Security will be hot on our tails. Just stay with me and do everything I say."

"Yes, ma'am," I say as she heads toward the lobby.

Loretta walks up to the counter and smiles at the receptionist. "Hey, Rebecca, how are you?"

Rebecca blinks. "Oh, hey Loretta. I'm doing pretty good. I almost didn't recognize you in that getup. Were you in surgery with Dr. Spector today?"

"Oh yeah," Loretta says with a roll of her eyes. "It got a little messy. Can't wait to get home and out of these. Listen, I think Dr. Sandeep sent me a fax to the number back here. Can you check on that for me?"

The receptionist cocks her head quizzically. "Here?"

Loretta nods. "Yep. You know, it's on the transfer form. I gave him the office fax number, but he didn't write it down...or he lost it. You know doctors."

Rebecca snickers at that. "Okay. Let me go check," she says cheerfully as she gets up.

"Thanks," Loretta calls after her, but she's looking at me.

I bolt down the hall as quietly as I can. My legs feel even more odd while I'm running. My feet thud strangely on the carpet. The door gets closer and closer and my gut clenches as I reach for it. Loretta is right behind me. The phone behind the counter rings, and the sudden noise breaks my concentration. I leap for the door and push it open, but trip on myself before I can get all the way out.

"Nurse Vine?" Rebecca's voice calls curiously from behind the counter.

Loretta doesn't even glance at her. She hurriedly helps me back to my feet and rushes me out onto the bare concrete. Just before the door closes all the way, I can hear the receptionist’s voice one last time.

"I need building D security to ST entrance! We have a-"

"Quick," Loretta says, "this way."

I go in the direction she pushes me. I barely have time to register the scrapes on my elbows from my fall as alarms all over the compound begin to sound. We're running toward a parking area lined with what look like ambulances.

"This one," Loretta indicates one of the vehicles. She pulls open the driver's side door as I struggle to push myself into the passenger seat. All this activity is very taxing on my atrophied muscles.

I'm barely able to close the door before we back out of the spot very quickly. The tires squeal as Loretta throws it into drive and hits the accelerator. I can see the shadows of people running out of the building we just exited. A voice echoes over the compound through a loudspeaker system, though I can't tell whether it's shouting commands to security or to us. I'm thrown against the door as Loretta cuts a sharp left.

"Guess I'd better buckle up," I say dryly. She doesn't seem to notice.

We swerve through the parking lot and small roads that wind around the facility. Wherever this place is, it must be massive. The blare of sirens begin to rise over the sound of the security alarm as other vehicles take up the chase. Loretta peers grimly out through the windshield and handles the ambulance like a racecar. We speed toward a small security booth. Without even slowing down, she tears through the lowered security gate. The guard inside the booth doesn't look surprised, but he does huddle against the wall to avoid flying debris.

"We out?" I ask hopefully.

"No," is Loretta's only answer.

I look ahead. A little down the road in front of us is a high chain-link fence capped with a nice coil of barbed wire. Blue and red lights flash on the road beyond. Police cars pull up and blockade the fence.

"Shit!" Loretta hisses through clenched teeth. She veers off the road and onto the uneven grassy earth. The ambulance bounces wildly as she struggles to control the steering wheel.

We're thrown forward as we hit the fence and lose some serious momentum, but we make it through. Broken and warped chain-link screeches against the hood and roof of the vehicle. The back of the ambulance slides to the right, and for a moment we're facing the stunned police. Loretta whips the steering wheel around and I can feel us completely lose traction.

We spin left. As soon as we're perpendicular to the direction we're sliding, the ambulance lurches and the world outside the windshield begins to spin sickeningly. We're thrown from our seats as the ambulance roof hits the ground and we're propelled into another gut-wrenching roll. For what seems like an eternity, we crash into the earth from every side and personally meet every surface of the inside of the cab. Every deafening thud and creaking shatter brings another painful beating from plastic, metal and broken glass. Loretta yelps at each hit. Reality begins to ripple. The pain is taking me away.

"No," I mutter, vaguely aware of a rocking sensation. We've stopped rolling. I can hear the sirens getting closer. Now they're fading.

"No," I whisper one more time as the pervasive darkness creeps in. I think I can hear voices. I'm slipping from existence yet again. Please don't forget this. Richard...my name is Richard...

***

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 9

Yes, I'm alive...and yes, this is the latest in the Letters from the Lost Man saga!

***

For the first time, I welcome the darkness. Any reprieve from my "waking world" has become something to be anticipated. I'm remembering more and more every time, and I feel like I'll be able to figure this all out if I just concentrate. So, here I am...clearing my mind.

That almost sounds funny. Here in the darkness, I can only assume I am within the recesses of my own consciousness, and it's empty in here. Even when I speak to myself, it sounds hollow, devoid of any real life or thought. Here meditation is easy. I simply relax and let my mind expand into the nothingness. Maybe if it expands enough, I'll reach the edge of this darkness and find myself again...my real self.

***

"Richard!"

Who is that? The voice sounds familiar.

"Richard!"

She isn't calling me, is she? Is my name really...

"Richard?" the young woman prompts with a puzzled expression as she approaches, panting from her run up the grassy hill.

I blink at her a few times. "Jane, I'm sorry...I must have been daydreaming," I explain haltingly in a British accent.

"You must come quickly," she urges. "They've found Elizabeth."

My eyes widen and I take off down the hill while Jane stumbles to keep up. The possibilities of where and how Liz was found race through my mind, and most of them are quite unpleasant. Despite the fact that I can't exactly recall when she went missing and why it's important to me, my stomach twists anxiously, hoping against hope that she's okay.

I burst through the huge double doors at the front of her family's luxurious estate. No one is there to greet me, but I can hear voices in the study to the left. I dash toward that room just as Jane rushes in the front doors behind me. We both run into the study and push our way through a small crowd of family members and servants.

Stretched out on the sofa is the small, delicate form of Elizabeth, her dress torn in filthy tatters, her face smudged with dirt. A doctor kneels before her, examining her thoroughly. After several minutes, he stands and addresses the room.

"She is going to be fine," he reassures us. "She needs some rest and a good bath. She may have a few bruises, but she is otherwise unharmed."

Through the many sighs of relief, a small, shaky voice calls out, "...Richard."

I look past the doctor to see Elizabeth looking up at me weakly. I move past him to kneel at her side. "What is it, my dear?" I ask, taking her hand in mine.

Instead of a smile, she responds with a look of distrust mixed with fear. "How could you?" she asks, tears welling in her eyes.

I can only react with confusion. "I'm afraid I don't understand, love."

"How could you?" she shouts as tears stream down her cheeks in rivulets.

"What is the meaning of this?" her father demands, stepping out of the crowd.

I shake my head. "I assure you, sir, I don't know," I say bewildered.

"Constable, take this man away!" he shouts, his face flushing with anger.

A uniformed man advances from the back of the room and grabs me by the shoulders. "Come on, gov, lets go 'ave a chat," he says firmly.

Reeling in utter perplexion, I can only obey. Certainly there's been some sort of misunderstanding. Once I speak with the constable, this will be all cleared up. Surely Elizabeth is confused by her ordeal. After she's had a chance to rest, everything will be back to normal.

***

"Alrigh', you swine, I'm goin' to ask you once more!" the constable howls threateningly. "Where were you on the nigh' Miss Evansworth disappeared?"

Even with my face in my hands, the stark stone walls of the interrogation room loom around me forebodingly. The dank smell of the place makes me feel a little sick, not because of the odor itself but more that it reminds me of a dungeon...a place I'm sure I'll get to know very soon.

"I told you, I don't remember," I insist. "I wish I knew, but I don't. You have to believe me. I would never do anything to harm Elizabeth. I love her." While I'm not sure why I just said that, it feels like truth on my lips.

"Obsessed with 'er, more likely!" the constable accuses. "An' I suppose you also 'ave no recollection of the little room in you cellar where you kep' the poor girl? Or of the black cloak she described you as wearin' while she begged for you to le'er go? This is the same cloak, I remind you, as the one we found 'angin' in your wardrobe in your very own bedroom in your very own 'ouse!"

I rub my eyes, hoping to awaken from this nightmare. "Yes, constable," I say in a wearied tone. "I quite recall those details, and as I told you before, I have no explanation for them. Perhaps someone is trying to make it appear as though I am the guilty party, which I assure you, I am not."

"So you keep sayin'," the constable sighs. "But the thing is...I don' believe you."

***

"My name is Elizabeth Evansworth. My father is Charles Evansworth, a civil engineer. On 12 July I was reading a book alone on a hill by my father's estate. I heard a noise from behind me. It sounded like a footstep. When I turned to see who it was, I was struck on the head. I do not remember anything for some time after that."

The prosecutor steps toward Elizabeth with a sympathetic expression. "Miss Evansworth, did you see who had struck you?" he asks.

Elizabeth shakes her head. "No. At least, if I did, I don't recall it. I think I was struck before I turned fully."

The prosecutor nods. "Very well. Tell us, if you can, what you remember next," he directs her.

A sadness seems to come over her as she takes a breath to answer. "Well," she begins with a pause, "I awoke in a darkened room of rough stone, a cellar I think. I was tied to a chair. Pieces of my dress had been...torn."

"It's alright, Elizabeth," the prosecutor reassures her. "Go on."

"There was a figure," she continues in a small voice, "a man. He wore a long black cloak with a hood which obscured him from me. He then spoke to me, and it was then I realized who it was."

"Tell us," the prosecutor urges. "Who was it?"

"It was..." Elizabeth pauses for several moments, struggling with the hard truth she is about to reveal. "It was the prisoner. Richard...my own Richard. He spoke to me in a strange manner. He sounded almost foreign, but he could not disguise that voice from me. I know it too well."

The prosecutor faces the jury with a raised eyebrow. "Did he say why he had done this? Why he had taken you?"

She shakes her head resignedly. "No. He simply kept asking me who he was. I told him that I knew it was him, but he went on asking me to tell him about himself...about his life. It was as if he had gone mad."

***

Well, this is different. Somehow I ended up in the middle of this strange, messed-up situation. Who knows, maybe I am crazy. It would be a really convenient explanation for all of this. But, y'know, even though everything seems out of place and completely wrong, I find myself thinking only how this verdict and subsequent sentence is going to take me away from Elizabeth. I can't help but feel like I've made some sort of awful mistake that's taking me further and further away from recapturing my life.

Oh, the judge is talking. I should probably listen to this.

"...has been found guilty of taking by force and carrying away Elizabeth Evansworth with intent to hold her from her family. It is this court's determination that the prisoner was non compos mentis throughout the duration of the crime. As such, the sentence of seven years confinement shall take place within the Greater Wisconsin Mental Institute under the care of Drs. Hanz Spector and Friedrich Golz. Their record for rehabilitation of criminals with mental defect is exemplary."

May god have mercy upon my soul. It might as well be a death sentence...

***

"Don't you worry," a young Dr. Golz tries to reassure me with a slight German accent. "Dr. Spector is a brilliant doctor and scientist. He has made great strides in the study of the brain's role in violent and criminal behavior."

I'm not reassured. What I am is tied down to a table in some kind of laboratory/operating room. I couldn't be further from reassured. As enthusiastic as Dr. Golz is, none of what he's explained to me so far sounds like science or medicine. I'd like to protest, believe me, but my mouth has been taped shut.

"Now, let's just get rid of the rest of this," Dr. Golz mutters to himself as he picks up the sharp razor from the stand next to my bed. He holds the shining metal blade over me for a moment, inspecting its edge. I can only stare up in blank terror. He brings it down and slides it down my wet scalp, shaving off what little hair was left after my earlier trim.

"There!" he exclaims as he finishes. "Now, I will administer something to dull the pain. While it is taking effect, I will go get Dr. Spector and we can begin."

Again, the urge to protest comes on, but I can only watch as Dr. Golz fills a syringe and empties it into my veins. Almost immediately euphoria begins to wash over me. I try to fight it, but every cell in my body urges me to just relax. I barely register the doctor's exit to find his colleague.

The next thing I see is the blurry image of a man's face. The face is long and cracked by a thin-lipped mouth filled with widely-gapped teeth. In the center of the face is a hawkish nose on which sits a pair of round glasses that magnify a set of black, beady eyes. The whole thing is topped by a slick of jet black hair, parted on the left.

"Now, Friedrich," the face says with a distant voice. "We will begin by drilling a hole in the top of the skull."

I feel a cold sensation as something is spread on my bare scalp. Then comes a feeling like someone is rubbing a blunt stone against the top of my head. There is a slow grinding sound echoing everywhere. Red fills my vision. I scream, but the sound is muted by tape and drowned out by the constant drilling. I give in to the blackness.

***

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 8

I'm a ghost. There is no afterlife, but here I am. A lone spirit in the eternal black. How long have I been here? Does it really matter? There is no time when there is only you and nothing else. I am the universe, and the universe is empty...and surrounding me is nothing.

Are people naturally existential in the dark? I wish I could figure all this out. Every time I'm here I remember a little bit more of my crazy visions, but none of it brings me any closer to understanding who I am or why this is happening to me. Then again, maybe I don't even exist at all. Maybe I am simply the byproduct of random neurons firing in some sleeping organism's brain. Maybe even that is giving myself too much credit. I want to know that I'm real...

"Easy there, partner," a drawling voice cautions.

"Where am I?"

"Wisconsin," comes the obvious reply.

"Oh yeah..."

"You took quite a shot to the side. I managed to fish out the slug. It's the darnedest thing...missed all your organs."

I peek out through heavy eyelids. A short man with a neatly-trimmed, yellowish-gray beard and wrinkled eyes that look through a pair of round spectacles stoops over me. "I wouldn't say darnedest, doc...more like blessed."

The doctor chuckles.

"Didja catch the coward what done it?" I ask.

"Yep," he affirms. "One o' Pete's cronies. Hidin' up there on Madame Penny's establishment."

"Coward," I repeat bitterly.

"Well, he won't be bothering nobody no more," the doc says. "Got him up in a cedar box right next to his buddy in the center o' town."

I grimace. "Cedar's too good for 'em. Oughtta jes leave 'em in the desert to be picked clean by the vultures."

The doc just nods in reflection.

"How's Loretta takin' all this," I ask in a gentler voice.

Doc smiles. "Oh, Loretta's a smart girl. She knows she's better off now that Pete's gone. She's here y'know."

I look up at him expectantly. "Yeah?"

He chuckles again and nods. "Sure is. She's downstairs. Let me tell her you're awake."

The doc hobbles out of the room, his limp making his footsteps ring out with an uneven thud-thud, thud-thud. As I listen to it fade down the stairs outside my room, I take the opportunity to look around. This looks like a room over the saloon. It's pretty sparse. Just the bed, a desk and a chair. And then there's me...lying here like just another piece of furniture.

"Hey there, cowboy," a familiar voice beckons from the doorway.

"Loretta," I say, unsure of what to follow it up with. She looks beautiful leaning there at the threshold to my room, one hand on her hip.

She steps inside and glides over to the bed. Sitting next to me, she wipes my hair away from my forehead. "You look tired," she whispers.

I blink. "Yes, ma'am, maybe a little. Gettin' shot in the side has a way of taking the wind out of a man." Do I really sound that dumb?

Loretta doesn't seem to notice. She smiles at me and says, "Well, we'll just have to work hard on makin' you better, then. Is there anything I can do to make you more...comfortable?"

It's probably just me, but that pause before the work "comfortable" sounded awfully suggestive. My mind races with ways Loretta could make me feel better, but none of them involve relaxation, which I'm sure my body could use.

"I tell you what," she says as if reading my mind, "Why don't I let you rest a bit more for right now? I'll be back to tend to you later, okay?"

I nod dumbly, though other parts of me are screaming for a good tending to. To make matters worse, she leans down and plants a long, deep kiss on my lips. My guess is that she's not at all sorry that Tex...er Pete, is dead. I almost ask her to stay, but I'm suddenly feeling really tired.

"All right, Loretta," the doc calls from the doorway. "Let the man get some more sleep."

She smiles down at me again. "You get some rest, cowboy," she winks.

Again, I can only nod. My head feels really heavy.

"Okay, Dr. Spector...he's all yours."

I try to open my eyes wider, but my vision is so blurry. Did she just say Dr. Spector? That name sounds awfully familiar and in a bad way. Even though my brain is commanding my muscles to move me, I barely feel my body twitch. I can hear the thud-thud of the doc approaching. A dark figure hunches over me, but I can't make out any details.

"Don't worry, son," the doc's voice creeps eerily from the shadow. "We'll get you back to normal in no time."

I am not reassured. I go now back to death's waiting room.

***

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 7

"How long was I out?" I ask, the pain in my side giving a polite little reminder that it was still there.

"Twenty-four hours," the nurse answers as she bounces around the room looking busy.

I blink. "You're serious..."

She nods. "Uh-huh."

There's no way I was asleep that long. It just doesn't seem possible. I feel like I closed my eyes minutes ago.

"That's the thing about dreams," the nurse continues. "Especially drug-induced dreams...nothing is as it appears."

"Yeah, tell me about it," I snort. But it's strange that she should say that. It seems that nothing really is as it appears lately...dream or no.

"Are you hungry?" she asks cheerily.

Without even thinking about it, I nod. I'm famished actually. I can't remember the last time I ate. As if it knows we're talking about it, my stomach growls. Not to be outdone, my side aches defiantly.

"Maybe we'll give you something for the pain as dessert," the nurse offers.

"Maybe," I say doubtfully. "Though not the same thing as last time. I'd like to stay conscious for a while."

"Okay," she beams.

"Say, why does my side hurt so bad anyways?"

The nurse sighs. "You mean you forgot again? You were hit by a truck."

I shake my head. "No, that I remember. What I mean is, what's broken or bruised or whatever."

"Oh," she says, glancing at the chart on her clipboard. "Um, a few broken ribs, some bad bruising obviously..."

"That's it?" I ask incredulously. "No road rash or broken limbs?"

The nurse raises her eyebrows at me. "Would you prefer to have more injuries?"

"No..."

"You were very lucky. The truck hit you right before it stopped."

"I see..."

Did you ever have the feeling that somebody was just totally winging it? Just improvising lie after lie to make you believe some story that is fairly plausible anyways. No, you probably haven't. It's a really strange and unlikely situation to be in...very disconcerting. Some things are starting to come back to me now.

Loretta told me to just go with the images. She's the real one, not like this nurse here. And yet, I can't bring myself to go along with her instructions. I just don't remember what all this is about...and I don't think I'm supposed to. You have no idea what it's like not to know what in your life is real and what is a dream. Well, if this is a dream, I'm taking control.

A few minutes after my exceedingly happy "nurse" leaves the room, I find myself hatching a plan. I'm going to get off this trippy little amusement park ride. I sit up in bed... Ouch, that hurts! It's okay. Just ease yourself out of bed. That's right. Now, tiptoe over to the door and peek out.

The coast appears to be clear. Now, slowly step out of the room. Creep down the hallway. Excellent, so far so good. Oh crap, who's that?

"Hi, I need to transfer this patient to the psych wing," some guy in scrubs says to the lady behind the counter up ahead. He has a patient in a wheelchair next to him.

"Name?"

"Vine, Loretta," he replies.

"Okay," the lady says. "Here's the papers. You know the drill."

"Yeah," he answers with a snicker.

Loretta? It has to be a coincidence. It also has to be a coincidence that the woman in the wheelchair looks exactly like the Loretta I remember. Oh hell, they're coming this way.

"Do you need anything, sir?" the guy in scrubs asks.

I shake my head dumbly. Is that really Loretta? "I, uh..." I hear myself begin to speak. "I, uh, think I work with this woman. When did she come in?"

The guy looks at me suspiciously. "I doubt it, sir. She's being transferred in from another hospital. She's been there for years," he explains.

I take a good look at her. Her hair is stringy and greasy. The stare in her eyes is vacant. She's made no indication that she's even aware we've been talking right in front of her. But still...underneath her ragged exterior, I can still see the one person I can really recognize.

"Hmm..." I say. "I guess I'm mistaken."

The guy nods and continues pushing her down the corridor quickly.

Yeah, mistaken my foot. I'd like to follow them, but I'm sure it would arouse some attention, especially since this guy seems to think I'm as crazy as Loretta apparently is. This can't be right at all. I know I saw Loretta in a hospital room as my nurse no more than a week ago. And then again as the new girl at the office. What should I do? Should I forget about seeing her just now and keep making my way toward the exit, or should I stay and try to figure out what's going on?

I turn to look down the hallway at the exit sign. Someone is standing right below it...it's a figure in a dark black robe. Damn it...not this guy again. Well, I'm going to turn the other way. Last time I saw this guy, I got hit by a truck. I'm not playing this game again.

Pivoting on my foot, I step the other way with one last glance over my shoulder. The figure is gone. See? It's all in your imagination. But as I face forward to look where I'm going, I bump right into him...er, it.

"Oh, uh...I'm so...ah, excuse..." I mumble lamely.

The black figure leans back, then shoots forth his fist. The world explodes into little shooting stars. Everything goes dark. Here I am again...

...

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 6

Hit by a truck? That doesn't sound right. Wasn't that a dream? Maybe the other thing was a dream. What was that other thing again? Man, this is confusing. And that feels really good.

A warm numbness spreads over me. It doesn't really take the pain away; it just distracts me from it with more insistent sensations of happy-time goodness. I love opiates. The problem is they really don't help me sort all this out.

"How long have I been here?" I ask woozily.

"About three days. Well...four as of this morning," Nurse Bubbly answers.

Three days? I wonder if my wife knows. I do have a wife, don't I? Man, I'm feeling really tired.

"You should go to sleep, then," the nurse answers.

Holy crap! Did I say that out loud? I thought I was just thinking it. Wow, this stuff is really strong. I don't even feel the pain anymore. That's good. Now I have nothing distracting me from...

From what?

The darkness... It's calling to me. What before seemed such a scary and lonely place, now seemed peaceful and comforting. The sweet solitude is so welcoming after...all this.

No. This isn't the darkness. Where the hell am I?

...

"Oh, don't you just love a good book?"

"Mm..." I find myself compelled to say in response.

"Darling?"

I blink.

"Are you quite alright?"

"Oh yes, dear," I reply instinctively, but I'm not really sure I'm alright at all. Looking around, I take in the rolling green hills of the countryside. It's a lovely setting, if a bit overcast, though it doesn't really look as though it will rain. And even more beautiful is the young lady across from me. She grins and bats her eyelashes at me, clutching her book to her breast.

"If we leave now, we shall be back in time for tea," she says.

"Then let's hurry," I answer. I grin mischievously and jump up at a run.

The young lady chases after me, giggling the whole way.

I can't help but wonder what's going on. Though I don't feel like I've ever been here before, my feet carry me on a path they seem to know quite well. I can't really say I know who this girl is, but she seems quite familiar with me as she calls playfully to me in what I can only describe as "The Queen's English". Ah well, here I am. I suppose there's not much for me to do but watch what happens.

...

"Well, where have you two been?"

My companion wrinkles her nose at her elder sister. "We were out basking in the joy another day in each other's arms!" she shouts dramatically.

Her sister gasps and covers her mouth. "Elizabeth! Don't let mother hear you say such things. It isn't proper for a girl your age."

Liz scowls. "I'll be sixteen in but a few short weeks, Jane. I'm practically a woman."

Oh, jeez...she's underage. This is bad.

"That may be so," Jane concedes, "but until then, you have other obligations."

I clear my throat uncomfortably. "Perhaps I should be going."

"Nonsense!" Liz cries. "Stay for tea."

"Oh, indeed," Jane sighs. "You may as well."

"Really, Jane, jealousy doesn't suite you," the younger girl teases her sibling.

Jane looks appalled. "You...you horrid little beast!"

"No, really," I insist. "I do have to be going."

Jane smiles politely. "Yes, it might be for the best. Father is home, and he may not be in the mood to entertain company."

"Why wouldn't he be?" Elizabeth prods.

"Well," Jane begins matter-of-factly, "Reginald saw a man in a black robe in the garden last night. Father had to speak with the constable, and now he's all out of sorts. I shouldn't be surpri-"

"Wait," I interrupt. "Did you say a man in a black robe?"

"Yes, I did." Jane confirms. "Why do you ask?"

I shake my head. "I thought I saw the same..."

What did I see? When was that? This isn't right. I don't belong here.

Wake up!

...

"Good morning, sleepyhead."

Damn...Nurse Bubbly again. The other place was better. This has got to stop.

...

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 5.5

Now, where was I?

Oh, yeah...the darkness.

No, that isn't right at all. I was...in a hospital...a medical facility. There was a doct-, no wait, a nurse. That's right. Loretta. There was something about my memory...obviously. What was it?

But I'm in back in the darkness now. Or is it just dark in here? I have the distinct feeling I'm in some sort of "here". The question is, just where would that here be? It smells like gauze and alcohol swabs. I guess that answers that question.

What's that over there? A window... I don't remember there being a window there. Of course, that's why I'm here, isn't it? I can't remember. Loretta told me something...something I wasn't supposed to know. She was trying to help me, wasn't she?

Man, it's a bit chilly in here. This blanket isn't really doing much for me.

I look around as all my surroundings become more defined. The light is increasing slowly. I realize it's the sunrise through the window. It's a plain, white little room. There's another bed closer to the door, but it's empty. A TV hangs on the opposite wall. And what's this?

CALL NURSE

That's weird. For some reason, I don't think this call button is supposed to be here, just like the window. Let's push the button and see what happens.

...

"Good morning! Comfy?" a particularly bubbly nurse chirps as she pops into the room

Well, she's perky. "Not really. I'm cold," I explain, not really sure what else to say.

She frowns. "Aw, well, let's get you some more blankets, 'kay?"

Man, if she does that squeaky thing with her voice one more time, I'm going to get up out of this bed and knock her out.

"How are we feeling today, other than cold and cranky?" she asks as she closes the window.

I'm about to be a bit more than cranky, but to her I say, "Fine, I guess. Where's Loretta?"

Blank stare. "Loretta?" she parrots.

"Yes," I confirm testily, "The nurse who was here yesterday."

She shakes her head. "I don't know any Loretta that works here. I attended to you yesterday and the day before that."

I squint at her. Okay...I'm definitely getting weird vibes. And, man, does my side hurt! Just then, it occurs to me to ask, "Say, where am I, anyway?"

"West Wisconsin University Medical Center," she answers matter-of-factly.

Hmm...I think she just made that up. "Ah," I say, wincing through the pain that has now decided to start throbbing.

The nurse nods in feigned sympathy. "Looks like it's time for somebody's medicine," she coos.

"Why am I here?" seems the next logical question.

"Well, honey," she explains as she fills a hypodermic with what I hope is morphine, "You were hit by a truck."

...

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 5

The silence is so peaceful. The darkness, so idyllic. Here everything is simple. I was afraid of the dark before. Why? Ah yes, the unknown. But when there is the darkness, there is nothing else. No pressures, no expectations. Here in the vast nothing, with only my solitude beside me, I exist in a one-man utopia...

What the hell am I talking about?

I blink a few times and lift my head. The surface below me feels soft, like fabric. I notice a blanket draped over my body. And what's that shape over there? Is that a door? I look over my shoulder.

4:26 AM

Those glowing red symbols...that's the time. Man, I still have two hours. Wait...two hours for what? Well, for sleep, of course. I have to be at work at eight. How do I know that? Because this is my life, of course. Ugh, it's too early to get philosophical. Just try to get some more sleep.

"Are you okay, dear?"

I freeze. Who was that? Will you relax! It's only your wife. Oh yeah, of course...I, uh, forgot. "I'm fine...just really weird dreams tonight."

"Aw...well, try to go back to sleep, 'kay?"

"Yeah."

Yeah. Just try to go back to sleep. No problem. Just close my eyes and relax. Drift gently off to...pee. Damn it! I have to go to the bathroom. Do I really have to go that badly? Okay, if I don't go, I know I'm going to roll around half-asleep for the next two hours while I convince my body it can hold it 'till the alarm goes off. Yeah, this feels a lot more like reality.

Well, off to the bathroom with me. I stumble to the door and across the hall. The night light in the bathroom greets me as I empty my bladder. I really hope I don't dream for the rest of the night. I'm not sure I remember everything, but I know there was lots of strangeness while I was asleep. I gently tuck myself back in and drift off to...sleep.

...

"Honey, wake up...c'mon, babe, rise'n shine."

Oh jeez...did I sleep at all. Somebody turn off that damn alarm! Oh, wait...that's my job. Okay, up I get. I roll out of bed and walk around to the bedside table, eyes still closed, and swat the snooze button.

"All the way off," my wife reminds me. "It'll go off while you're in the shower and scare the hell out of me."

"Mmmnfrrn," I mumble, switching the alarm completely off.

Honestly, though, a shower sounds really nice about now. I give her a kiss and make my way to the bathroom. Man, my side is stiff. I'll have to stretch it out while I'm washing up.

Mornings are mundane. They have to be. We wake to semi-consciousness, and if things weren't absolutely normal and utterly routine, we'd be in a poor state to handle it. So, we walk zombified through our schedule. Hop in the shower. Dry off. Eat breakfast. Have coffee. Brush teeth. Get dressed. Hope you've regained enough self-awareness to drive yourself to work. Kiss wife. Leave house. If only once I got to work I could slip back into a half-comatose state and operate on this level of automation.

...

"Hey, man, how's it goin'?"

That's Tom. He sits in the cubicle next to mine. Nice guy. "I'm tired."

"Yeah, you look like crap."

"Gee, thanks."

"No prob. So, what happened? Linda keep you up all night? Rowr..."

I give him an unamused look. "No. Just had weird dreams... Actually, I think you might have been in one of them."

Tom laughs. "Hey, I like you, buddy, but keep that stuff to yourself."

I shake my head. "No, no. You were like a bartender or something."

"Yeah, I wish!" he snorts. "It'd be better than this place."

I nod enthusiastically in agreement.

"Hey, listen, that reminds me. Greer is probably going to come by looking for those edits later this morning. I overheard him bitching about them by the snack bar."

"Great..."

Greer is technically my boss in that he has the power to delegate assignments to me and complain to the higher ups when I don't do them to his liking. It's the higher ups, though, that I need to impress to get my ass out of this euphoria-inspiring cubicle siesta. Ah well, let's get to it.

"Hey, check it out," Tom grins, nodding towards, "the new girl."

Wow, she looks awfully familiar.

Tom pants, "Pretty hot, huh?"

I nod absently. Where have I seen that girl before? I watch her walk down the hall and into the copy room. I know I know her. I glance at my desk.

"I, uh...need to go make some copies," I mumble.

"Yeah, I bet you do," Tom chuckles. "Hey, make me some too, huh?"

I walk off, not even bothering to take some papers with me.

"Don't make me have to call Linda!" Tom warns my back.

Man, I look like an idiot. I should have grabbed something to take with me into the copy room. Now I'm standing here in the door, empty handed, just staring at this woman making copies. She's going to think I'm a stalker or something. No, no, it's okay. I'll just pretend to be getting some staples or something.

"Hi!" she says to me with a friendly smile.

"Staples!" I blurt out. Smooth... "I mean, hi. I'm, uh, looking for some staples."

She looks around briefly. "Hmm..." she says, "I'm kind of new around here. I'm not really sure where they keep them."

"Oh, there over here," I point to the supply cabinet. Brilliant. This is working just like it did in my head.

"Ah," she nods. "So, why did you ask me?"

I shake my head. "I'm sorry. It's been a bit of a rough morning." I step over to the cabinet. "Let me just get these and I'll be out of your way."

She giggles and puts out her hand. "Let me introduce myself. My name's-"

"Loretta."

Silence...when it's between two people, it has a way of making them feel uncomfortable. That or whatever was said before the silence is what makes it uncomfortable.

"How did you know my name?"

I take a deep breath. "Oh, well, I happened to overhear. By the snack bar this morning I overheard someone saying that new girl Loretta would be starting today. I just assumed it was you."

Nice...now that really was smooth.

"Oh," is all she can manage.

"I'm going to go ahead and get those staples now," I tell her.

"Okay," she says as she goes about her copying. "It was nice meeting you," she calls as I walk out the door.

I turn. "It was nice meeting you too."

Well, that was interesting. What's even more interesting is how I really did know her name. Now that I think about it, she may have been in one of my dreams last night, but...how could I possibly know? I must have seen her come in for an interview or something. Maybe I really did overhear it. There has to be a logical expla-

Who the hell is that? Some guy in a huge black robe is standing by my cubicle. Is this some kind of joke? He's dressed up like death, but it isn't my birthday. This is definitely near the top of my list of weird days.

"Hey, who are you?" I ask.

The robed figure turns. His hood is pulled to low for me to make out his face. Before I can say anything else, he turns and runs.

"Hey! Come back here!" I demand. When he doesn't, I chase after him.

Wait a minute...why am I doing this? I turn down the main corridor just in time to see the back of a black robe disappear around the next corner. Why would I chase this guy? I reach the end of the corridor as the door to the stairwell clicks shut. This doesn't make sense. I throw open the door and bound down steps several at a time, almost killing myself in the process. This is important for some reason. I bolt out into the ground floor lobby and see the figure dashing across the street outside. I have to find out who this guy is. I explode out the building entrance and run into the street. Where'd he go?

The sudden blast of a loud horn shatters the moment. I look just in time to see the semi trying to screech to a halt. Well, this sucks.

Pain!

Nothing.

...

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 4

"You're in a medical facility. There was...an accident, and well...the doctors are trying to help you," Loretta explains.

"You'll have to do a little better than that," I tell her skeptically with narrowed eyes.

She sighs. "Listen, I can't tell you too much information. The doctors are trying to rebuild your life for you. They're trying to give you...your memories back."

My brow furrows reflexively. Something about that doesn't quite make sense. "Why do it this way? Why not just tell me about my life and see if I remember?" I ask.

"Well...we've tried that," she answers.

"Really?" I say with continued disbelief. "I don't remember that."

"Precisely," Loretta rebuts gravely. "Dr. Spector's technique is revolutionary. It will change the way we treat...uh, people in your condition. The benefit to society and the individual is immeasurable."

"Dr. Spector, huh? Sounds like a spook to me. Not like anyone I want to have bouncing around in my head. And besides, his 'technique' seems to be flawed." I indicate my still aching side.

Loretta closes her eyes and nods. "Yes, it still has to be perfected, but once we figure out how to better control the images, you'll be as good as new...better even."

"Really?" I repeat with the same doubt. "Sounds an awful lot like I'm a guinea pig. Especially with that business you mentioned about the doctors erasing my memory if they found me awake. I don't know that I like that idea... No, actually, I'm certain I don't like that idea."

"Please, Mr..." she pauses again at the slip, "please relax. Like I said, I'm trying to help you."

"And what's with this 'Mr...' stuff?" I demand. "What is it you keep almost calling me?"

"I can't tell you that," she says firmly. "Listen, I've probably already tainted the experiment beyond repair, but so far nothing else has really worked. I don't like what they're doing to you either, but I do like what it will mean for the world if we succeed. So, I'm asking you, please cooperate. Help me and you help yourself."

Quite frankly, this is outrageous. Here I am, lying in a hospital bed, listening to this chick telling me that they're basically doing some kind of mind control experiments on me to supposedly help me regain my memory. How do I know they're not the reason it's gone in the first place? This really sucks, but at the moment, I'm not really sure that I have many other options but to trust her. That is, if any of this is even real in the first place.

"If I were so inclined to help you, what would I do?" I find myself compelled to ask.

Loretta smiles. It's a damn good thing for her that she's so attractive. Otherwise I don't think I'd be as friendly as I've been so far. "Well," she says, "the main thing is just to be receptive. If you keep an open mind and go with it when things seem, well, normal...you should be okay. After a while, it should start feeling familiar to you, and once all the memories are there, they'll let you out of here."

"I would be very surprised if things started to get normal," I put in dryly.

"They should soon," she assures me. "We're on the verge. For now I'll try to fudge the data so that the Dr. Spector doesn't think it's to the point where we need to start over again. As it stands, you could have easily written off any strange experiences as bad dreams. That's how I'll make it seem."

I can't help but snicker sarcastically. "Honey, this is all just one big bad dream."

Loretta eyes me seriously. "So, will you help?" she asks.

I stare back at her. "Well, just out of curiosity, what's to stop me from just waltzing out of here right now?"

"This is a heavily guarded location," she explains. "I assure you, if you tried, you wouldn't get far."

"And then they wipe my slate..." I finish.

"Pretty much."

It is chilling to me that a technology exists to simply erase who I am from even myself. Identity theft, fraud, even total deletion from society would be tolerable when compared with the idea of losing every memory that made you who you are today. I don't know who I am, and even what little I know of myself now could be completely taken away...and the scary part is I might never know. Well, damn it, I'm not going to let them take it anymore. I'm going to get through this...experiment, and when they let me out, I'm going to do everything in my power to find out what happened to me and who I really am, assuming I'm not who they make me think I am.

"Okay then," I say after that thoughtful pause. "I'll help you to help me. But if you're lying to me, you better hope they erase my memory...and you better hope it sticks." I don't feel I need to say anything else.

Loretta nods, though the look in her eyes seems hesitant. "I want to help you, and that's the truth."

Well, though all kinds of alarms are going off about the rest of it, I do believe her about that. Reluctantly, I nod. "Do what you must," I tell her.

With that she reaches over to a nearby stand and grabs a hypodermic and a vial. She draws out a measure of the colorless liquid in the vial and clears the needle of air bubbles. With a sympathetic look, she puts the needle into my arm and slowly pushes down the plunger.

"Good night..." she whispers.

Thoughts come swirling at me from all directions. Half-formed hallucinations of memories I'm not sure I've ever had pelt me without end. Sounds of music, voices, explosions ring through my ears. All my senses are overwhelmed by stimuli screaming all the experiences of life at me until I wake up, once again, in darkness. Curled up in the loneliness, I am content to just rest for a while. Where was I just a moment ago...?

...

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 3

"Go on, friend. Why don't you go on and git on outta here," the guy says to me as he wipes a grimy mug with an even grimier rag.

Hmm...this is looking like a rough scene. I'd better not argue. Just nodding, I step slowly toward the door. The second I step outside I hear the saloon piano start up and the sounds of the usual festivities happening inside. I hoist up my pants, which seem a little low on my hips. Glancing down I realize how disheveled I really look.

"Howdy there, partner."

Well hellooo. Just who is this fine lady? "Howdy, ma'am," is all I can manage. What's up with my accent? This is not how the voice in my head sounds.

"Man like you shouldn't walk around town without some respect," she says to me, smiling sweetly.

I'm merely confused. "Respect?" I drawl intelligently.

"Why, sure. I know just where you can get some too..."

I look her up and down again, raising an eyebrow. I wonder what she's talking about. Honestly, she looks like she could be a working girl. Whatever she means by "respect" can't be all bad.

"Well, I'd be mighty obliged, ma'am. I'm new around here, and a little...uh...respect might be just what I need. The thing is, well..."

With a flutter of her eyelashes she asks, "Well, what is it?"

"Well, see, I'm a bit short on cash. Ain't had time to find me some work yet."

"A man with respect doesn't need to find work," she tells me.

I'm not only intrigued, but a little perplexed. "Well, again, I'd be mighty obliged, ma'am. Say...just where am I?" I feel dumb for not having asked earlier.

She giggles. "Why, you’re in Wisconsin, cowboy."

"Wisconsin..." I repeat in disbelief. It's about 90 degrees out, dusty, bright, and dry. If this is Wisconsin, I'm Santa Claus.

"That's right," she confirms, "now, follow me."

As I trail behind this lady, I can't help but think this is nothing more than a dream. Not that I'm complaining. Whatever it is, it's a whole lot better than where I was just a few moments ago...in nothingness.
So, if this is a dream, and I'm aware of it, I should be able to do whatever I want, right? I always loved flying dreams. Maybe I should try that.

"Why, sugar, what are you doin'?" the pretty woman asks as she helps me up off the ground.

"Sorry. I'm not really sure what happened myself. Must'a tripped."

Well, that was embarrassing. I probably won't try that again. I haven't necessarily ruled out the dream possibility, though. This is just too strange to be reality. Well...what have we here? This is a cathouse if I ever saw one.

"Step inside cowboy," she says, opening the door with a grin.

"Thank you, ma'am."

Oh yeah...this has got to be a dream. All these fine ladies sitting here smiling and waving at me. And I get the feeling that whatever I get here, I'm not going to have to pay for it. Score...

"Right this way, cowboy," she directs.

I follow her up the stairs and down the hall into a rather nondescript bedroom. So far this is going just the way I had hoped. I watch her step over to the armoire and pull something out of it. She turns toward me, hiding whatever it is behind her back. She steps over to me and gets close...very close.

"You want some respect?" she asks softly.

All I can do is nod. With a sly half-smile, she produces the hidden item. Ok, this is just...odd.

"A gun..."

She nods. "Well, of course it's a gun. What did you think it would be?"

I shrug, lost for words. I take it from her with uncertainty. It's in a nice leather holster with a bullet-lined belt. At least my pants will stop creeping down on my hips. I put it on and draw the weapon. It's a Smith & Wesson SW40 Sigma series semi automatic. Not only is it horrendously out of place in this setting, but it seems totally strange to me that I recognize it.

"Feels good in your hand, doesn't it?" she asks, excitement in her voice.

I look up with a start, but then sort of smile. "Yeah, she's a beaut. Say, what's your name anyway?"

She leans in closer and puts her hand on my chest with that sexy little half grin. What a magnificent time for all hell to break loose...

The door busts in with a bang and the massive guy standing on the other side answers my question with, "Loretta!"

He pounds over to her and pushes her out of the way. Baring his teeth at me, he grabs me by my shirt and lifts me straight into the air. His breath smells like he uses manure for toothpaste and whiskey for mouthwash.

"What're you doin' with my girl, boy?" he asks, each word punctuated by a blast of fetid odor.

Despite the obvious seriousness of the situation, my first instinct is to be a comedian. "Well, nothin' yet, Tex...you interrupted me before I got the chance."

As expected, this is the wrong response. He heaves me backward and ho's me through the window. The world is a spinning blur as I hurtle away surrounded by exploded glass. More seconds than I will prefer to recall later, I hit the ground hard. Some of the glass is driven into my skin. At this moment, this is about the most painful dream I've ever experienced. I roll around for a few minutes then stumble to my feet. Yeah, I hurt, but I don't think anything's broken...yet. That'll probably change soon. Loretta's boyfriend is blundering out the cathouse door headed my way. This can only get worse. I draw out my gun.

"Now...now..." I manage to sputter out. "Now, you hold it right there, Tex."

"If you wanna live, boy, you'll quit callin' me Tex," he replies, eyeing my gun with interest.

Pulling back the slide on the weapon, I grin through the pain. "I think I'm in a position to call you whatever I like."

Tex throws his head back and laughs...man, is he a big guy. His neck looks like a tree trunk when he does that. I'm not really sure how much better I feel with the gun in my hand. It does fire a .40 caliber round, but I honestly think this guy might be able to take a couple if my aim isn't just right. He might live just long enough to get to me and break me in half.

"You wanna settle this like a man, boy?" he asks me.

I shrug.

He whistles back to one of his cronies who tosses him a revolver. "Twenty paces!" he yells out to the whole town, which by now is intent on the exchange.

So, we make our way to the center of Main Street and stand back to back. As I step forward, counting out my twenty paces, it occurs to me that this might be a bit dangerous. I have no idea what's really going on. After that fall out the window, I can't really be all that sure I'm not awake. While everything seems to be completely weird, I don't really remember everything to begin with, so I can't know if it really is weird or if its my amnesia. One thing's for sure. I had better be quick on the draw, and my aim better be true. I don't want to find out what happens if Tex wins this duel.

"Nineteen...Twenty!"

Oh, crap! I just realized I have no idea what I'm doing. Do I turn and fire, or do we turn and stare each other down while our fingers twitch? Only one thing to do...
Silence follows the boom of my pistol and the supersonic crack of my bullet as it tears down Main Street and embeds itself into Tex's face. He drops his half-drawn weapon and topples backward. Good thing for me.

Or maybe not...did somebody just shoot me in the side? Warm wetness spreads over my ribs and the pain really starts to register. Now who would do a thing like that?
I fall over onto my back and look up. Over on the roof on the building to my left is the silhouette of a hooded figure holding a rifle. It rises from the roof and hangs in midair for a moment before drifting down slowly to the ground to stand over me.

"Who are you?" I manage to moan at the figure. It says nothing to me. It just stands there in its black robe, its hood pulled too low for me to make out a face. Blackness is creeping into the edges of my vision. No, please, no more blackness. I don't want to die now...

Light... Light streams in from everywhere. I feel like I'm waking up. It takes several minutes for my eyes to adjust.

"Are you ok?" the girl in white asks tenderly.

"Loretta?"

She blinks back at me in surprise. "How do you know my name?"

I look around. Everything's white and sterile. I try to sit up, but a tearing pain in my side forces me back down.

"Please, Mr., uh...sir. Lay back. You need to take it easy," she urges.

"What happened?" I ask. "Was I in an accident?"

Loretta, who is obviously a nurse, bites her lip. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"Well..." I begin, rubbing my head. "I think I was shot in the side, but that might have been a dream."

She nods. "The images can be very real. You have to be careful. You could very well die from injuries you sustain while you're under."

"What? Under where? What the hell's going on here?"

"Please, Mr...um...please be calm," she pleads, looking over her shoulder. "If the doctors hear you, they'll come in and put you back under before I can help you. Then they'll erase your memory and start all over again. Please trust me.

All I can do is stare at her. What would you say? I must still be dreaming. I still feel a bit weird, and who knows if I'm really in pain. My memory of pain might only be a fabrication of the dream. Oh, just wake up already...please wake up.

"Now, tell me, how did you know my name?" Loretta asks.

I blink at her. "Oh, no...First of all, I think you owe me some answers long before I give any to you. Second of all, you can't-"

"Sshhh!" she interrupts. "Please. Okay, I'll tell you what I can, but please listen closely because I'll have to put you back under before the doctors get here. Trust me, if you don't argue with me, we can get through this much faster and you can leave this place."

I stare at her with uncertainty for a little while. Well, what choice do I have? "Ok...I'm listening."

...

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 2

The dark accentuates loneliness. It accentuates fear and refines sadness. The encompassing, oppressive dark, perfect only in its emptiness. It's enough to drive a man insane.
Time has passed. Hours, days, weeks...who knows? I sure don't. I haven't seen any light or heard any voices. In fact, now I'm not even convinced I heard them in the first place. So, now I'm just sitting here, holding my arms.
But, y'know...I'm not really sure I'm holding my arms. I think I'm holding the memory of my arms. It seems strange to me how the memory of something seems so solid here in the nothingness. I think the dark is so complete that even the concept of something feels corporeal.
No, that isn't it at all. I know exactly what it is. I'm not really in the dark. I'm not really standing in the middle of a huge nothingness. What's really happening is that I'm trapped in my own mind. It's the only thing that makes sense. I was in some horrible accident, and this is what it's like to be in a coma.
But why is it so empty in here? Where are my memories? Where are my dreams? If I'm aware of myself, shouldn't I be aware of these things? Unless I received some kind of massive head trauma...then maybe I have amnesia. Or maybe worse. Maybe I'm a vegetable...trapped in my empty mind...my brain wiped clean by a huge jolt. Great. I'm a human Etch-a-Sketch.
It still doesn't make sense, though. How can I be a vegetable while being stuck in my head rationalizing about being a vegetable? I just wish I could peek outside and get a little glimpse of what's going on.
Better yet, I wish I could be like all those people who almost die then go on to write a book and go on talk shows. "Then I saw this light. It was swirling and flashing and was the most beautiful thing I ever saw. It felt like home." A trigger release of brain chemicals from a body in extreme duress causes hallucinations that make people think they're going to heaven. People using illusions to support their delusions...how fitting. Notice how many people write books about the other place...the bad place...or how many of them write about experiences like this. I think this is worse. At least in hell I would know if I was dead.

"Are you gonna order somethin'? 'Cause if you ain't, you better move along."

"What the..?"

Whoa! Did I just say that? Who the hell is this guy? He looks like something out of a bad western. How did I get in this bar? Where did these clothes come from? Why is everyone eyeing me like I'm about to be shot? What the hell is going on!

...

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 1

It's dark...like my eyes are just floating in nothingness. The kind of black that makes you start to wonder where the rest of your body is. If it weren't for your sense of touch, you might think you had died. That's scary: to die and find that not only is there nothing, but also that you are completely aware of it. Maybe that's why the dark is so unnerving. No, I don't think that's it. I think we're just afraid of the unknown. That's kind of dumb, though, isn't it? I mean, if some huge, many-fanged beast from hell were standing over me ready to devour, I think it would be more scary to see it. But it's dark, and here I am...scared.
I feel around for some reminder of my surroundings. Where was I last? What do I remember before lamely opening my eyes to see the same thing I saw when they were closed? Nothing. I remember nothing. I call out, but I hear no sound. Even my own voice is rendered useless in this dead place. There I go, thinking about death again. Where the hell is everybody? Who the hell is everybody?
My fingers brush nothing. I take a few unsteady steps, but they don't really seem to take me anywhere because none of my senses are telling me anything different than they were just a second ago. What the hell is going on here? Where the hell is here anyways?
Did I get really drunk somewhere last night? I would assume if I did I would have a hangover, but I don't. Actually, aside from the disorienting sensation that I am nowhere right now, I feel great. So, what is this? What's going on?
Ok, start from square one. First of all, do I know who I am? Of course I do, that's a dumb question. I'm...uh. Well, I'm... Hmm, that's funny...of all the things to forget. If I did any sort of mind-altering drug last night, it was sure as hell a lot more potent than alcohol. How do you forget your own name?
Ok, don't panic. I'm sure I knew my name just a second ago. It feels like it's about to drop from my lips, but I just can't seem to give it that last shove. I'm not sure what good it would do. Even if I said it, I wouldn't hear myself. Man, I am really starting to feel uncomfortable about this. I walk forward a bit with my arms stretched out before me. When I run into nothing, I walk a little faster. Ok, so how do I know I'm not dead right now?

"Pulse, 82 bea-..."

What the hell was that? Out of nowhere there's a flash of light. If it weren't for the fact that I'm not all that sure I can see in the first place, I would think the light blinded me. But what was that voice? It said something about a pulse. Maybe she was talking about my pulse. Could I be in the hospital? Maybe I'm in the emergency room. I might have been in some terrible accident, and they're working feverishly to save my life.
But then, her voice sounded pretty calm. There were no other sounds. Maybe the hint of a beep from, say, a heart monitor. That must be it. I'm in the hospital. But why? What happened? My name is-... Damn, why can't I remember? Anyways, ok, so I'm in the hospital. I don't know why, but I don't think I'm in any immediate danger of dying...not that that's overly comforting right now.

"...you sure he isn't aware of anything, docto-"

There it is again! That voice. Yes! Yes, I am aware! Help me! I don't know where I am or what's going on!

...

Hello!

...

Damn... I'm not sure why I thought that would work. Ok, then. I'll just wait. Let me just try to relax. I must be wavering in and out of consciousness. I'm waking up; I'm sure of it. In a few minutes I'll find out what's going on. Just wait. Relax...and wait...

To be continued...

Lending Credence to Disbelief

Here's a recommendation for those philosophical free thinkers out there who aren't afraid to challenge their own beliefs. If you regularly read the comments on my posts you might have noticed that my buddy Megan posted a link to my new favorite website: whywontgodhealamputees.com.

Now, you know how I hate to stir the pot, so I'm warning those who are religious and rigid in the literal interpretation of their specific brand of faith. The website is written from an atheist's point of view. If you're not willing to seriously look at the questions the author poses and examine the way they fit into the dynamic of your belief system, don't bother visiting. Hey, I'm just trying to save you some time.

If, however, you're an atheist who doesn't know how to argue his own point, or you're a follower of an "alternate" faith who wants a really good way to diffuse a zealous conversion attempt by a fanatical Christian, Muslim, or for some strange reason, Jew (I don't know too many Jews that try to convert people), this is the website for you.

I feel it's only fair to say, though, that I don't agree completely with all of the author's conclusions. I agree with most of them and with the most important ones. I just feel he's to quick to assume that everyone's on board with his view of what his questions mean. And his disgust for believers comes through a little too much later in the text, but I did find his questions fascinating and poignant. I will undoubtedly use the material I gleaned from this website in the future, but I will cast it in my own, less disdainful light.

One Down...

A few thousand more to go...

Well, I got my response back from the publisher. It basically said that due to difficult economic times they decided it might be unwise to invest in an unknown author, especially when they didn't think my book would be a "commercial success". The wording of the letter sounds a lot like the one they sent to my friend Elgon, who also sent his book to them. I don't feel too terrible about it because they didn't take the time to specifically craft a letter telling me not to quit my day job. Really, if I were going to craft a generic letter to politely let down an aspiring author seeking my resources in the incredibly competitive world of publishing, it would sound a lot like DAW's.

Anyhow, the thing that kind of stresses me out about this is that not too many recognized names in publishing make open submission as easy as DAW. I knew that when I set out, so I was really hoping they would pick it up. The battle only goes uphill from here. I think my next course of action will be to query Tor. Their process is a little more complicated, but they still take open submissions.

While the first three chapters of my manuscript swims through the treacherous slush pile at Tor, I think I'll be actively searching for an agent. After Tor, I'm not really sure who else in the fantasy genre I would trust to send my book to as an open submission. It would be really great if someone like Del Rey would pick me up, but I won't hold my breath. I know you take what you can get in this business, so we'll just have to see what turns up.

I'm not discouraged, though. Admittedly, I was a little sad to see the box containing my manuscript returned to me so quickly, but after that moment of sore disappointment, my resolve was strengthened even further. I'm going to get this thing published, damn it. Come hell or high water, by hook or by crook, someday you're going to walk into a bookstore and pick up the latest J.A. Goguen, with those letters in big, embossed script.

Get What you deserve...

This is really a random post. My intention is to provide those who are about to give up on coming here a tantalizing hint that I am, as I always insist, still alive and working. I suppose there will be a common theme, hence the title, but a cannot guarantee complete lucidity, so please bear with me.

So, what's been going on lately? Well, first of all, my retarded ass earned itself a speeding ticket the other day. Plus I didn't have my most recent insurance card, so I got a ticket for that. I'd like to say that I had a good reason for speeding, like the posted limit was lower than I thought it was (wich it was) or I was on my way to the emergency room (which I wasn't), but really, I was just pissed off at traffic. The second I found an opening, I got a little overzealous on the accelerator. The cop happened to be in the right place at the right time. I totally admit that I deserved to be pulled over.

On the other hand, I wish other things I deserved came to me so quickly. I specifically mean the good things. Did you ever notice how you can do magnificent things, or even just a really good job at something you do all the time, and no one will notice...but the minute you screw up, everyone is all too happy to point it out to you and chew you out. I know I'm hardly the first to notice, but it's a common lament for a reason. Just because something is cliché, doesn't mean it isn't true.

I don't want to give the impression that I believe the world owes me a living, because I know the parts I've had to play in my lack of success in life, but sometimes I think it's the ease with which people ignore my "good" work that discourages me. It's a major flaw of mine; I am easily discouraged. Unless, of course, I am really passionate about something.

Speaking of things I'm passionate about, I sent my manuscript out into the wild...hopefully it comes back with a hardcover and distribution. My friend Elgon mentioned that DAW Books takes open submissions, so I formatted the thing, printed it, shipped it, and now I'm waiting. It'll be another three or four months before I hear about it, so...

But, man, I really hope the universe sees this as one of those "good things" I deserve. I did work very hard on it, and I am completely willing to invest more time and energy to get it out there. Is it magnificent? Probably not. Is it really good? I hope the editor will think so. The only thing I can say about it for sure is that it is my vision and I love it. I want to spend my life expanding upon it and sharing it with as many people as are interested.

Modern Convenience

I figured I'd take a break from my lately typical political ramblings to talk about something else that pisses me off...namely my computer. There is nothing on this planet, and I mean nothing, that can more quickly get me frustrated than my computer. Nothing can ever be simple with this machine! I try to do something; it doesn't work. I try to fix it; something else doesn't work. Aaargh!

You know what really makes me angry about it, though? There is one thing that all my years of education and experience in the computer science field have taught me, and that is computers don't do anything you don't, at some point, tell them to do. Ok, yeah, if the power flickers while you're flashing the BIOS or the flasher program just freezes on its own, that's not necessarily your fault. But if you update one piece of software and install another after months of surfing the web without virus and/or spyware protection, guess what...that's your bad.

I want to be mad at my computer. I really do. It's easy to do. It's an inanimate object that won't get offended my projecting my own stupidity onto it. There's one problem, though. I can't just do that. When I know it's me...I know it's me. My conscious mind won't let me just pass the blame off on my dumb computer with its ineffable will and proven nefarious intent toward me. And that just make me madder.

Usually I just end up throwing up my hands and walking away. Well, I do that after I spend about an hour and a half yelling at the poor machine (okay, so I start off blaming it a little bit). Little by little I troubleshoot over a couple of days and either figure it out or end up doing a complete reinstall, which I hate to do, but it is my last resort solution.

Anyways, needless to say, I've been having some trouble lately. Whether it's with me or my computer, well...I'd have to say it's probably me. I just hate that my computer feels the need to constantly remind me why I am no better than any of the users who have come to me whining, "My computer doesn't work...piece of sh!t!" That's why I refuse to call tech support. It isn't that I think I couldn’t possibly have caused the problem or that it couldn't possibly be a problem I can't fix. It's that I know I did cause it and probably can't fix it without losing a lot of hair.

There you go. The reason we haven't figured out a cure for baldness is because we keep inventing things that are more efficient at making us rip our hair out. And before you ask, I am not bald...I have a full, thick head of hair. I'm just not sure how long it will last if my computer doesn't start doing what I want it to do instead of what I tell it to do.

E = mt$

Have you seen this new formula? It's apparently a breakthrough in energy cost analysis. Basically it states that as my energy needs are fulfilled, my rate of financial decrease approaches the speed of light.

Look, I know anyone and everyone is bitching about energy costs right now, especially as it pertains to refueling at the pump, but I can't help but join in. That's the beauty of the internet. You can rant uninterrupted, and those who want to listen can while those who don't go search for porn. Of course, some might say that's also the bad thing about the internet, but that's a discussion for another day.

There are a lot of things contributing to the cost of oil right now. The war (oh wait, isn't that over?), I mean the civil war in Iraq (what? there's no civil war), regulations placed on oil corporations (poor oil corporations), the quest for greater profits (ok, maybe not so poor), insane state and local taxes (Uncle Sam wants you...to grab your ankles), and our insatiable appetite for the slick, inky liquid. But it really is that last one that drives all the ones before it. If only there were some sort of lubricant, perhaps petroleum based, that Uncle Sam and the oil companies could use before raping us. K - Y? Because they like to.

If I went to the store to shop for, oh I don't know, say a DVD player, I could easily just raise an incredulous eyebrow and say, "They're crazy if they think I'm going to pay more than forty bucks for this!" Gas, on the other hand, is an entirely different story. The inconvenience of not having a car is so not worth it. I'd love to do my part in saving the environment and sticking it to the man, but it just doesn't seem feasible, financially and otherwise. So when I fill up at the pump and the total comes to over $40, all I can do is grumble and pay. It's like a utility bill...except this one I pay three or four times a month instead of once.

So now the question becomes, where's the top? How much can gas prices rise? Well, like a pubescent teen, the oil corporations will keep pushing and pushing until they find this capitalist society's limit. So, ultimately, the choice is ours...it's not much of a choice, though. Somebody needs to just hurry up and invent some kind of teleportation device. Preferably one that doesn't run on diamond-crusted platinum.

Profiling III...The Elaboration

Okay, for those of you who haven't been paying attention, the running conversation has been about racial profiling. The reason why this has taken up multiple posts? Well, my buddy Justin, who is usually very sympathetic with my rants, has been making some decent counterpoints that have caused me to further explain my bleeding-heart-liberal tirade. Sure, I could just post follow-up comments, but I don't think everyone reads those, and I think these are some good points to cover in the main blog.

I think the main issue here is that I'm not making my point clearly enough, so it's easily misunderstood. There have been places in my two previous posts where people might think I'm saying that we should totally ignore the fact that militant Islamic groups have committed more severe and simply more terrorist attacks than any other ethnic group in recent history. Well, I'm not saying that at all. Like I said in my last post, I don't think we should be cowed by the PC police either. To treat somebody differently from anyone else because you fear public retribution from the politically-correct watchdogs is reverse racism, and it's not any better than just plain old racism. I do, however, feel a lot of sympathy for the innocent people that have to deal with all the backlash generated by the actions of the crazed members of their ethnic group.

Look, I'm not saying that we should just let Mamoud, Fahid, and Ahmed walk through the beeping metal detector unmolested while we strip search Grandma, John, and Jim-Bob; that's foolish. But I am saying that the exact reverse of that is racist and equally foolish. Islamic terror groups have sent out pleas for sympathetic westerners to join them and help carry out attacks because they know this kind of behavior is going on. So, if I hear one more well-to-do white man bitching about being held up an extra hour or two at the airport while we ensure, not only his safety, but the safety of everyone else on his flight, I'm going to punch him in the face! I am not a criminal. I will gladly let security check my luggage and me before I get on an "airborne missile, complete with a human payload and a thousand pounds of jet fuel" (isn't "airborne" implied in "missile"?).

And yes, while some sort of x-ray device that everyone walked through like in Total Recall would help, people can get pretty inventive when they have a goal in mind. I'm sure a resourceful terrorist group could figure out how to carry out an attack with very little carry-on accoutrements. A sort of "MacGyver Jihad" if you will. I think the only effective technological tool would be a device that can sense resolved malintent. Or perhaps we can station some Care Bears in airports to vanquish the hate from terrorist hearts.

If only we lived in a fantasy world...

Grandma, what a great profile you have!

A few short words on profiling. It's really easy to say as a white American that racial profiling is a good idea in some instances. It's really easy because white Americans have no fear of being profiled. Imagine, however, someone stopping you in an airport or in traffic because you were a member of an ethnic group of which several members have performed or are performing serial criminal acts. Would you not resent the implication that just because you're a member of that ethnic group, you have some part in those activities?

Let's also be clear about something. There's racial profiling, then there's criminal profiling. There's a big difference between these. One is a valid and effective law enforcement tool. The other is manipulating statistics to support prejudice and bigotry.

I mentioned in the previous post about the Belgian woman who suicide bombed troops in Iraq, but let's not forget Timothy McVeigh. He was a home-grown terrorist, right here in the good old US of A. And how about the Unabomber, Ted Kaczynski? Did they have to carpet bomb the mountains of some Middle Eastern country to find him? No, he was hiding in a cabin in the mountains of Montana.

I understand that we do have to be realistic. There are a considerable amount of organized terrorist attacks committed by extremist Muslims, but to discount the possibility of a western terrorist out of hand is not just dangerous; it's foolish. I certainly think there needs to be more brains in our security, and I don't believe we should be cowed by the PC police either, but I do believe that there's a lot of sentiment in this that promotes the idea of racial profiling being a good way to keep us safe. That kind of thinking is insidious. It's racism that benignly slips in as a warm fuzzy of security for the greater good. It ends with the average citizen feeling vindicated for treating foreigners like criminals, especially if they have a beard and are wearing a turban.

Yeah, Hitler was eloquent too...

The word being muttered on conservative blogs and other sympathetic information sources is that they have the key to better understanding the situation in Iraq and a crucial element in the "War on Terror". The simple fact, they say, stems from the nature of the single driving force of these terrorists that have us so on edge. What is this force? Religion...but not just any religion. This religion is an irredeemably violent one. The religion, of course, is Islam.

The suggestion is that violence is inherent to Islam, and that the only logical outcome for a person raised in such an environment is fanatical, militant behavior. Therefore, the best way to ward against becoming the victim of terrorist violence is to beware those who practice the Muslim faith. Let's only stop people who "look like Muslims" at the airport. Let's hold Muslim suspects in prison for an invariably long period of time, even though we have no evidence other than their heritage and their religion.

Along a similar vein, these apparent experts in terrorist psychology say we should be wary of those who claim that Islam is a "peaceful religion". They quote organizations like CAIR (Council on American-Islamic Relations) with sarcasm and disdain. They frequently ask why prominent Muslims who speak of a "peaceful" Islam don't condemn horrific acts we hear of in tyrannical Islamic theocracies. Clearly their only interest, some conservatives insist, is in furthering the illusion of a nonviolent faith that is the victim of the terrible publicity of a smaller set of fanatics that happen to have a disproportional amount of influence.

Well, folks...in my opinion, this is all an excuse for bigotry. I know my last post was about racism, and I hate to beat a dead horse, but this stuff really gets me worked up. You see, there are some very educated, well-read individuals spouting this ethnocentric bullsh!t. They go and quote passages from the Koran out of context with a sort of smug satisfaction, as if to say, "See? Doesn't that prove it?"

Well, don't get me started quoting the bible out of context...or referring to several of the crusades that were started, not by Muslims, but Europeans. Oh, hey, let's not forget...

The Inquisition
What a show!
The Inquisition
Here we go!
We know you're wishin' that we'd go away!
But the Inquisition's here and it's here to stay!

It's real easy to take select samples of anything and make it seem like anything you want. Sure, the Koran does say some pretty violent things, and there are places were it seems to be saying some unflattering things about Christians and Jews, but much of the history of the Koran seems to suggest that a lot of this was fabricated or possibly even mistranslated.

The thing that really gets me is that there are people out there reading this conservative stuff and saying to themselves, "Wow, this guy is really eloquent and obviously well read. What he's saying must be true!" Let's not forget how Hitler practically spellbound Germans with his impassioned speeches. These modern day Torquemadas would have us round up every Muslim in the known universe and interrogate them until they "confessed" to some kind of maligned intent and converted to a more "peaceful" religion...say, Christianity. Sound familiar?

No, of course they don't say this outright. They’d even deny it if you suggested it to them. But what other logical inference can you make from their racist ramblings? If the problem in the Middle East is because of the predominant religion, then what is the most logical solution? Theological cleansing?

Here's the real problem...the tyrannical theocracies and fanatical groups that hold so much sway in that area of the world. They warp the philosophies of Allah's followers and mold the religion's influence to their will. And this isn't a recent thing. Caliphs had been twisting the words of the Koran for centuries to suit their own greedy ends. It's no wonder so much intolerant invective can be extracted from the book. The conservative psuedo-nazi's conveniently overlook passages like the following:

Surely those who believe, and those who are Jews, and the Christians, and the Sabians, whoever believes in Allah and the Last day and does good, they shall have their reward from their Lord, and there is no fear for them, nor shall they grieve. [2:62]

Hmm...sounds dangerous. But what's really dangerous is people just reading the state-sponsored propaganda without seeing what the real deal is. At least if I hear something that makes me mad or that seems like important information for me as it pertains to my freedom and safety, I go check it out. I go look at all the sources, then make a decision for myself. There are people who are going to read this prejudiced drivel, and they won't bother to check the author on his sources. They won't go and look through the Koran to see what it really says, or investigate the history to see why it says it. They'll just take it for granted that the author is offering sound advice.

Well, I have some advice of my own. Let's not be so short sighted and narrow minded. Some say it's ridiculous to search old ladies with walkers and clean-cut, western businessmen at airports. I say if we officially take a stance to not search them, terrorists will search for them. Terrorists will begin using sympathetic westerners to suicide bomb for them or will slip bombs into the little old ladies' carry-on luggage. Granny will unknowingly become a martyr for a terror organization she's never even heard of. And let's not forget the Belgian woman who became a suicide bomber in Iraq, targeting American troops. In this case, judging a book by its cover could turn out to be a deadly mistake.

Don't Judge Me...

AT least not by my cover. Today's post is about prejudice in general but racism in particular. You want to hear a sweeping generalization? All racists are ignorant. I know there are educated racists out there, but an attitude so heinous as racism is a choice made despite what knowledge you may have to the contrary. That's ignorance on a level that seems unfathomable to me. But it happens...

So, what brings on this latest tirade? I was watching this reality show called "Black. White." I know, I know, I hate reality TV too, but this is a fascinating premise. Take two families, one white, one black, and make them up to look like the opposite family's race. Then have these two families go out into the community and see what happens. Yes, a fascinating premise indeed, but I don't think they could have chosen two worse families to do this with. Granted, the choice was proabably made due to the high level of drama it would generate, but I think that messes up some the experiment. Let me explain what bugs me.

First, let's take the white family. What a bunch of hippie-turned-yuppie, strange, ignorant people they are. The mother is ablsolutely insane. Her brain is simply not connected to her mouth. She says things that she seriously believes will be taken positively, or at least in jest, and it's actually something that even I would find offensive, and believe it or not, I'm pretty easygoing. The father just seems oblivious. It's not very far into the show, but so far he almost seems like a nonentity. He thinks he knows what it means to be black or how to fit in as a black man...he's totally oblivious. About the only decent one of all of them is their teenage daughter, who revealed to the black poetry group she had been hanging out with that she was actually a white girk in black make-up. I think that was pretty ballsy. Fortunately, only one person freaked out, and he may well have been speaking about his own ambiguous lifestyle when chastizing her for her deception.

Now, the black family. The mom is okay. At least she's not as insane as the white mom, but she's easily offended, a drama factor that plays well with the white mom's hair trigger tear ducts. The dad is likewise sensitive, but it seems like he's scrutinizing every little reaction, statement, etc. for anything that might possibly be construed in some alternate universe in another dimension as even slightly racist. So far they haven't really followed the son around very much, but his attitude seems to be a mix of his parents'.

While the producers have tailor made a volatile situation, as is the requisite for "good" reality TV, it does seem to highlight an issue that I think is important in understanding the state of racism today. There are really two dynamics going on that exacerbate the existing racism in this country. One is that racism is not nearly as omnipresent as some blacks (and a few other minority members) would like to believe. The other, of course, is that it's far more prevalent than most white people care to admit. I don't think one side is any worse than the other. Ignoring racism won't make it go away, and assuming all people of a specific ethnicity are racist is, in itself, racist.

I'd like to think I am not racist. When I look at another person, I see just a person, regardless of ethnicity, heritage, color, etc. These two dynamics I spoke of, however, sometimes have me thinking of things in more complex ways than should be necessary. When I see a black man, I make no assumptions about how amiable he will be, what his job is, what his family situation is, but if I interact with him, I sometimes find myself unconsciously running everything I say and do through this little filter in my head that asks, "Okay, could this be even unreasonably interpreted as racist?" That sucks! It's totally unfair. I want to be in total control of my thoughts, words and actions, but society has me and everyone else so keyed up about race, it's making almost all of us at least a little bit racist. Because once you start to change how you act and even think around someone based on their race, that's racism, even if it's with good intentions.

I don't want to be racist, and I don't want anyone else to be either. This failure for each side to tone down the exaggeration is almost worse than having them be straight up racist. Like the black family's mom said, at least in the old days, before the civil rights movement, you knew what you were dealing with. The black father was sort of right in saying that racism is a little more covert. Yes, there are probably plenty of straight up racists that are just faking tolerance because of the modern push for true equality, but I think the real covert racism is the unconscious kind of "hyporacism" that most of us are guilty of nowadays. We don't think we're racist, but we're exercising racism by either ignoring it, assuming it, or going to extremes to make people think we aren't.

When it comes right down to it...I guess I really am straight up racist: I have something against the human race, which biologically speaking, is the only true race of homo sapiens sapiens. Humans are dumb. There are a few shining hopefuls among us, but we are, on the whole, pretty stupid. We do the dumbest, most backwards things and don't even realize how we're hindering our own progress. If I were an alien, I think I'd have to insist you drink from your own fountain, and I would definitely make you sit at the back of the spaceship...