Thanks for reading man. I think you're dead on about the waist image and the "red nose thing." I gave google a couple brief searches on what to call it, but I couldn't come up with anything. If anyone knows clown terminology let me know.
From a reflections page I keep writing (NOT A GODDAMNED TRAVEL BLOG): Spoiler It’s often said you come to Bali to lose yourself or find yourself, and I can’t tell which applies to me from day to day. Perhaps neither, perhaps both, but the end result was the itch for the road. That itch wanes and wearies from time to time, but some nights it’s a screaming, roaring, rageful, consuming villain of a sensation: a longing for the roar of a plane engine or the intense banshee wail of an open throttle of a motorbike, the all American thunderous roll of a V-8 revved all the way up to “Fuck it”. It’s not a longing for home or for new adventures or for a specific goal. It’s a longing for longing, the itch to search. It’s the most peculiar feeling, and yet, here it’s the most common: the lonely, aimless stretch for a solid object in a sea of empty space. It is where I am most at home, contemplating the possibilities of a universal jewel: where on Earth do I go next and why? What part of me will compel me the most forcefully in which direction? Whose solemn counsel will I take, or will I refuse to go anywhere that has been advised? What will push me into the embrace of an unknown land? It’s nights like tonight, however that ground you. Its stolen glances at a sunset over a rice paddy as you frantically pilot a motorbike down roads that are positively masochistic in their narrow turns and frequent holes. The giggling, joyous romp of the handful of curious adventurers that gather for whatever an afternoon can offer is unmatched anywhere else on Earth, of that I am sure. I feel guilty for the unhealthy foods, the smoking and the hallucinogens; I have fallen into the Balinese style of fucking my future self in return for the life millions dream of today. I can’t relieve myself of worry, anger, fear or stress based on location alone, but each day I feel more confident that whatever ugly price I pay then is worth the monumental beauty of now. Aside from my concerns for the future, now is a sweet and pure moment of blissful ignorance. There is revelry to be had, in a seedy, gloriously irrepentant form and it’s unique in it’s trashy glory. From ordering kid’s menu items from a restaurant that is featured in a half dozen magazines per month, to the shadiest, most ridden biker bar on the island, the nights rejuvenate any traveler who has had too much introspection and ground them into the midst of cheap pilsner, stunningly pushy street vendors and prostitutes, sweaty, mirthful bar conversations and nights of gleeful, funny, unrefined hysteria.
This is the first chapter of a book I am thinking about writing regarding my dad from my eyes “Turn left at the light and then make your first right” I’m nervous about this. It’s just not an everyday occurrence to be buying level 3 drugs with your father. I face the car head out like he’s always told me, toward the direction we came from. I don’t care that I’m facing toward traffic. Really, what traffic? There is none. It’s a residential street in downtown Las Vegas and I’ll take the Linus from Peanuts style safety blankets in whatever doses I can measure. A white 1990 Honda Accord just isn’t the best getaway car so I’ve got to make the best of it. My gaze is alternating between a stray dreadlock protruding from my head captured in the driver’s side window, white sneakers holding down the clutch and break, my legs housed in faded blue jeans, the reflection of temporary tags in the rearview mirror and a brown hand curiously growing pale gripping a black stick shift alternating between first and second gear in what has to be a nervous twitch. The anxiety comes in stages. First, I’ve had this car a month. I don’t know what its capable of. Second… there is no second. The stages of worry pile onto each other at this point. I have no idea what’s on the next street. I mean, it could be anything - a dead end, a cop, someone who knows the street patterns and doesn’t recognize this vehicle, some twice forgotten enemy of my father who will recognize him before he recognizes them... anything. I can feel my heart claw its way into my throat like a scared cat looking for a safe place to hide. This is not exactly the most pleasant feeling. “I’ll be right back”, he says and the swallow that comes from my throat must be audible. He’s gone for what feels like days. I didn’t know that I could sweat like this outside of a wide gate sprint and it begins to feel like summertime in Kansas City. Have you ever been to Kansas City in the summertime? There truly is no point to taking a shower. The humidity feels like someone has taken a wet washcloth, firmly affixed it to your face and demanded you breathe normally. Do I roll the windows down? There is a pack of cigarettes on the floor of the car. Do I trade the 30 seconds it would take me to light one to feel the anxiety lift for that half a minute of not giving this abandoned street my full attention? No. No. Just keep watching. Finally he comes back to the car and before the door closes we’re already in second gear 3 miles over the posted residential speed limit. The Japanese must have fully expected their flagship vehicle 17 years removed to be in one of these situations. Kudos to far east engineering. ‘Did you get it?’ “Yeah.” That’s the only thing we say all the way back to the house not rented in his name, the one with only spices in the cupboards, days before the electricity is going to be turned off. The reason for all of that quiet must be the palpable guilt stagnating the air. How the fuck did I get here? I'm pretty sure it has something to do with chasing a dove and a deity named Jehovah. No really, how the fuck did I get here? All the streets signs and traffic lights have a dream like blur to them. One left, one right, back to Tropicana Avenue. I know its Tropicana because I can see the Stratosphere Hotel Casino and Amusement Park just ahead of me. We avoid the freeway and take side streets through downtown, past the ghetto, through the tourist traps and back to the retirement community on the hill, overlooking the golf course. I know that isn’t the answer to the question that you wanted to hear. I just don’t want to get too far ahead of myself. I have that tendency.. We go to his room and out comes a little baggie from his left pants pocket. He’s wearing black jeans.. The right pants pocket has always been always empty as long as I’ve known him. Nothing goes in there that would slow his right hand down. That’s his power hand, his knife hand, his I’m going to protect whats mine and knock you the fuck out hand. How do I know this for certain? I know we just met, but believe me this is a statement firmly based in reality, based in observed action that I’ve taken a shameful pride in observing. It is based on the missing teeth of people who’ve looked at his grey hair and small structure first and missed the practiced speed of someone whose heroes are Bruce Lee, John Wayne and Yule Brenner from the Magnificent Seven. I think at this point his existence can be boiled down to a fear of leasts and greatests. Least fear has to be that someone will hurt him physically. Greatest, oddly enough has to be that of being taken advantage of. Did you see my chest puff slightly in that telling? Maybe. We take what little pride we can, wherever we can find it. How the fuck did I get here again? Right. The dove. The deity. The white car. The streets all the way up the hill. I can be scatterbrained on the big picture when remembering the details. In the drawer of the night stand is a shiny grey razor blade. The contents of the baggie get emptied. Out comes one big rock of crack cocaine. I thought it would be yellower. He takes the razor blade and he cuts this bright white rock into small pieces, every time making this small thudding sound that leaves scars in the side table. There is a powder is left on his fingers left from his makeshift surgery and I don’t know where the it comes from, my mind or his, but something inside says: ‘...Lick it.’ Just remembering it illicits a sigh from me. This is the same voice that I’ve heard say, ‘Kiss her. You know she’ll kiss you back.’ I’ll admit it, plain as day – I’ve wondered my entire life what the attraction to this shit is. It has to hold some magical power. It just has to. Because dove’s can’t be caught. So the chase has got to be worth all of that goddamned running. But no one licks. He wipes his hands off on his pants leaving this small white smear and I have to wonder if that small action was an immense exercise of will for my benefit. “I’ll be right back.” He left me alone with it and I swear that its looking at me as intently as I’m looking at it. Clearly this thing has no agenda, no will to express no emotional undercurrent to its curiosity with me. And this personification has to be my imagination, some hold over from an addictive personality inside me. It has to be… right? He comes back into the room with a roll of clear plastic wrap and breaks his work down into pieces. He looks at me and doesn’t say anything. I don’t know that there is anything really to say. Back into the car. We drive down the hill near the house, back toward downtown. “Right here, drop me off right here.” The car door is half open and he looks back at me through these bent glasses that he’d found in an abandoned house not a week ago. “Meet me back here in two hours. I’ll either be here and we eat good tonight or you’re on your own ‘cuz I’ll be in jail.” I don't say anything as he closes the door. I don’t know that there is anything to be said. There are only a few stray thoughts: I hate doves, I hate deities, I hate my dad and in the last two hours I've learned to hate myself.
why i spent half my twenties sober imagine a proto-typical twenty-something. what do you think they do for fun? if they are early into this decade of their lives, it probably revolves around partying. for many of us, we consider it a good time to go wild, stay out boozing all night and our social lives reflect that. while fewer americans spend their college years drinking away, this can be attributed to a more difficult job market, increasing expense and college drinking horror stories. indeed, for many of the established professionals i know, they didn’t really start boozing in earnest until after graduation. they found themselves in a solid career and they needed to catch up on all the socializing they missed out on during the finals weeks and grad school interviews that the rest of us blew off. increasingly, college is the time to hunker down and gather some credentials while the early stages of your career benefit most from the networking that comes from staying out all night on the weekends. also, this is the time that many young, single professionals get serious about dating and hit the clubs and bars hard looking for mr./ms. right. i chose a vastly different route. upon reaching my 25th birthday, i swore off the sauce, completely. i’m here, five years later, to explain why that was a wise decision. before i explain what, let me explain how: i was a teetotaler, a word not often used today. that means that i did not drink at all, not a drop. second, this immediately changed my social life. friday and saturday nights got a lot tamer, my circle of friends shrank, and food leapt to the top of my list of vices. i can’t boast other milestones like no smoking and no recreational drugs during that time, but no alcohol. now for the why: first, the drinking laws are insane. i saw a co-worker in his mid-40’s get his entire life destroyed by a dui that occurred in his parent’s driveway. these days defending someone who drinks and drives is like writing propaganda for north korea, but c’mon? surely if you’re in the driveway, the danger to public safety is over. the ensuing legal battle and losing his license ruined his life and his family’s. this loss hurt his ability to earn (he was in sales and that sometimes required travel), his extensive legal fees were unfortunately lifted straight from a savings account dedicated to his teenage children’s education, and it may have cost him his marriage. it certainly damaged his health, because without the ability to drive to his gym, he couldn’t go. in a small town, it effectively rendered him a shut-in. he might get his license back after two years, but the damage is done. another acquaintance wrecked his car while leaving an event that served alcohol. note: he was sober and at no point in the subsequent events was his accident caused by drinking. however, his insurance company refused to pay for the $250,000 worth of surgeries, rehabilitation and ambulatory care because they suspected he was drinking, even in the absence of evidence from the officers at the scene. god help him if he had actually had a drunken accident. welcome to the new america: a car wreck costs a quarter million and if your insurance company doesn’t approve of your choices, they won’t foot the bill. compared to the laws of other countries, the drinking laws in the us are baffling. imagine yourself on a road trip. every half hour or so, the drinking laws change as the miles tick away. what’s perfectly legal in say, new orleans is tantamount to heresy in montgomery. also, given the rise of the police state and the drastic reduction in violent crime, drinking crimes are seen as a source of revenue and an “easy bust” in an increasingly predatory system. second, it hurts your career, networking be damned. let me paint you a picture of a double standard in action. my co-worker is in her late 40’s, new to social media and has two teenage children. they go on vacation to a resort, she posts a photo of some fruity island drink enjoyed on a tropical beach to facebook. no one would extrapolate that kind of behavior to be irresponsible or indicative of a lackadaisical work ethic. if i posted a photo of myself or my friends at a restaurant or bar that featured a bottle or two of beer, or a pitcher of sangria (i did exactly this type of thing in spain) onto facebook seven or eight years ago, then i had better deactivate it while on a job hunt. in the digital age, this is the first piece of advice graduates are given: clean up your internet footprint. this sort of behavior on the part of a twenty-something adult is unseemly to businesses for no discernible reason other than the perception of my drinking on the weekends is a sign of mental instability due to my lack of family or “adult” obligations. getting an hr rep to admit to passing over someone because of some tidbit found on facebook isn’t exactly difficult. on mondays, having something to discuss other than bar life made me seem wise and mature beyond my years (and actual maturity level). i heard over and over, “when i was your age i was out all weekend boozing and chasing whores”, with a great deal of sincere regret. being the only sober, young person at the company christmas party or the meet and greet is a tremendous edge. no one expected it from me, and i did use it to my advantage. “sorry, i won’t be having any wine tonight. let me know if you need a ride home or a distraction.” i found myself dealing cards, mixing drinks or leading games rather than being a participant. i found myself controlling those sorts of events rather than meekly participating and trying to avoid some alcohol-induced faux pas. third, it forced me to try real hobbies. with nothing to do on friday nights, my saturday mornings suddenly became precious. this involved experimenting with a lot of trips to all sorts of places to fascinate any oddball curiosity i once had. i found myself in museums, zoos, and expos in my hometown that i never knew existed. the local color became more vibrant and if i had stayed put, i would have no doubt been a more active, productive community member. fourth, it makes your friendships better. drama free is the way to be, and i can vouch for the fact that implies alcohol-free, as well. think back to the most lecherous period of your life. what caused the majority of the stress? infidelity, perhaps, but in my case it was alcohol that compounded infidelity and a lot of murky relationships that only existed between happy hour and last call that i thought were valuable. they weren’t. in many ways, this is the strongest parallel between drugs and alcohol. the real danger is the people you spend time with to use them. i would sacrifice my better judgment time and time again to spend time with people who i knew for a fact would not be helpful, supportive friends just to further my fun while drinking. watching those relationships dry up and wither away, especially in an age where maintaining friendship is as easy as a mouse click poke, really opened my eyes to adult life. fifth, it didn’t make my romantic life better, it made it possible. at my earliest and roughest stages of drinking, i was a hot mess. i think of my relationship now and how fulfilled i am and i realize that drinking would have rendered this kind of connection impossible. drinking, for me, was a way to obscure self-analysis. it mired me in immaturity, because as long as i could go boozing with my friends, i told myself i was ok. for many, that’s precisely true: i had drinking buddies, so i wasn’t intolerable, i had money to spare, so i wasn’t financially in dire straits, and i maintained enough health and liberty to avoid serious regrets. what my sober life taught me was that this is a mirage: i courted incarceration dozens of times and was one of the lucky few who drank the way i did and didn’t end up making a horrible mistake. that might be a dui, or it could be causing a drunken pregnancy or marrying the wrong person, but mistakes happen. my current relationship had some deep scars related to drinking. it was clear early on that if we were to continue as a couple, i could not show the same disregard for sobriety as in the past. i put in the work, not only in the relationship, but in myself and we reached a point that these scars were not a concern anymore. bottom line, sobriety made me not only datable, but it put true relationship happiness within reach. sixth, it expanded my horizons. had i continued to drink, my worldview would have continued to narrow itself down to the tiny social circle that i had developed to revolve around the same things over and over. drinking would have limited me to a small-town life. instead, i find myself five years in with no real desire to drink again. i have travelled much more over the past five years that i ever dreamed of doing, i erased my debt, i completed and paid for a master’s degree, i built a network of friends around the world that truly care about and support me and i’m in a relationship that i believe is a rare form of true love. seventh, it didn’t preclude any other vices. i smoked my first cuban while on my sober jaunt. i did mushrooms and smoked pot twice will sober. i developed a passion for food and cooking that previously was simply irrelevant. i learned to catch a buzz from a hard workout. i didn’t do any of this in the us, by the way. i didn’t let this stuff develop into a replacement, because it was almost the same temptation as alcohol. i enjoy some drugs, and i probably always will appreciate a good buzz. after this long sober, i know better than to let it become a focal point of my life, which is more than most people who experiment with controlled substances learn. it’s not all great. i’m easily 30 pounds heavier than my university weight. i’m often bored to death and it takes a significant effort of personality to demonstrate i’m not a boring individual when i meet new people. this is especially challenging for an introvert, one who used alcohol as a social crutch. some people don’t get why i don’t drink, and it makes my social calendar certainly more open. that’s fine, and i don’t begrudge anyone their preferences or beliefs. for me, this was the start of working on myself as an individual and realizing happiness. so much of my life has changed and i’m sincerely thankful, happy and excited about all of it. i can’t say it would work for everyone, but it worked for me.
how the real estate agent got a bag of dicks (with apologies to mr. kipling.) there was a time, best beloved, back in the long ago, when all the tribes of man would fight over where they might sleep. oh, these were terrible wars, with much bashing and crashing, and mauling and bawling, and fighting and biting, and they never stopped. even when a tribe won a cave for the night or the week or the month, another tribe would grow tired of sleeping in the rain and the trouble would start again. the mothers hated to see their sons and husbands marching off to war and coming back all brickety bruised, and so they all sat down together and thought about what should be done. they talked and talked long into the night, and they realized that if every person had a little cave of their own, they wouldn’t need to band together and go off to war with the other tribes. so to each person they gave a cave. this was done in different ways, sometimes on where they were born, and sometimes who their parents were, and sometimes on what they could do for the tribe, and sometimes on the colour of their skin or the colour of their coin. and while not everyone liked the spot they had, mostly people were happy, for one very important reason. the cave was theirs, and they could do with it as they liked. they could grow plants outside and make furniture inside and clean out the bugs and put in rugs and organise everything just exactly the way they wanted. and that is what they did. not all the time, of course.there was playing and planting and skipping and schooling and building and brewing and running and reading and weeding and weaving. and while these activities were being done, do you know what happened? why, people found that they liked some of these things more than others, and were better at some of these things than others, and so they began to specialize. specialize is a funny word, best beloved, but it has a simple meaning. it means choosing one thing, a thing of your very own, and getting very good at it. when you first try something new, you won’t understand all the ins and outs and roundabouts and it will seem very tricky to you (like tying your shoelaces, you see). but if you put in a little work, you will soon learn how to do it. if you put in a little more work, you will learn how to do it faster and better still. and if you put in a great many hours of work, then you may be able to it in such a way that no-one else in your whole village can. and so, ms builder, she learned how to put up the most wonderful walls that kept out all the rain and made people feel all toasty warm inside. and mr. forger, he learned how to make the bolts that held ms builder’s walls together. and mr art, he learned how to draw the amazing pictures that hung on the walls, and mrs sport learned how to play the games that kept everyone so entertained when they had a moment to play. learning to do these things was not easy, best beloved. ms builder’s hands grew sore from hammering in so many nails, but she soaked them at night and come morning they were as good as new and she went right back to hammering. mr forger would get too close to the fire and his skin would turn just as red as the setting sun. but mrs sport would gather the leaves of the aloe tree and drip their drippiest juices down over his skin, and the next morning he would be back by his fire. mrs sport would be very, very tired after running around all day,and even more tired after collecting the drippiest leaves of the aloe tree, but mr forger would rub her back and fetch her tea and the next day she would be running around again. and mr art would use up all the pictures in his head and be upset, but the next day more pictures would arrive and he would set to with his paints and brushes. now, i’ll let you in on a little secret, just between the two of us. mrs real estate agent wasn’t always mrs real estate agent. she was ms builder, for a time, but when her hands hurt she stopped building. she was mr forger, for a time, but when her skin went all pink she stopped forging. she was mr art, for a time, but when she ran out of pictures she stopped drawing. she was mrs sport, for a time, but when she grew tired she stopped running. and after she’d tried a few different things, and found that they all needed hard hard work, she looked for something else to do. now, when you want the tastiest fruit, best beloved, what do you have to do? why, first you have to complete your chores, and get your mother or me to check them, then you must journey down the lane and around the bend and through the deepest darkest forest until you come to a place where none of your friends have ventured; there you find the great golden globule tree, whose fruits are the sweetest in all the land. that is a hard journey, is it not? but though it is hard, and the forest full of scary beasts, and hairy beasts, and wary beasts, the fruit of that great golden globule tree is simply the bestest fruit that will ever pass your lips, as everyone knows deep in their hearts. though you may not understand it now, mrs real estate agent will never make that trip. she finds the chores too choresome, and the walk too walksome, and the forest too leafy and the beasts far too beastly, and so she will never get to taste the fruit of the great golden globule tree. but she still wants the fruit, so she picks up the closest apple from the ground. which can be done once in a while, it is true, but is it any way to make a life? one day, when all of her friends were busy doing hard hard work, mrs real estate agent grew very bored. she strolled along the edge of the jungle, when she saw some sprites playing by a stream. they saw her and cried ‘come and play, come and play’, and she thought that was a very fine idea indeed. and so she did. she went frolicking with the sprites in the jungle, and oh the times they had. they hustled and bustled, cavorted and aborted, and were as free as the spirits in the clouds. sprites are magical creatures though, o best beloved, and they do not age as we do. have you seen your mama and me, all rugged up by the fire, while you squiggled and squirmed to get away into the cool cool shadows? everyone, including you, best beloved, is born with a certain amount of passion in their veins and fire in their hearts to keep them warm all their lives. as we get older, our fire gets teensier and tinier and so we need hides from goats and hot porridge oats and warming coats to keep us safe against the chill. sprites, though, are not like us; they do not grow old, and they do not grow cold, they just flit and frolic forever through the night dark skies. and there came a time when mrs real estate agent couldn’t keep up with the sprites, for their paths were all snaking and her bones were all aching and the sprites could no more wait for her than a river can wait for the fisherman, for all things are bound by their nature. so she returned to her friends amongst the caves, but she found them much changed. they lived in grand palaces with towering walls and the most amazing decorations, and they played such clever sports she could barely follow them with her eye. her cave, though, was not much changed. in fact, it was exactly the same as when she had left. and while her friends all oohed and ahhed at her stories of adventuring with the sprites, eventually they would look out at all the stars in the sky, and yawn, and say “oh look at the time” and though mrs real estate agent would tell the most wonderful stories she could think of, it was never enough for them to ask her in to stay. and out into the night she would go. and she looked at her cave next to the grand palaces of her friends, and found it a cold and empty place. she called to the sprites to join her, and some days they would, for a time. but always, as the night drew to a close, her friends would leave and dawn would find her grey and cold and alone. in the daytime, her friends were out building and bolting and growing and mowing and crafting and laughing, while she sat and watched. her days were empty and her nights… oh the nights best beloved, they were most unkind, for while her friends were all snugabug with their families in their palaces, she was left alone in her cave with only the wind and the rain and the dark for company. as the days passed one after the other, her friends all busy with their crafts or raising their little ones, sly old mr. wolf noticed mrs real estate always at the edge of the fire, watching the goings on. he watched as the sadness in her eyes slowly turned into rage that they should have all these things to do while she did not. and he did not remind her that while the other people had been planting and tending and building and raising she had been off frolicking with sprites. and so, one day when she was particularly lonesome, he slunk up beside her and this is what he said: “oh, isn’t it most unfair that they have these lovely palaces while you sleep in this cold, barren cave?” “yes it is”, she replied. “and isn’t it most unfair that all your friends talk about all that they have done and all they plan to do so you cannot join in?” “yes it is”, she replied.” and isn’t it most unfair of all that they have loved ones to keep them warm at night, while you have only your rage?” “yes it most certainly is”, she replied, and as she looked at him she thought his eyes deep enough to swim in. “well”, said sly old mr wolf, “you are just as clever as them, and just as pretty as them, and just as loving as them, but they have one thing that you don’t...” and she looked most puzzled, and cried, “what is it?” and he said “perseverance.” now, perseverance is a very long work indeed, and as you might expect, ms real estate agent didn’t know what it meant. as it happens, it means to keep doing something even though the doing is hard, like fetching the fruit of the great golden globule tree. but sly old mr. wolf, he didn’t say that. instead he held up a shiny leather bag, knotted at the top by a string. he held it carefully in front of her, and saw that she was confused. as she reached for it it squished unpleasantly under her touch, and hissed at her, and he snatched it back and said “no, no, no, you cannot simply have this bag of perseverance, for if i were to give it you, why, i would have none myself. and then i would be in the same position as you, with my cave all bare and my friends not there and life all unfair. no, if you want perseverance, you must trade me something in return.” now, she didn’t know exactly what perseverance looked like, but something didn’t seem quite right. she had never seen any of her friends walking around with a leather bag, especially one that squirmed and slithered and bulged like this one. but she thought and thought and thought about how badly she wanted to be part of the group, and she thought and thought and thought about how much work it was to specialize, and she chose to believe mr wolf. her eyes stared at the leather bag, and grew hungrier and hungrier. finally she asked “what would you have in return?” he looked at her, and she at him, and he said “since i have not just one perserverance, not even two perseverances, but an entire bag of perseverance, if you want it, you must give to me… your soul.” and she thought his eyes deep enough to drown in. mrs real estate agent knew that her soul was very valuable, and did not wish to part with it, for a person without a soul is an empty creature indeed. but sly old mr. wolf said “as much as you enjoy having a soul, mrs real estate agent, you have no-one to share it with. the sprites don’t care, for they will play with you anyway. and your old friends don’t care, for you have a soul now and you still can’t play with them. and you won’t show the men your soul anyway, so how would they even know that it’s gone? now, with this bag of perseverance, you can have all that you ever wanted, without all that hard, hard work…” and so she looked into those eyes, those eyes you could drown forever in, and she reached deep inside her and tore out her soul, and mr. wolf gobbled it down even as he pushed the bag into the space where it had been. but we aren’t meant to have a bag where our soul should be, and she knew at once the trade she had made was a bad one. it burned inside her, and she could feel where her soul should be, and she wailed and wept in woe. her friends came running and tried to comfort her, but they could not understand what she had done. and she tried to explain to them that she only wanted what they had and how the bag would help her get it, but they just stared at her and shook their heads. and so she ran from them, and the rage and the shame still burned, and she hated that they had their own caves with their families still all snugabug. and so she thought (and who’s to say a little bit of mr. wolf wasn’t in the bag he pushed inside her, for surely this is a mr. wolf-like thought) ‘if i was willing to do anything, even give up my soul, to have what they have, and i stillcan’t have it, then why should they be able to enjoy it?‘ mrs real estate agent looked around at her friends and said “since i have no way to make my own cave better, i will help all of you with yours. i may not be able to build walls, but i can speak to mrs builder for you. and i may not be able to forge bolts, but i can speak to mr forger for you. and i may not be able to make art, but i can speak to mr art for you”, and so on and so on and so on. and the rest of the tribe felt sorry for her, and thought that it would be good for her to have something to do while they took care of their work and their families, and so they agreed that she could help them. they didn’t see that the smile she smiled wasn’t really a smile at all, and the laugh she laughed wasn’t the good kind of laugh, not at all. the very next day, a mighty storm blew through the valley where mrs real estate agent lived. sharp bolts of lightning zigzagged across the sky while thunder boomed and dogs howled and ran for their lives, chased by the sideways rain.the people huddled together for warmth and comfort, all except mrs real estate agent, who sat through the cold cold wind and the cold cold rain and thought it a very fine storm indeed. the storm passed, as all storms do, and ms builder went to her friend mrs real estate agent and said “oh, isn’t it terrible. my roofs are all drippy and my floors are all slippy and just this morning i slipped and hurt my back. you wanted to help us fix our homes, now the time has come. will you help us?” mrs real estate agent replied “of course i will, dear friend, of course i will”, but she smiled that smile that wasn’t a smile and crossed her fingers behind her back. days and nights and days and nights passed and ms builder’s roof was still drippy and her floors were still slippy, and she fell and hurt herself again. she saw her old friend mrs real estate agent and said “please, will you fix this as you promised?” but promises speak to you through your soul, best beloved, which is why you must always make sure to keep both your promises and your soul. mrs real estate agent had traded away her soul, and so instead of listening to her promises, she heard only the bag whispering in her ear with a voice like snakes sliding over each other rushing to eat their prey. the bag said, in a voice like leaves rustling behind you when you’re all alone in the forest, “ms builder gets to spend all day building walls for other people, and look how they love her for it. no-one loves you, so why should you help her? do nothing”. so nothing was exactly what she did. and when she did nothing, the bag seemed to grow a little, and its whispers grew a little louder. a week later, mr forger’s chimney had a problem, and he couldn’t light a fire in his hearth, or run his wife a warm bath, and this made him very sad indeed. he spoke to his friend mrs real estate agent and said “will you help us fix this as you promised?” mrs real estate agent replied “of course i will, dear friend, of course i will”, but she smiled that smile that wasn’t a smile and crossed her toes in her boot. time passed, and no-one came to fix mr forge’s chimney. mrs sport cried to her “oh mrs real estate agent, won’t you help us fix the chimney, as you promised, for me and my husband are both terribly vexed.” mrs real estate heard the cry, and thought about listening to it, but again the bag whispered to her “they may be upset, but then they only cuddle each other more to forget their hurt. does anyone cuddle you when you are hurt? no they do not, so why should you help fix their chimney?” mrs real estate agent did nothing, and the bag laughed to itself with a voice like trust dying as it grew larger still. this pattern repeated itself over and over. every time mrs real estate agent did nothing, the bag grew and one more slithery snake found their way inside it, and its voice grew from a whisper to a shout to a scream. ms builder woke up every morning and looked at her roof still drippy and her floor still slippy and thought about how mrs real estate agent was treating her and wondered how she could ever have thought them friends. mr forge and mrs sport shivered and shook in their cold cold house and hoped that they should never see mrs real estate agent again in case they could not help but ask how she had become so useless. one by one, mrs real estate agent drove all her old friends away, and so none were left to watch as her smile that wasn’t a smile faded, then vanished, until all that remained was an emptiness too terrible to stand. to this day, best beloved, mrs real estate agent can’t hear the voices of her friends. all she hears is the bag, squelching and squirming and laughing forever through her mind. and sly old mr. wolf? if you see him, (and one day you very well might,) if he offers you a deal, best beloved, you look long into his eyes, and listen to the soul of mrs real estate agent as it screams and screams and screams forever.