FINDERS KEEPERS

Chapter 1 Losers

     Bored, I fall over the edge of indifference. I fall into a ditch where the only options are those meanings hidden behind words. A world of mud and shit and mosquitoes big as hummingbirds. Did I mention intermittent moments of terror and disgust?

     I sit at the conference table with several others in tasteful, expensive suits. Ray Resnick, a being barely evolved above a raging redneck, completes his presentation. While he's talking, I perceive what a dangerous son of a bitch he is. I decide I'd rather have him on my side than against me. So into the silence that follows, I interject, "I think Ray's hit the nail on the head. Even if his plan doesn't work, it'd be worth the budget and staff he's proposed to learn more about the problem."

     Ray flashes me a grateful smile and the deal is done. Someday he'll be a handy ally to have on my team. Bitterly, I wish I could care. "Another 'friend'," I tell myself, "who will slit my throat and steal my wallet if he can. Oh my, I'm so happy."

     Nearly all of my power is drawn from the appearance of power. No one knows better than I that every significant decision in StatusQuo International is made by old man Kotropoulis himself. Kottie spends his days speculating how many pins can be stuck in the head of an angel. For sure, I'm no angel. But you know what I mean.

     Kottie's indifference to the actual issues in any interaction is legendary. What matters to him is that everyone dances to his tune.

     About ten years ago, I realized for certain that no one but me ever read my Monthly Reports. Instead of formal analyses framed in accounting structures, I began writing in the style of a personal journal, exposing every ugly turn of the conspiracies, coups, character assassinations and other corporate politics in which I was immersed. Of course, that was when I found out Kottie was reading the reports after all.

     He sent me a note that read:

Re: April Monthly Report
What have you learned from all this?
K.

     I replied, "To function in a state of chronic depression and acute despair."

     His next message simply said:

Good. That means you're becoming a realist. Be in my office next Tuesday at 7 a.m.
K.

     So I flew to the Cayman Islands, rented a car and, at 6:45 Tuesday morning, buzzed the buzzer at the main gate to his estate. I received directions to the front entrance of the mansion.

     The door was answered by a superstar model. She wore a knit bikini with one side of the top fallen down to reveal a very pink and pert goosebumped nipple.

     "You're the seven o'clock?" she asked.

     I nodded. She beckoned with her finger, turned and briskly walked away. I followed her through a dozen large, densely carpeted rooms. Paintings by old masters hung on the walls. The furnishings of each room were in a different tradition. One chamber featured a small raised platform with three somber, nicely dressed musicians playing a piano, a harp and a cello. It was a beautiful, haunting sad melody that followed us for a while as we passed into other areas. At last we stopped before an oak pair of double doors. She tapped with her knuckles and turned the knob.

     Kottie was sitting on the other side of an immense ebony desk. Black velvet drapes and windows were open. A warm morning breeze accompanied us into his office. Kottie stood and acknowledged me with a small bow and smaller smile. "Christie," he said and her eyes darted quickly to his face. He pointed at his own left tit. She glanced down and, nonchalantly as someone fastening a button that had come undone, tucked away that happy teat to where it couldn't be seen. She gave me a tiny half-smile as she walked out the door.

     Kottie's eyes and mine met. What a face he's got! Thinning hair. Large hooked nose. Bright eyes. A vicious look, like a bald eagle scanning the ground for prey. Or like my high school football coach when he'd get worked up before a big game. I didn't know then that Kottie maintains that attitude at all times. It's just him. He blinked across the enormous black desk at me and said, "The strong take and the weak try to survive. That's how it's always been. So you might as well be strong. Right? Take what you can get."

     "I wish it were otherwise," I replied.

     "If wishes were yardsticks, then fuckin' beggars would rule."

     "I suppose you're right," I said.

     "Of course I'm right." he said, "Let's get down to business. You're here so I can offer you a promotion"

     "All right," I responded.

     "Triple your salary. Stock options. Big budget. Big staff. More fuckin' perks than pigshit. But there is a catch. It's a test of how strong you are. The position is Vice President of Operations."

     "That's Hank Barnes."

     "Right."

     "He's . . ."

     "I know. The only real friend you've got in StatusQuo International"

     "Yes. And also the best man on the entire management team."

     "He's weak as pigshit, tries to be a nice guy."

     "He is a nice guy."

     "So much the worse. You're either with the program or you're out. Being nice guys is not what StatusQuo International is all about."

     "What happens if I accept?"

     "He's out."

     "And if I decline?"

     "You both keep your present positions. You won't be offered a promotion again till fuckin' you-know-what freezes over."

     I chewed on that a while and finally said, "I accept."

     "Good. Tomorrow I want you to tell Hank to pack up and leave. Tell him what you've done."

     "That's harsh."

     Just tell him losers weepers, finders keepers.. Or whatever you feel like saying. But telling him is part of the deal."

     "All right."

     "Good. Have a nice fuckin' day." He rotated in his chair and disappeared behind its high leather back. It seemed as though I was alone in his study. I got up and left.

     Wednesday I told Hank.

     "I've sold out to Kottie. He gave me your job. Part of the deal is that I have to tell you to get out. Take any personal belongings with you before the end of the day. As of tomorrow, Security won't let you in the building."

     "Okay," he said, and after a moment's pause with eyes averted, "Now I'd appreciate it if you'd leave me alone."

     "Certainly," I replied, slamming the door behind me.

     All that happened ten years ago. Since then I've been out to see Kottie half a dozen times more. He's in his seventies now. He'd look twenty years younger than that if not for the age spots on his forehead and hands. We've gotten to be sort of pals, to the extent that's possible in such an unequal relationship. We've played golf on his private course. Had long conversations while walking on his private beach. That was where he told me that multi-billion dollar StatusQuo International was one of his lesser holdings.

     "Defense contracts. That's where I put my money for the greatest return. That's where you get to play real fuckin' hardball. What's the worst that ever happens to anyone in office politics? Someone gets fired or even goes to jail, right? In the military industrial game, assassination is little more than a playful slap. Piss us off and we'll bomb your fuckin' cities, rape your women, roast your babies, starve your parents in a refugee camp. Do you have any idea how much profit there is in one load of bombs on one plane? That's real money! That's real power! Am I right?"

     "You're fuckin' right." I replied.

     He regarded me with a mentor's benign smile.

     I added, "But the defense contractors aren't actually the ones who start the wars."

     The look on his face faded from approval to disappointment. "You're incredibly naïve," he said and walked away so quickly I couldn't catch up.

     Here's a mystery I wish someone could explain to me: Kottie is impervious to flattery or any of the ploys to which those who wield great power are accustomed. But one evening as we were walking to his car, I heard the chauffeur whisper, "Tonight you look marvelous, Mr. Kotropoulis." As I watched, Kottie stood a little taller and his step picked up a jaunty spring.

     I get these terrible headaches that go on for days. The doctor tells me they're from stress, offered me a prescription for tranques. I told him no, thanks. I've got to keep on my toes. But wherever I go, the stress also goes. Even now, I'm driving home in my Hummer. Just forced one of those VW bugs onto the shoulder of the road. Probably the only thing that's made me smile today. No satisfaction though. Just fatigue. And the sense that though I'm no hero, I'll be standing at Ground Zero when everything blows apart.

Chapter 2 Weepers

     After my daily routine in the pressure-cooked, macabre circus of StatusQuo International, you'd think I'd get some relief when I'm with my wife and kids. I used to, I guess but lately if my family were part of a conspiracy to irritate me further, they couldn't do a better job.

     Just sat down at the dinner table. Had to call the kids three or four times before they came. They ran squealing and screaming into the dining room. Now they're kicking one another under the table and giggling. Sondra giggles too, letting them know that Mommy thinks their behavior's okay. This is over the top! I can't take any more!

     "All right! That's enough!" I scream. "Up to your room! Get in your jamas and turn off the light! Go!"

     Tommy gives me his brattish pout and protests, "We were only playing foot tag."

     I make sure he feels the power of my fury. I yell in his face, "Not one more word! Not to me or your mother or each other! Straight to bed! All of you! Right now!"

     As the little one is running up the stairs, she whines, "But I'm hungry."

     Sondra knows better than to ever bitch at me. But she gives me this incredulous, angry look full of . . . what is that? Confusion? That look is worse than being whipped with a thousand words.

     Silently, I walk out to the patio. It's dark already. Half moon's out, stars everywhere. Not a cloud in sight. I plop down into the comfortable chair. Is it the humidity or anxiety that makes me sweat like this? It's too warm. Definitely too warm.

     Sondra's starting to get fat. The kids have turned into uncontrollable brats. Nothing gives me pleasure any more. Nothing at all. Is this all there is? It's hardly worth it to be alive. Nothing seems possible except more of the same. There's no . . . Hey! There goes a shooting star. Haven't seen one of those for a while. Now it'll fade. Fade. It's not fading. It's getting brighter. Must be space debris burning as it enters the atmosphere. Any second it will disappear. It's getting bigger. Goddam! It's falling this way!! Yow!!! There it goes!!!! Right into the empty lot next door!!!!! Holy shit!!!!!! It's glowing bright as phosphorous!!!!!!! What could it possibly be? Wonder if it's starting a fire!!!! I better go see!

Chapter 3 Finders

     That maintenance guy hasn't been out here for a while. Some of these weeds are up to my knees. There it is!!! Damn, it's bright! Hurts my eyes. Okay. Squinting helps. Don't feel any heat from it yet. Maybe al little closer. Still not hot. Damn! I'm standing almost on top of it. It's about the size of a grapefruit. What is it? A rock? A piece of metal? I can't tell because the light's too intense. When I hold my hand out, I seem to see through to the shadows of bones. No. That's got to be an optical illusion. I move my hand closer. It's not hot at all, not even warm. I could probably touch it. I do!

     The vacant lot disappears without a trace. Suddenly I'm standing on the shore inside a sphere of purple sky with turquoise clouds drifting by. Honey-colored waves lap at my feet. Across the sea, on the horizon, there's a flaming ball of light that possesses the features of Kottie's face. Shadows and flames wax and wane in and out facial expressions both familiar and strange. Kottie with a bright radiant halo. Saint Kottie barely containing his rage. Demon Kottie, wearing a smile of self-satisfaction. Irrational Kottie, grinning in evil idiot delight.

     "Kottie!" I scream. "What's going on? What are you doing? What's this all about?"

     "I'm not Kottie, you fuckin' moron!" the sun with Kottie's face and voice replies.

     "I know you when I see you and it's definitely you. How did you do this? What's the point?"

     "You're wrong as pigshit!" the sun answers. "Some see me as Jesus, Buddha or Mephistopheles. You see me as Kottie. In your eyes I become whatever you most believe. It's no big deal."

     "Oh, yeah?" I respond. "If you're not Kottie, then who do you claim to really be?"

     "Moi?" the sun raises its shadowy brow. "I am chaos masquerading as nature. I'm perfect order disguised as happenstance. The moon is my anus. The stars are my splooge. Appearing to you is just something I do."

     "You still look and talk just like Kottie."

     "That's not my fuckin doing," he replies, then roars, "It's you!"

     "Well, I want to leave," I say. "How do I get out of here?"

     "That's easy," he says and for a moment flares so brightly I have to shut my eyes. "Just think of leaving and nod your head. It'll be like waking from a dream. But before you go, there's something you should know. I've traveled halfway across the universe to grant you one wish."

     That stops me in my tracks. "Why me?" I ask.

     "It's totally fuckin' random, like you won the lottery. It's predestination, the inevitable fate that's been waiting for you all along. Pardon my sarcasm, but the question is wrong. Irrelevant as pigshit. No possible answer. Are you going to make a wish or not?"

     "Wait! Wait!" I interject. "Let me guess. All you want in return for this wish is my soul."

     The Kottiesque sun laughs in derision. "Your soul? Come on. If a soul could be sold, you'd have made the decision to cash yours in long, long before today. In fact, you've ignored your soul so completely that all you know about it is hearsay. That's a good one! Your fuckin' soul! Look. If you want a wish, it's yours for free. Otherwise I've got other places to do and things to be."

     "Hold on!" I cry. "If there's one thing I've learned from the Internet, it's that 'FREE!' means you'd better check the terms and conditions before you agree."

     "Ain't no terms," he sneers. "And so far as conditions, there are only two. One, don't ask for the impossible. And two, don't get me mad."

     "Can I wish for many wishes?" I ask.

     "Try a trick like that and you'll feel my wrath." the Sun replies.

     "And what do you mean 'impossible'?"

     "Once there was a woman who wished for diamond skin with copper hair, long iron claws and to stand ninety feet high. Don't ask me why. But a creature made of such materials and that tall could never have evolved on her world. So it was impossible. Instead of her wish, she got nothing at all."

     "I'm beginning to see," I say. "You're a little like a genie in a bottle."

     "There was one fellow who thought so, just a couple of decades ago on this very planet." the sun responds with a snarl. "He called me Genie or Jeannie or sometimes Barbara Eden. I gather he saw me as a beautiful naked woman.

     His wish was for me to be his sex slave forever. Forever! Like for the rest of fuckin' eternity I was supposed to be his bitch. I threw him into a black hole where he imploded in his lust. I felt bad about it afterward. But he pissed me off."

     "Hey! You're really not Kottie!" I yell.

     For just a moment, Kotties face fades into that of a flaming cherub with fat cheeks, pouting lips and immense sad eyes. "Well, duh," he says. "How could you tell?"

     "Kottie would never feel regret about anyone he's destroyed," I reply.

     "It's like I told you," the sun answers with a sigh. "I appear to you as whoever you think is most powerful. This Kottie must be quite a guy."

     I nod. "He's one of the big players behind the scenes."

     The sun's nimbus sways like long golden tresses in a breeze. "What's the life expectancy for humans?"

     "Up to maybe a hundred years."

     The sun blinks his eyes once and says, "Then his entire existence is hardly a blip on the constant radar. He's no bigger player than any other human. In fact, what time he does have is diminished by shutting out anything that doesn't feed his greed for domination. No, I can assure you, he's not a big player at all."

     I'm a little astonished. "Kottie's not major?"

     The Sun shakes his head no. His voice is matter-of-fact. "He's a lot like you: the victim and perpetrator of a grim interpretation of what is true. It's a self-inflicted curse. He's allowed the world to distract him from the Universe."

     "I don't know what you mean."

     "Didn't he tell you that a plenitude of meaningless rewards could be yours for obsessing on personal economics? That the suffering of humanity would be inflicted on you if you dared to care?"

     "Oh, yeah. He said that the strong take and the weak do what they can to survive."

     "Not exactly a great thought. But it expresses as much truth as anything you learned in school or from the evening news. Certainly not a world you'd want to spend your brief lifespan creating."

     I'm blushing and doing my best not to give in to tears. "There's nothing I can say to that," I say.

     "Nothing needs be said. Except that it's time for your wish. What have you decided?"

     "I can't decide. I'm disoriented, confused. Am I hallucinating this whole thing?"

     "Sort of. It's more like a kaleidoscope that becomes something else with each way you turn your attention. It's how you've always made up the world you live in."

     "No, no. I meant you and the wish and this whole surreal fantasy planet."

     The Sun's face transforms into someone else. Someone familiar. I almost recognize that face. Who is it? Ohhh! It's my mommy, the way she looked at me when I was little and getting those stitches in my knee. The voice is hers too.

     "It was desperation that brought you to me or me to you. Here's what's real as anything gets: you've got to live with what you do. But you can change what you're doing at any time. That's exactly how the wish comes true."

     I say, "Mom?"

     "No more or less than Kottie," the Sun replies, its face changing again, nose growing large and hooked with bright piercing eyes. "Now make your fuckin' wish. I don't have all night."

     "Wait!" I protest. "let me see if I've got this straight. The wanna-be diamond skin bad ass woman made a poor wish?"

     "Right."

     "And the horney guy too?"

     "Yes, sir. You are correct."

     "And you've granted wishes to a lot of other people as well?"

     "Countless times."

     "Then what's the best wish anyone's ever made? In terms of how it turned out for the wisher?"

     The Sun flares so brightly that a hot solar wind scours my face. "Good question! Perhaps you're not as hopeless a case as your life till now might seem."

     "I'm glad you like my question," I say. "But what's your answer?"

     "The best wish ever made was roughly one hundred thirty eight million years ago on a planet similar to your present day Earth."

     "Okay. And what was the wish?"

     "The fellow who made the wish was a high-ranking General in the military force that had recently conquered every nation in his world. It was a triumph that left him feeling hollow and bitter. I would tell you his name, but their language was in phonemes outside the range of the human brain."

     "I really don't care about his name. What did he wish?

     "Manjooshree."

     "I beg your pardon?"

     "That's about as close as I can come to a human pronunciation of his name."

     "What did he wish?"

     "He wanted to remember who he was and what he experienced at the moment of his birth."

     "Yes?"

     "That's it. He got his wish."

     "But what happened then?"

     "Oh, about sixteen million years later the planet was toasted like a marshmallow when its sun exploded."

     "I mean with the General. What happened with him?"

     "Him? Oh, nothing in particular. He just wound up in a constant state of awe and delight."

     "What about his military career?"

     "It very quickly disappeared. I believe he took an early retirement. To those who knew him it seemed he'd gone from a heartless, vicious, greedy bastard to a saint. He won some sort of international prize for doing good. In the award presentation they called him 'a freelance goodwill ambassador to all living things'. The ironic part is that he didn't even mean to be nice. Because he was in a state of bliss, he simply brought joy wherever he went."

     "That happy, huh?"

     "Seemed to be."

     "Then that's what I wish. To see things the way I saw them when I was born."

     The Sun blinks his eyes at me and there's a sudden strobe of light

Chapter 4 Keepers

     There's a sudden strobe of light, then a strobe of shadow. I stand in moonlight. Silhouettes of trees sway slightly at the edge of the vacant lot. There's my house, windows all dark. In the distance I hear a dog bark. Slight breeze on my face carries the cool scent of wild mint and a subtle taste of chlorine from the pool. The clothing I wear is brushing my skin everywhere. Sweet taste, sort of like strawberries, hangs on my tongue.

     This is how it feels to be alive! Everything that's out there I experience within!. In and out mirror each other! Where their reflections meet, that's me. Ho! I've just caught on to the cosmic joke that is myself. Why am I here? I really want to know! I guess to experience what's happening around and within me. It's a riddle with as many answers as there are people to ask it. I smile. What more could I possibly ask?

     I return to the house. Turn on the hall light as I walk up the stairs. Every detail is intimately familiar but seems like something I've never seen fully before. I stand at our bedroom's open door. Sondra's sleeping on the bed. She's naked on her belly and has kicked off the sheets.

     Lately I've been thinking she was getting fat. Haven't felt aroused by her for weeks. Got to admit, right now she looks pretty good. No. Not just pretty good. My God! She's beautiful! That exquisite plane of sensitive skin from her neck into her shoulders and back! Dried tears on her cheek. I did that, made her cry. The look on her face tonight was heartbroken love! What was I thinking? I was like an enraged porcupine on the attack, slapping sharp quills of words into the hearts of those I care about most. How I wish I could take it back! I want to make love with her so tenderly that she doesn't wake up. Want to take away the frown she was wearing when she laid down.

     I undress. Warm air on my naked skin. I listen to her breathing. A little gasp catches in her throat, the ghost of a sob. Almost lightly as the air that touches me, I stroke the hair on the nape of her neck. Barely brushing her shoulder tickles the ends of my fingers. I lick away tracks of tears with the edge of the tip of my tongue. I don't think I've ever loved her this much before. At least I haven't seen her this way for ever so long.

     Here, where I rest my hand on the small of her back, sensation radiates out all over her body. To the bottoms of her feet. To her ears. To her uterus. To her heart. Here, this is the skin above her calf, behind the knee. Have I ever felt before how it responds, drawing my fingers up to her thighs?

     She sighs and takes a breath so deep that it resonates with passion while passing through the canyons of sleep.

     My fingertips find the moist lips nestled beneath her pubic arch, entrance to this wet and ready hole that runs directly to her soul. I enter her from behind. She raises her butt a little, flutters her eyelids and whispers my name. Is she awake? No. Look. Rapid eye movements. She's dreaming that we're making love while we're making love! This is too perfect! I have no control at all! I plunge all the way to the bottom of that well of sensation and feel what it¹s like to pollinate her waiting seed! Whatever will be, will be. Will be.

     I want to wake her up and make love again, this time looking in her eyes, not saying a word. But first there's something else I need to do. I get into my pajamas, gazing at her face as I pull on a sleeve. In her face I perceive the sensuality of Lilith and the surrender of Eve.

     I go to the kids' room and turn on the light. I sit on the foot of Tommy's bed. "Wake up! Wake up!" I cry in a comic high-pitched voice. As they look up at me with their drowsy eyes, I say, "Hey! When's the last time I told you guys a funny bedtime story?"

Samuel Beast

Samuel Beast's book Now & Again will be available in bookstores this summer.
His website - http://www.samuelbeast.com - is under construction but is open to visitors