Concerning the Blind Man

  The sempiternal blind man was on the steps, once again in tune to some clock independent of the sun. Taylor stopped. “Do you know daylight and shadow?” he asked. “I mean, how do you know it’s day?”
  The musician quit playing, and stared in the direction of the voice. “They say that people with no eyes can see things from another sense,” he said after a moment. “It’s a crock of shit, kid, makes ‘em feel better ‘bout themselves. But my grandmother, she always said that Love and Hate were twin babies, sep’rated at birth, and yet still sometimes blendin’ together as they can’t deny the truth of their union. And they know each other as you know ‘em. Daylight’s about like that.”
  “Oh.” Digested that. “I wondered.”
  “How did you know it, kid? Light refracting on the retina all there is to it, man? Or is it deeper? What is light?”
  Taylor considered. “Twin babes,” he said. “Recognition.”
  The blind man grinned like the sun, and began to play again. Taylor walked on, toward the end of the city.

Concerning the Apartment

  When Taylor awoke, back in the apartment, the light was the sort of hazy amber dimness that contributes both to somnolence and bad movie sex scenes. Indistinguishable whether dawn or dusk.
  He also found another placid envelope.
  He kept reciting to himself how he really didn’t give a shit what Eric thought or wanted anymore, kept chanting it the entire time he slit it open with the matte knife.
  “There’s been a slight mistake with some vendibles,” it read, “but not one beyond restitution. Unfortunately I am indisposed, and thus I am in need of you to cover for me, much as I regret doing so. But you are my brother, more than my brother, and one who I can trust.”
  Bastard. Well Taylor was tired of covering for him. Brothers. If he thought Taylor would apologize for Eric’s consumer screw-ups, tried to plead recompense, he could go swimming in Sheol.
  He was sick. Sick of Eric, sick of the apartment, sick of the city, sick of his life. It was like a room full of oppressive bacteria, hundreds of poisoned people coughing and sneezing and vomiting, and he frantically trying to find pockets of clean air, pockets which did not exist. The only way to keep from joining them was to leave the room.
  And let Eric take care of his own problems for once. They may have had a tie, but it was in sore repair now.
  He didn’t even bother to pack what little he owned, just threw some things into his coat pockets, locked the door, and walked out.

Taking a break this weekend. Will return next week.

Concerning the Tombstone

  Wet footprints absorbing rainwater, pooling in from the marred sod. Taylor’s sprint-gouged puddles in the moist cemetery grass, marking his path back to the grave-site. Fittingly, it had begun to rain again, not in the contumelious volume of before, but the patient, dogmatic drizzle intent on saturation.
  Hunting, dodging amongst the headstones, a revenant on some desperate haunt, finally coming to one where the ground was still muddy clay, bullet-marks of splattered mud staining the lower half. Taylor wiped a mass of streaming hair from his eyes with a film of water, squatting by the granite. He felt he knew something coming he couldn’t catch, like Scrooge’s apprehension in the cemetery of Christmas Future. He tried to brush the defacing muddy water from a simple inscription, two dates and a name, and then he knew.
  There was Russell’s name.
  His name. Taylor’s name. Seldom used, seldom required, as it was just a connotation to something that no longer existed for him, a universe as completely foreign as bucolic Americana.
  Apart from Russell.
  And here was Russell.
  He had wondered why everyone kept bringing up their remorse like it mattered to him, and now he remembered why.
  His brother. How was it he could have forgotten? Easily enough, but only through Eric. And suddenly it hit him, like he had been trying to hold shut the bulging closet door and it overcame. Eric lied. He had betrayed Russell, and then lied about its relevance. Eric deceived him, took advantage of his problems, kept him emotionless for personal gain. Used him. He had transgressed the spiritual bond, severed the link in selfishness. Closer than brothers, he said. Family didn’t lie, cheat or steal. Eric was a bastard.
  Hatred, hot and argent, flowed through him, following by an deluge of childish bewilderment, confusion, a feeling of hurt isolation. The bond, the line was gone, like a mooring snapping from the ship, and Taylor knew he was alone. Everything he knew was a lie, faced alone.
  He fell into the tombstone, crushing the few burdened flowers, and cried, when he wasn’t laughing.

Concerning the Revelation

  “It is tragic, you know, how selfish this business has become. This sort of activity seems to be happening more frequently. The system is deteriorating. Somebody actually threatened an associate of mine for his supply. That’s a breach of etiquette! Amateurs flood the business, one would think. Either way, someone will eventually find HIM. One day. And, it will catch up with our dear Renfield. Maybe he’ll even be the third party. You know how that works.”
  “What?”
  “Double-crossed on a deal, left to take the fall.”
  “I was just hit. On the head.”
  “Yes, but your own supply dealt one of those, did he not? And thus the funeral.”
  Taylor started to speak, but his mind gave a sort of mechanical whir, hovering just above an actual click. He remembered something Eric had said he felt disconcerting at the time, and then he had the kid raised by his shirt, slammed against the refrigerator. Something glass fell over inside.
  “What?” he demanded.
  There was a gurgle.
  “What the hell are you talking about?”
  The kid coughed. “Russell, of course. Of all people you should know. He got set up for a sale, and left to take them blame. No merchandise. Your supply collected.”
  Eric. Personal is not the same as important. Russell created his own fate. Eric had fucked him, been directly responsible. Said it didn’t matter, it was Russell’s doing and shouldn’t concern them. But something else had yet to fall into place. . . .
  He was so close he was almost frantic, didn’t feel himself pressing the kid into the door, tilting the refrigerator back. “What do you mean I should know?” he snapped. “ ‘Of all people,’ why me? I don’t even know MYSELF half the time! Why?!”
  “Go. . . .where. . .you’ll. . .music. . . “
  Screaming. “Where!!”
  The kid desperately trying to pull himself away. “Ask. . . Grave. . .she . . . Knows . . . .all. . .”

We regret another weekend intermission, due to being out of town. Anticipate all the more next week's exciting adventure.

Concerning the Asian

  “It was. . . . Unfortunate about Russell,” he said, head vanished within a cabinet.
  Taylor silently helped himself to a kitchen chair. He brought it up, let him finish it.
  “I hope I conveyed my sympathies at the funeral.”
  Taylor was mute. He had no recollection of the scene, but didn’t let it bother him.
  “I also hope my advice was considered?” He shut the cabinet with a scowl, and after a pause went to another.
  “Which was that?” Taylor asked, unable to play along anymore.
  The kid found whatever he was looking for with a crow of moderate accomplishment. “This should be what you need. We’ll send someone after your material; no doubt it has changed many hands by now.”
  He began to pour a glass of water while Taylor examined his parcel.