HANDS

DOWN

a story of incarceration

by

Logan Crannell

Copyright © 2018

Logan Crannell

1st Edition

ISBN 978-1-5323-7510-1

'I was standing

You were there

Two worlds collided

And they could never tear us apart'

-Michael Hutchence, INXS

To those who made me aware,

incarcerated or otherwise

& for Jack, my good sir

 1. Off The Grid

2. Gaslighting

Two Worlds Colliding

Leaving Broken Hearts Behind

Those Small Hours

All Perfect Light And Promises

 3. Ada County

Cookies on Cleveland

Last Night In Medical

Cell 846

A New Cellie

The Three Of Us

The Icarus Kid

The Outlaw Spirit

Totem

Kindness Befalls A Wicked Man

ISM

When The Dead Come Calling

Counting Bricks

10 Days To Sentencing

Sentencing Day (Broken Mass)

4. Inner States

INTRODUCTION

I don't identify as a victim.  It's a choice.  Nor am I the political type, but my disillusionment with this country is intolerable.  I'm not using this space to vent about the Bible, the 2nd amendment, racial profiling, election meddling, school shootings, immigration, body shaming, or police brutality.

No, I'm saving my ammunition for one target – the MeToo Movement.  

I'm a straight man that worked in a gay bar for years.  I lost count of how many men grabbed my ass or flirted with me.  Didn't phase me in the slightest.  Hell, I was flattered by it.  I didn't file lawsuits and voice outcry for their behavior.  I chose to be in that environment; in a nightclub full of homosexuals drunk and high on cocaine.  It came with the territory.  I was not a victim.  

When I got sexually harassed by a convicted murderer in cellblock, I had no intentions of reporting him to the deputies.  If I got forced into an act of sodomy, I planned to rip his testicles from his body.  If he had molested me, I wouldn't see myself as a victim.  If I'd eviscerated the son of a bitch, he wouldn't be a victim either.  Sexual urges and survival instincts couldn't care less for morality.    

In my last relationship, detailed in this book, I experienced every possible form of domestic violence, and, like most men, did not press charges.  I can't speak for other men's motivations; perhaps it's the gender roles beaten into them as kids, or the fact authorities don't take the claims seriously.  Violent women generally get a slap on the wrist, if that.  In a battle of he said-she said, men tend to lose.  For me, I didn't involve the law, because I put myself in that situation.  Therefore I didn't have the right to ask for sympathy and pity.  

Sure, I hold her accountable for what she did, but I blame myself for letting it happen.  I invested her with power she didn't have.  I could have stopped it, but I was weak.  Taking accountability can be painful.

I stood in a court of law, accused by that woman, of domestic violence, kidnapping, rape, assault, battery, strangulation and a litany of other crimes – all because I hurt her feelings.  

Yes, women are out there with personality disorders, pathological fears, and severe emotional problems.  They want revenge, and a safe place to harbor personal vendettas.  The MeToo movement provides the support they need, like an umbrella protecting them from the rain.  

They drag down the integrity of women who've actually experienced real trauma, thereby damaging the credibility of the movement as a whole.  Cowards.  Charlatans.  Sympathy-seeking, self-proclaimed victims.  And the court systems and media nurture and enable their actions.  

It's a dangerous cultural climate.  When a man suggests we take a closer look at the accuser, women say, 'How dare you imply these poor women are lying!'  Well, it turns out some of them are lying.  That's what liars do, and they do it in front of juries or in front of cameras, depending how high-profile the case may be.  

Am I meant to believe that throughout Hollywood, actresses have never used sex as a weapon to manipulate and take advantage of men in order to further their careers?  If so, I'm laughing.   Those mirrors show more than age lines.

The filmmaker Terry Gilliam said in an interview: It’s crazy how simplified things are becoming.  There is no intelligence anymore and people seem to be frightened to say what they really think, adding that, It is a world of victims.  I think some people did very well out of meeting with Harvey (Weinstein) and others didn’t. The ones who did knew what they were doing.  These are adults.  We are talking about adults with a lot of ambition.

Terry stated the absolute truth.  And he got ostracized and shamed for it.  Our society can't handle the cold maturity of a statement like that.  It's not sensitive enough.  A person's feelings have become paramount.  It's simply unacceptable to hurt them.  What a startling indication of an insecure society.  Waves of self-entitlement are crashing into the hard realities of the world.  

Everything falls on a spectrum.  That includes abuse.  However, 'due process' is a term that elicits rage.  Harmless jokes on an elevator can put you up for review.  Kind terms of endearment in the workplace can get you fired.  The proposition that harassment 'has degrees' brings about rallying cries and petitions.  

How gratifying it is for them to belittle a man, and how strange they can't see the obvious; that drive for empowerment is the same as their aggressors, albeit cloaked with moral indignation.  As long as people have sex, predators will be among us.  No amount of public whining and finger pointing can change the nature of humanity, dark as it is.  

There are truthful women fighting the good fight, by bringing awareness to the sick behavior of powerful men.   I hope they don't get swept away by the inevitable backlash.  Job opportunities will disappear.  Decent men won't take the risk of emotional investment.  Have they successfully blacklisted themselves?  How many perceive them as a liability?

The MeToo Movement is founded on the wounded ego of imagined self.  Ironically, time remembers us all as equal, whether we were or not.  

I'm not a victim.  Neither are you.  

-L.C

June, 2018

1.

OFF

THE

GRID

Are you antsy to get back on the road? Carrie spoke to my ear

We laid together, under the movement of a ceiling fan, in her home.  The windows offered a morning view of the remote desert landscape.  What I'd seen only in faint outlines, when we arrived after sunset, had now become clear.  She, however, was holding my attention.  

I'd found a kindred spirit, in Carrie.  We met, over drinks in a bar, past the railroad tracks of downtown Flagstaff, Arizona.  Sitting outside, on the patio, I told her my story.  I'd chosen to travel, with my cattle dog Jack, living mostly out of my truck.  My marriage had ended amicably.  The town, though, was too small for opportunities - so, I packed what I could, and gave the rest away.

It got late, and Carrie lamented her long drive home.  I invited her to my hotel room, which was a bold gesture for me.  She stretched her arms and smiled, gladly accepting.  It was the last night I could afford to sleep there.  

Logan, can I ask you something? she inquired, on the bed

Of course.

Are you attracted to me?

Yes, I am.

Then come sit next to me.

I was leaning against the dresser, with a beer in my hand.  I confided that I wasn't ready for sex, and Carrie respected that.  We crawled between the sheets, and I felt the warmth of her body on mine.  I couldn't explain it then, but the connection I had with her was like that of a lifelong friend. If I cheapened it with casual sex, she might feel obligated to leave afterward.   

Jack, my protector, sat at the foot of the bed, keeping a close eye on her.

He's so leery of me, she said, chuckling

It takes him a minute.  He's nervous around strangers.  His last owners abused him.

Did you get him from a shelter?

Yeah, they found him eating out of a dumpster.  He had a week before they were going to put him down.  Nobody wanted him.

He's handsome, she said, letting Jack smell her hand, How long have you two been together?

Six years.

It's sweet that you saved him.

.

In the morning, Carrie had to work.  Knowing I was low on money, she offered to let me stay at her house and left her contact info on the nightstand.  She kissed me goodbye.  I had the afternoon to think about it.  Jack settled in her warm spot on the bed, plaintively looking to me for his morning walk and breakfast.   

He and I went down the three flights of stairs and through the parking lot.  I inspected my truck, since I had no keys for the lock or ignition; I cranked it manually.  Heading up to the room, Jack eagerly sniffed for the correct door on the row.

I checked out of the hotel and got coffee for my hangover.  I drove without a destination, ascending into the foothills.  The Lowell Observatory rested at the highest vantage point, calmly viewing the sky above.  There was no one around, and I parked in a grove of pine trees.  The air was crisp.  I studied the architecture of the buildings and imagined seeing the night sky with the technology housed inside.   

I meditated, taking in the palpable energy of that place until it started to rain.  The sound of the drops falling against the metal were so relaxing that I drifted off to sleep.  Jack curled up by my legs, awake and entranced by his surroundings.  It was a peaceful moment for us.  When I woke up, I decided to go towards Carrie's house.

.

Her directions led me to a grocery store off Route 66.  The rest of the drive was an off-road trek through the desert – though I didn't grasp how far.  Carrie met me at the store.  We bought groceries for a home cooked meal; fresh veggies, chicken, and a bottle of whiskey.

I parked my truck in a secure spot, bringing anything of value with me, then we drove off in her van, with Jack.  The pavement ended, and we hit the rugged terrain, as the sun began to set - the headlights cutting a path.  Miles rolled by and landmarks were gone, to my untrained eyes.  We told energetic stories, but sometimes the awesome power of the desert put us in silence.  The miles continued to pass, and I lost all sense of time and distance.  The horizon line stared us down unceasingly.  Even as the last rays of light faded, I felt the sensation of being watched by an ominous force.      

It was dark when we got to her property.  I could make out three quiet houses (her relatives occupied the other two).  Solar panels and water tanks were stationed about, vital as temples.  I saw a chicken coop or housing for other animals.  Two large dogs ran up to greet us as we approached Carrie's porch.  Jack was unpredictable around other dogs, so I fielded him from getting too close.

Inside, a single wall divided the open floor plan.  The space on the left was empty for remodeling.  The warmth had migrated to the right, in the bedroom and kitchen.  Carrie and I relaxed.  That small, bright room the two of us were in supplied the only light in a limitless black expanse.  We were safe.

.  

A perfect night-in needs good music, and Carrie had one hell of a record collection.  We took shots of whiskey as we thumbed through the stack, smelling the vinyl and admiring the artwork.  We settled on the Tom Waits record 'Orphans.'  She blew off a little dust and placed it on the turntable.  The rich sound from the speakers filled the air.

We made dinner; I marinated the chicken in basil lemongrass olive oil that I got from a shop downtown. Carrie prepped and seasoned the veggies.  While it cooked, we enjoyed the company of one another.  She put her arms around me.  There wasn't a table, so when the food got plated, we sat on the bed and savored it.  Thanks to Carrie, I felt restored.   

We spent the rest of the evening cuddled in her bed, watching campy 80s horror films on VHS and drinking local beer.  How could I be so comfortable with her, yet so uncomfortable with myself?

.

We woke up, hair disheveled and hungry.  Carrie brought me outside to the chicken coop.  A rooster followed behind me, clucking suspiciously.  There were the rise and fall of the hens' cadence, as Carrie rifled through the straw, finding fresh warm eggs.  We had them for breakfast, with hot coffee.   

After eating, we decided to explore.  We climbed a wooden fence along the property line, while the dogs trailed behind us.  There was nothing in the distance - the desert stretched, to no end.  As we walked, Carrie told me stories of her experiences living out there.  Pointing to a watering hole, she mentioned a run-in with hunters waiting to shoot the wildlife.  We visited the grave of a beloved pet. I snapped a few photos of Carrie, though she was shy.    

She had wanted to paint her living room but confessed to a lack of motivation. I inspired her to pick up a brush with me.  We taped along the trim and baseboards. Then, spent the afternoon painting the walls blue while listening to Mogwai records.  It was the least I could do in exchange for her hospitality, and I think it helped her, in a way, to get out of a personal rut.    

Carrie asked me to stay awhile, and I wondered if I should.  It came so naturally, being with her.  With every hour, it felt more like I belonged there, and that's what scared me.  I was struggling with comfortable feelings.  I wanted to drive out of myself until nothing was familiar anymore.

When she spoke softly in my ear, asking if I'd be leaving soon, she already knew the answer.  I resolved not to lose her altogether.  As she returned me through the desert, cattle blocked the road and were stubborn in clearing out of the way.   

Standing beside my truck, I held Carrie in my arms, and she pressed herself to my chest.  

Call me when you get to where you're going, she said

I will, I promised

.

I headed north for Boise, Idaho.  My friend Hollace moved there and spoke well of it.  Due to his recent divorce, he had a spare room.  I didn't consciously choose to live in Idaho long-term.  I drifted, taking it one day at a time.  I knew I needed money, and Boise seemed my best option.    

As I passed through Utah, I contacted another close friend, Tom, who'd started a record label.  We scheduled some videography gigs.  I shot two music videos, and a live concert during a five-day period.  I'd made movies all my life - visual media was how I communicated with the world.

My proudest achievement, titled 'The Torment of Pablo Pastoral,' got performed with marionette puppets, on sets built by hand.  I figured I'd finish the editing and voice recording in Idaho.

For a series called Life Chronicles, I kept a camera rolling on my own life.  I paused every few years to weave the recordings into a story, in the vein of subjective journalism.  I stored fifteen years of footage on five external hard drives, in a cigar box, under the driver seat of my truck.   

I had produced sixty-three video projects and burned out.  But I still captured the stories unfolding around me out of habit.  I continued shooting material for the fourth part of the Life Chronicles series.  I traveled throughout the southern states, staying in haunted hotels, in an attempt to speak with the dead.  I assure you, it's not my intention to convince you of the supernatural - but I cannot tell this story without ghosts.  

Remember, this book is not about truth, but belief, and how people choose to act in accordance.  This is my interpretation of the events.   

2.

GASLIGHTING

Boise, Idaho - I took Exit 54 to Broadway Avenue.  The first business I passed, a cut-rate bar named Jim's Alibi, looked too seedy, even by my standards.  I made a note to avoid it.  I turned left to the residential area where Hollace lived.  The cross streets ran diagonal – Euclid – Chamberlin - Beacon – Manitou.  My GPS failed, unable to pinpoint its location.  I liked that I got lost and had to use my eyes to find the address.

Hollace's house was set back from the street, in the center of the block. Concealed by two large pines and a wire fence adorned with metalwork, it sat at the end of an extended driveway.  I jumped the curb, and my V8 engine roared to a stop at the end of the concrete.  Hollace stood outside - on the wooden porch that would become our mecca.

I joined him in a cigarette, not making it through the front door.  He and I launched into an intense conversation.  We hadn't seen each other in three years, but we picked up as if it were yesterday.   

What we said that autumn evening was a manifesto.  We were riding a crest that rarely comes in a person's life, and we didn't want to blow it.  Hollace and I sought to earn our income with the artistic skills we'd honed for decades; he being the most skilled musician I knew. Hollace contributed scores to my movies, giving sound to my images without instruction.

We mainlined confidence into one another.  We strove to take our lives into our own hands.  We got disenchanted by broken relationships.  Putting our energy in the wrong places.  We worked hard for others with little to show for it.  We got keyed into the possibilities of ourselves.  We were in our element when we had nothing left to lose.

Hollace and I weren't just reading from the same book - we were on the same page - the same sentence  - the same letter.   

.

Our stomachs growled, and Hollace suggested Mongolian barbecue, which I'd been craving.  Navigating the lanes went faster on a bicycle, he advised.  My Schwinn Varsity lay dismantled in the truck, so I borrowed one of his.

Riding behind Hollace, I saw glimpses of the city and the fall colors streaking by.  He knew the geography well, as any hustler should.  It was dusk, with magic hour lighting.  Adrenaline coursed through me – I felt liberated.  Our spirits were soaring.

At the restaurant, chopsticks in hand, with a delicious meal in front of us, I observed my friend.  Hollace, a gypsy through-and-through, had pieced together an incredible wardrobe over the years.  If he had any new tattoos it got hard to tell; he was covered with ink from his shoulder line down.  An old fedora hat rested on his golden curls.

On the way home, we stopped at a convenience store and grabbed some beer.  I set up a mat with blankets and turned in early.

.

In the morning Jack nudged me, respectfully.  He was the best alarm clock.  I got up and quietly checked out the home.  The room I had smelled faintly of cat piss.  Crack pipe burns, from the previous tenant, littered the carpet.  I didn't mind.  An Indian tapestry hung loosely across the high window, blocking harsh rays of the sun.  

The bathroom attached to my bedroom; privacy would be minimal.  It had an accordion style door you'd imagine seeing on a 1970s airliner, dividing off first class.  The bathroom itself was small and cramped with the clothes washer.  The standing shower looked very French.  A tiny window above the sink opened up to the alley.

Jack curiously smelled the fenced yard, potted garden and compost pile.  In the afternoons, he'd lounge on the shaded porch and stare at angry squirrels.  The side of a narrow wooden shed connected the fence line.  It contained a clothes dryer, tools, and a workspace.  Outside the perimeter was a storage shed, most likely a horse stable in a former light.   

The living room reflected Hollace's personality.  Filled with keepsakes coveted from around the world.  He had a remarkable instrument collection.  The favorite was a Greek Bouzouki, which he used for busking and stage performances.  His banjos had elaborate engravings along their necks.  

The kitchen ran the far wall of the living room.  Cupboards, packed with a surplus of grains and beans, cut down our food costs considerably.  A rack by the stove got crammed with an array of spices.  A loft above the kitchen could be reached by ladder.  That's where Hollace slept; his sacred space, and I kept out of it.  A rickety electric furnace built into the floor between the kitchen and my room supplied the heat.  

Hollace called the house The Lonely Heart's Hotel.

I should make special mention of the flies - holy shit.  We hung flypaper from every corner, and within hours they got switched out.  Hollace set out jars of poison on the porch.  They crawled on you, day and night.  Poor Jack lost sleep, snapping at them so often.  Fortunately, the season was brief, lasting a few weeks.   

I converted a mid-nineteenth century wooden door into a desk.  I setup my Mac computer, Canon 7D camera, and speakers powered by a Marantz receiver.  I stored my puppet collection and hung worn out clothes in the closet.  I lined books against a wall.  A 1979 Sequential Circuits Pro-One synthesizer got placed in the living room so guests could experiment with it.     

Hollace and I went to a thrift store.  Boise was big in second-hand shops, which I liked.  As I looked at clothes, I got drawn to a leather jacket; smooth to the touch, and tight-fitting, with a white stripe.  I hesitated over it for awhile, acutely aware I needed the money, but my intuition told me it was crucial that I get it.  I don't recall ever having the sensation that an article of clothing belonged to me, the way that jacket did.  

I wore it that night when we hit downtown.

Two Worlds Colliding

It was raining, so Hollace and I took my truck.  I parked near 8th street, in the heart of the activity.  We tucked into a nightclub called Liquid and immediately started networking.  As the attendant at the door stamped my wrist, I saw a woman bent over a pool table getting whipped by a man in bondage.  Fetish night.  The DJ played Industrial music to an empty dance floor.  I noticed that in many of the clubs we visited; the bar and patio would be full of people, with a few of them dancing.  Boise was a drinking town.  

Hollace had it dialed in.  He knew who would be where on any given night; in the same seat with the same drink in their hand.  He'd done his legwork, and his efforts had me reaping the benefits.  Hollace kept a black booklet for notes and numbers, compiling leads for us.  At home, we'd go through it, differentiating the socialites from potential collaborators.   

"Dude, I have to take you to the Basque District!", Hollace exclaimed

For two city blocks, you cross a line into another culture.  They had a market, a museum, a boarding house, and the Bar Gernika.  Also, two restaurants, Bardenay and Leku Ona.   

They put on cultural events at the Basque center, and play live music in the streets, Hollace said, and check out the symbolic designs they have imprinted on the sidewalk!

Even the streetlights gave off a different feel from the rest of town.  Most odd was a preserved log cabin that resided there, standing its ground.  We sat on a bench, and Hollace rolled me a cigarette.  

We carried on to the Cactus Bar, Pengilly's Saloon, Tom Grainey's, The Whiskey Bar, and The Balcony.  The way Hollace introduced me, I realized he'd heralded my arrival for weeks.  Several people were expecting me.  We visited with sound engineers, musicians, photographers, painters, belly dancers, and other personalities.    

We stopped at the Piehole for a slice of pizza and a beer.  The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and we sat outside watching the locals pass by.   

Where to next? I asked

We've gotta go through Freak Alley.  You're gonna love it!

We walked down a dimly lit, aging alleyway and got engulfed by sprawling murals.  Some fifteen feet high, flowing with psychedelic imagery.  'This is the most god damn seriously fucking cool place in Boise!' Hollace said with exuberance.  It was amazing. I stepped around slowly, recording footage for my video project.  Hollace likened the experience to frying your balls off on acid.

We exited.  I felt exhausted, and Hollace was drunk.  I aimed for home, but he insisted we go to one more bar – Neurolux.  I could see it up ahead.  It was crowded.  As we came up to it, I checked the time - 11:58 pm.

Hollace stayed outside, chatting people up on the front patio, sectioned off by a short rail fence.  I went inside for a drink.  As I waited for the bartender, I instinctively scanned the sea of faces around me.  Across the busy room, I saw a woman with disarming beauty.  She seemed out of place somehow. 'That's the one woman here that would never talk to me,' I thought to myself.

I put her out of my mind, paid for my drink, and headed outside to sit with Hollace.  He was conversing with a lesbian couple about music festivals.  I sat in, only half listening, lost in my thoughts.  When my drink was almost gone, I glanced to my left.  The same attractive woman had taken a seat nearby.  Our eyes did not meet.   

I finished my drink and tried to pull Hollace from the scene.  We were standing on the sidewalk by then, and he was leaning over the railing to engage people further.  I got impatient.  That's when I heard her voice from over my shoulder.  My heart fell for that voice, right there.  Her accent rounded every letter perfectly.

You're a good looking man, she said  

I turned to face her, that elegant woman, That's very kind of you to say...

I climbed over the fence and sat in front of her.   

Our words meant nothing; we spoke with our bodies.  The motion of our smiles made clear intentions.  I had to take charge, 'Then maybe I can come to your house tomorrow night and make you dinner?' I heard myself offer to her.

She paused, enjoying that I was so bold.  'Sure,' she said, giving me her phone number.  I acted as though I had somewhere else to be, and we said goodbye.  I grabbed Hollace by the arm, and we set off down a side street.  

I can't believe that just happened, I said

What? Hollace asked

She gave me her number.

Fuck yeah! That's rad!

I'm making her dinner tomorrow night at her house.

Shutup! Seriously?!

Now it was my turn to insist on one more bar.  We descended a concrete stairwell to an underground bar named 10th Street Station - where my life would change forever.  

Hollace and I claimed a table in the corner and talked.  I liked that place; it was quiet and unassuming.  The bartender, K.C, was the frontman for the local band Velvet Hook.  He would soon hire me to record their live show, giving me my first paying gig in Boise.    

My mind kept drifting to that stunning woman.  Her name was Elena.  Would our date tomorrow really occur?  I checked to verify I had her number programmed right.  I rolled the phone in my hand, while Hollace slurred on about some event.  Suddenly, the phone vibrated and rang, giving me a start.  It was her.  

Hello? I said, plugging my other ear

Hey, Logan?  It's Elena.  What are you doing?

Hanging out.  We're at a bar down the street.  What's up?

Can I come over?

Yes, you can!  Let me go up to the street to meet you.  It's hard to find.  Start walking to tenth street.

Ok.

I'll head up now, I said, hanging up the phone, Hollace, she's here, man!  I'll be back!

Huh?

I jumped up from the table, leaving Hollace to soak in his beer.  I ran up the concrete steps and began to follow the path we'd taken from Neurolux.

Logan! I'm here! I heard her call from the opposite direction

I turned to see her standing there, alone, and I walked over to her.

Hey, we got a table.  Come join us.

Ok.  

Elena sat across from me and ordered a glass of red wine.  Hollace, to my right, rambled on to her about how great I was.  She saw the humor in my embarrassment.  Her laughter was genuine, coming from such a flowing voice.  I wanted to keep that laugh in my heart.    

I barely spoke, and neither did she.  We held eye contact for long periods until it got too overwhelming.  I reached over and put my hand in hers.  We hadn't expected this night, both of us vulnerable and fascinated, as if we'd been taken from the world and put back into it with a new sense of purpose.

The three of us went up to the street for a smoke.  Hollace struck up a conversation with two young panhandlers standing on the corner.  Elena and I sat on the marble steps of the Idanha Hotel, sharing a cigarette.  Again, we had small talk.  As we stood up, she put her hand on the back of my neck and pulled me forward, kissing me deeply.  Our fingers went wild on the texture of our clothing, wanting skin.  She thrust her hand down my pants, and we nearly fucked in the street.

We regained our composure and headed downstairs.  We didn't stay much longer.  I paid the tab and walked Elena to her car. 'I'll follow you,' she said, getting behind the wheel.  I didn't have my bearings yet, so Hollace guided me home, being careful not to lose her.   

When the door to my room shut, Elena and I started tearing our clothes off.  She was menstruating, but that didn't stop us for a second; we were smeared with her blood.  We devoured each other. Our bodies crashed, flesh against flesh, unable to get close enough.  

Whatever we desired was granted permission.  Better still, we didn't even have to ask.  We may have wanted to die that night, at that incredible peak; every inch of us felt alive, pulsating like we were driving off a cliff.  We owned that night.  We owned our bodies.  We dared tomorrow to come and challenge us, so we could beat it back with fists and screams, demanding life on our terms.

In the early hours, we collapsed from exhaustion.  Elena left early, to where she did not say.  I knew she'd return.  She had to.  I was laying in bed when I heard her coming up the walkway with a change of clothes from a friends house.  Mascara stained her cheeks.  She rested her face on my chest, giving me a frayed smile.

Can we do that again? she asked

.

What I didn't know is that Elena was supposed to move to New York that morning.  There was a job position for her there.  I learned that much later when she confided to me over a cigarette.   

Why? I asked, Why did you stay?

When I saw you I knew you were the man I wanted to be with.  I told them I couldn't come.  

What could I say to that?

I've never been in love before, she said, have you?   

Not fully, no.   

.

That first night melted into the second.  We paused only to drink wine.  Hollace, not to be outdone, had a threesome with two girls on the front porch.  Elena and I took a hot shower, the water cascading down us.  We licked it off each other, to the point of delirium.  It was chilly when we got out, and we had sex wearing leather jackets.  We bit, scratched and scarred, wanting others to see our territory.    

Night after night, we were together; memorizing body with fingertips.  We both became aware as the sex felt more and more like making love.  With every secret we revealed, the more curious, open, and excited we grew.

We got lost in that room, and in that experience, emerged and rediscovered.

We were absolved of every bad memory,

Every moment of pain and betrayal,

Every act of injustice, every letdown,

Every night of loneliness, the loss of hope,

Every shameful feeling, every failure,

Every moment when our best wasn't good enough,  

Everything that ever pulled us away from the happiness we deserved.  

We were absolved of it all, starting over in each other's arms,

We'd found each other, just when we'd given up the search.   

We bared our souls, everything.  A shared cathartic release.  

We gave one another the very best of ourselves, without hesitation

We knew there was no going back, and no longer a reason to try.  

We found everything we needed in our arms, our kisses, our radiant eyes.  

Every breath got shared, and we needed each of them to survive.

The warmth of every touch sang across our skin.  

We followed the sound of our voices, to where we did not know,

As they rose and carried, each utterance bringing us somewhere new.

We were one body, in unison, finally completed, in ecstasy.    

.

I rested on the porch, under the partial shade of the pines, my elbows on my knees, head lowered.  A lit cigarette dwindled in my hand.  Elena had gone to work; she was a successful businesswoman.  Hollace sat in his usual chair.  I struggled thinking about Carrie.   

I don't know what to do, man.  I really don't, I said

Carrie sounds like a rad chic.

She's a wonderful person.  I've talked to her on the phone, and she wants to fly out here to visit.

Damn.  That may lead to something.

Even if we agree to be friends, we'll keep getting closer, and that'll cause problems with Elena.

Yeah, Elena seems like the jealous type.

I guess I just didn't expect her to stay.  I didn't think she'd want to know me.

Elena's a great gal, man.  She knows what she wants, and she's crazy about you.

Fuck, I wasn't looking for a relationship, but It's stupid not pursue happiness because the timing isn't convenient.

Elena's pushing hard, huh?

Yes, she is.  I think we could get somewhere, though.  I just need space.

So, it sounds like you may be staying in Boise longer than you planned? he said, with his tattered grin and coy laugh.

Yeah, well...

Who was this woman?  She came out of nowhere and completely blindsided me.  We spent every possible second together.  When she had a shift at work, seeing her leave behind a pair of shoes or an elegant dress, gave me a sense of relief; it was an assurance of her return.   

Elena had two children.  Eight-year-old Hetty was in the custody of her father in Los Angeles.  Her son Aidan, seven, was a savant who spoke little, and was efficient with electronics.  He lived with Elena, at her parent's house, in a neighboring city.  I got the impression she had a brutal and costly divorce, and sought to pick up the pieces.  

.

What do you think, Sir?  You like her too? I asked Jack  

I always ran my thoughts and concerns by him.  He didn't pretend to have the answers.  He loved and counted on me, and that kept me focused, with our best interests in mind.

When Elena first met Jack, I didn't think to warn her of his aggression towards strangers.  He was curled up on our sleeping mat when she dropped to her knees, took his face in her hands and rubbed her nose to his.  Jack had never accepted anyone in such a way, without hesitation.  Elena scored big points with me for that.

I stopped speaking to Carrie, and I know it hurt her.

.

For our first official date, Elena and I went to a fine-dining Indian restaurant, the Bombay Grill.  It was late, and we were the only cover. She bought gifts - a bottle of Givenchy cologne and an expensive pair of Ralph Lauren sunglasses.  It was wholly unnecessary; her company being more than enough.  I expressed gratitude for the gifts, and we ordered a bottle of wine.  I noticed our hands were the same size.  The length and circumference of our fingers were identical, like a mirror image.  We marveled at that detail.   

She ate vegan, having been raised that way since childhood.  I admired that.  I was vegetarian for ten years and vegan for two.  I drifted from it when I became a sushi chef and married my former wife.  I enjoyed picking dishes from the menu that we both could share.  'Spicier the better,' we'd request, begging the chef not to treat us like Americans.

We talked a lot about her children.  Then we discussed the implications of her last name - or rather her ex-husbands.  The full weight of it hit me.  His net worth was $650 million.  You may not know the man personally, but you could be putting money in his pocket.  You might even be in his debt.   

When Elena left him, she stole his pride.  Now he wanted it back - he wanted Elena back, and I was the guy standing in his way.  For the sake of this book, I will call the man 'Scott Bunk.'   

Three weeks ago I was living in my truck.  Now I was going up against one of the wealthiest people in the country.

Directly underneath the Bombay Grill was the 10th Street Station.  After dinner, we went and claimed our table in the corner.  We were forming our rituals, in familiar places.  The house was empty when we arrived, and we had sex on top of the washing machine - not that someone else's presence would've distracted us.

.

Elena had money, or came from it, but she was the most generous person I knew.  Elena arrived daily with groceries, alkaline water, organic produce, and wine.  She insisted on not coming empty-handed.  Hollace and I were grateful, though we didn't want to be reliant on her.  We'd go to local food banks twice a month for