Happy New Year

Introduction

“Flooded gates
Of years gone past
Have left a score
Of those aghast
In harbor shores
I trim my sail
But I decide
I cannot whale

I cannot go
The ocean vast
Of many seas
We may not last
Ahead and lee
Direct my path
Move forward hence
And not look back

Again I try
To bear the deck
But seas oppose
About my neck
Have taken breath
And life from me
And cast it to a lifeless sea

And whose domain
Will never roar
But quiet then
And hear no more

A litany
Of streaming years
Will never quench
The crowd that jeers
But time will come
When oceans take
The sea of us
And will forsake”

So… do you like it?” asked Raymond, who was by now very tired after a long, hard trip into the interior of Mexico.

“To tell you the truth,” answered Vicky, his one true love. “I’d like it more if you turned off that static on t.v. and watched a real channel. It’s really bugging me. Why couldn’t I hook up with a guy who watches a real program, like everyone else?”

“I told you Vicky, static is all that makes sense to me. Everyone talks at once until, I can’t listen anymore. It gets to be too much. Too many voices in my head... but, what about the poem? Whaddaya think?”

“It’s alright, there’s just a few things I don’t understand, like when you say, ‘I cannot whale’. Don’t you mean, ‘I cannot wail’? I think you misspelled that word,” remarked Vicky, looking over Raymond’s shoulder at the scribbled words he’d anxiously written down as the mood and tempo of the poetry came to him – fearing that if he did not work quickly, the energy and inspiration would leave him.

“No Vicky, I really meant ‘I cannot whale’. I meant, I can’t go out. I can’t go out and do the job.”

“What job… you’re an artist aren’t you? You’re a great painter and sculpture. I don’t understand what job you’re talking about.”

“Any job, Vicky. You name it… I can’t go out and do it. I just don’t seem to get along very well. But anyway, was there anything else you didn’t get, or didn’t like?”

“It just sounds so… pessimistic. Can’t you get a little happier? It sounds like you’ve got the whole world about to end. You have me, don’t you? I thought I made you happy.”

“You do but… when you look at everything going on in the world – doesn’t that bring you down? We’re constantly at war; constantly fighting. Nobody seems to get along. All we do is cooperate with each other to make money so we can go home and get away from each other again. Then we wake up and do it again the next day and the next.”

“Okay,” replied Vicky, who had long been interested in her lover’s artistic skills. “If you could, how would you change the world? What would you do to make things better?”

“I’d make more friends,” answered Raymond, whose idea of befriending someone was beheading them, having thus prepared them for a lifetime relationship inside his own deluded mind. Part of the reason he could not watch regular television... having to listen to so many voices at any one particular time, confused him greatly.

“That would only mean more clutter around here,” stated Vicky pragmatically, as she drew Raymond’s attention to the newly varnished head of a police officer he had only recently acquired and set in a dinner dish on the nightstand. A necessary practice to Raymond who tended to wake in the middle of the night lonely and depressed... but in Raymond’s mind, the more available friends he had to talk to, the less lonely he would be. A contradiction between having to listen to too many voices at once and the scary thought of not having someone close by when he needed them. “Isn’t the place dusty enough as it is? I mean… why do we need these confound heads in the way all the time?”
“I suppose now you’re going to tell me I have things to be grateful for, or things to look forward to. I know there’s some kind of speech coming, I can just tell.”

“Well…” she began. “You do have things to be grateful for… like me for instance. And, you’re a super artist Raymond. Nobody around can paint like you. You have a gift.”

“And…” replied Raymond, “what else? I know you’re not done yet.”

“And New Year’s Eve is just around the corner. Why can’t we all just get along? Do we have to bicker now?”

“No, I guess you’re right,” said Raymond, as he lightly stroked the stiff, bristly hair of the freshly varnished, decapitated head. “I suppose I do have things to be grateful for.”

Living just north of Acapulco Mexico was another thing Raymond could be grateful for, but trying to see life accurately through the handicap of mental illness was like trying to see the sun through a very dense fog… Raymond could tell that something better existed, but could never see the image in very much detail, even though Vicky did what she could at times to explain to him what it looked like; he had lost much of his ability to interpret things for himself due to a horrific childhood. An abusive father and an absent mother; a formula or concoction forced upon him at early stages, and a recipe for disaster.

But however true Raymond’s awful past had been, he was at present living in a very nice, affordable place, not far from the ocean, with one of the prettiest, most caring of friends he could ever have found. Even though she was transgender, it made little or no difference to their relationship. What bothered Vicky though, was Raymond’s inability to realize what a good time this was in his life, largely because he had no conception of what a good period in his life was or could be and unfortunately, never would.

“What are you depressed about now?” Vicky asked, frustrated that she could not therapeutically cure him of his deficiencies, but only do her best to endure through them.

“I don’t know Vicky,” he responded, staring out their sliding glass door to the picturesque ocean view beyond. “I never really know for sure. Maybe it was losing the paintings,” he decided, having recently lost four priceless, stolen works of art that he’d collected… a problem that weighed heavily on him, even though it was he who was mainly responsible for having stolen them to begin with. “Or maybe it’s because I’m not working like I used to. Remember when I was in jail, painting murals,” he asked, referring to the years he spent in psychiatric prison, repenting for his crimes and sins through a work plan the warden had conceived. Beautifying the vestibule walls with scenes portraying the warden as a hero of virtue sent to earth from heaven above to guide mankind through times of indiscretion. Though to Warden Stromboli of the Southern Illinois Correctional Institute, those times of indiscretion could be loosely defined and more dependent on his own fluctuating mood, rather then the severity of the crime.

“Why don’t you ask Mr. Babalu to let you paint a mural at the club,” asked Vicky. Thinking that the owner of the nightclub where they were presently employed might allow Raymond a chance to express his talent on a more grand scale, rather then the limiting function he performed as a sketch artist.

“You’re kidding me Vicky,” he replied, knowing how upscale the ‘Club Bamm-Bamm’ was and how important it was to their boss to maintain its image. “He’ll never agree to it.”

“Why not Raymond? You’re easily one of the best artists in the city. Why would he say no?”

“Because I’m me,” answered Raymond, emotionally at an all time low, and the symptoms of his depression such as feelings of worthlessness, despondency and helplessness had begun to take their toll, despite Vicky’s healing touch and unwavering attention.

“We’ll just see about that,” she answered him, with all the protective instincts of a proud mother and then some.

The Club Bamm-Bamm was one of the most glamorous in Acapulco and Mr. Tony Babalu intended to keep it that way. As manager, he was known to go out of his way for the patrons of the nightclub, but could be very difficult at other times when it came to employees who he felt were not meeting expectations. It was true also that he merely tolerated those who worked for him, having no real sympathy or understanding for another persons misfortune, but there was one employee who he did appreciate. One who he felt stood out from the rest, who deserved his attention, and that was Vicky… a vocalist and entertainer whose charms and ability he could not resist and despite the fact that he knew she loved Raymond dearly, could not escape the temptation she presented and never bothered to conceal his interest. Knowing of his admiration, Vicky thought to use it to her advantage - as a subtle tool in her favor – to try to get Raymond back on his feet and back to an even mood which was not so self-deprecating. A new project, she thought, might breathe new life into him and return to her the Raymond she had first met and fell in love with. The old familiar Raymond… who was schizophrenic and as mad as a hatter, but did not spend time brooding or ruminating about bad times that had long since passed. And so, as soon as evening came around and it was time for them both to report to work, Vicky put on one of the most attractive dresses in her wardrobe, got herself psychologically prepared and knocked on the door of her manager… Mr. Tony Babalu.

“Come in,” he said, in his usual gruff tone. But as the door opened and he realized who it was, he began to change his tune. “Pull up a chair,” remarked Mr. Babalu, pointing out the two commonly placed office chairs in front of his desk. “I’m glad you’re here,” he continued. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you too,” replied Vicky cautiously. “It’s about Raymond.”

“Who?”

“You know… Raymond, the caricature artist… my boyfriend.”

“Oh, him. Yes, I know him. I wanted to talk about him too. I don’t think he’s working out,” replied Babalu, very easily and to the point. “In fact, I may as well tell him – tonight can be his last night. After all, he’s already here… he may as well do one last night.”

“Oh no,” returned Vicky, shocked over the ease with which Babalu dismissed Raymond and his abundant talents. A terrible mistake, she thought, on behalf of a manager who did not possess much in the way of insight, but in a sense, it was fortunate for Raymond that he did not. “That would crush him. You can’t do that,” she stated, panicky and distressed. Wondering what Raymond would do with himself if only she had a job and Raymond was left alone with no one to help alter an increasingly disastrous mood.

“He’s just not a good fit for the place. I don’t know… maybe there is a way. Maybe we can work something out.”

“Oh, you don’t know what Raymond can do when he sets his mind to something,” she implored. “He’s a great painter. He doesn’t ask for much, either. He just needs the work so badly. He has skills you wouldn’t believe.”

“Really, is that so?” remarked Babalu, with blithe unconcern. Caring very little about Raymond’s ability as a painter or even his disability and impairment when it came to simple things, like functioning from day to day. But as Tony Babalu got up from his chair and sat down on the front edge of his desk, all that really concerned him was Vicky’s hourglass figure and a simple proposition or plan he had to outline. An ideal design he thought, which would benefit both himself and Vicky. A basic concept and one which Vicky thought a repugnant but necessary evil and listened halfheartedly as Babalu outlined his scheme.

“…and you listen to me when I ask you something,” he went on to say, in the middle of a not very eloquent but demanding speech. “And then I will consider this mural you have suggested. But as far as the agreement between us,” he said, which sounded to Vicky like nails on a chalkboard. “That will begin now.”

“But Raymond,” complained Vicky. “He’s here… right outside.”

“Raymond does not ever need to know, does he?”

“ Pancho Villa… you are kidding me!” exclaimed Mr. Babalu, with all the enthusiasm of a young boy on Christmas morning. “Of course, that is the perfect scenario. Why didn’t I think of that. You are a genius Mr…”

“Mort,” reminded Raymond without hesitation… thrilled that his manager had suddenly taken such a liking to him and had offered him the opportunity to paint a mural directly above the bar, where everyone who came in for a drink would be able to see his work. “Raymond Mort, remember?”

“Oh yes,” replied Babalu. “Mort, like the dead man... now I remember. Hey,” he went on to say, partly out of guilt for not remembering Raymond’s name. “I don’t hold your strange name against you buddy... you are brilliant.” And the warmth that grew between Raymond and his boss – although nearly totally unprecedented – was like a breath of fresh air into Raymond’s life… adding energy to his mind and body, regardless of his total lack of God-given soul. The only problem was that the mural Raymond intended to paint – featuring his manager, Tony Babalu in the guise of Pancho Villa – could easily become a childish looking catastrophe, unless Raymond could use his skills and ability to add the seriousness and realism that such a theme would necessitate in order to become believable – a feat which was not beyond Raymond’s capacity, but then every creative artist has his day, reaches his or her peak and knows when to give up when they’re lucky enough to realize. But the deal had been struck, and Raymond was paid a small fee to begin and once he did, there was no turning back. And in the early morning hours – a few days before New Year’s Eve – Raymond began sketching on the enormous wall behind the bar – and that alone, due to its size and complexity, was a feat in itself. Also, like any other endeavor, it was not without certain obstacles of the sort which may be overcome in the long run, by a certain tenacity and steady effort.

“Vicky,” began Raymond, while feverishly sketching, outlining and shading with the thick, charcoal pencil he held, which was now nothing more then a stub between his ash stained fingers. “Would you mind going out to the car for me? This piece of charcoal is down to a nub.”

“Sure,” she answered, seated across the room, watching Raymond at work as any patron of the arts might watch the maestro, who has rightfully so, been given charge. “I’ll be right back,” she added and walked out to the parking lot to look for the black Oldsmobile Raymond had grown so fond of. But upon finding it, had an increasingly difficult time trying to identify one type of art supply from another, having so many to choose from that Raymond had collected through the years. ‘Now where the heck could it be?’ she thought to herself, riffling through pastel pencils, acrylic paint and then finally the oil paints Raymond used to help delineate and depict completed scenes. But when all else failed, she at last conceded to search the trunk of the car and popped it open easily with the key she carried. The only problem was, the score of severed heads she found as it opened in the discerning rays of the noonday sun, shedding light on Raymond’s past and subduing his present, even in light of the project he pursued. But Vicky did not scream, as anyone else might have. Instead, she only sighed and exhaled an air of mixed emotion, some of her own and some borne of Raymond and the bizarre mental state which haunted him for a lifetime.
“Guess what I found Raymond?” was all Vicky could say when she walked back in. But after noticing how hard Raymond was still working, doing his best to focus and to block out the nuisance of voices in his head – her anger diminished and she did not press the matter so urgently, as she’d planned at the start.

“Uh, did you get the charcoal?”

“Yes, here it is,” she replied, setting it neatly in his hand, which he extended to her from his position atop a scaffold he’d built for the job. “But that’s not all I found. I thought you got rid of that Bill guy’s head. What’s it doing in the trunk?”

“Well, you remember how we found it back in our room, right? What else could I do? I couldn’t leave him there, could I?” he asked innocently, unsure of what some people might think after finding such a thing in a hotel room. After all, in Raymond’s mind, a severed head was pretty good company. It was all the talking out of turn that they did from time to time that troubled him and took his attention away from what he was doing.

“And…what about the cop? Why do we need these heads lying around Raymond? They’re just going to collect dust like all the others. We talked about this so many times. You’re just creating more work for me… don’t you see? Honestly, you are just so exasperating sometimes.”

“Alright,” acknowledged Raymond. “But I can’t do anything about them right now. It’ll have to wait.”

“And, where are you going to put them?”

“With the ‘Yaqui’ people I suppose. The name implies a lot of talking, doesn’t it? I don’t want them to be lonely, that’s all. Being lonely is terrible. I can’t imagine anything worse. But now, I really must continue Vicky.”

Ari and Bette had been traveling all night. The precious cargo they carried with them was not so much Bette’s Chihuahua, Sweetie, but the paintings they’d taken from Raymond’s hotel room which were – unbeknownst to them – authentic works of art that Raymond had stolen from the Art Institute of Chicago, while replacing them with skillfully executed works of his own. Something they had no way of knowing and did not even suspect. But the two desperately needed cash and the temptation of selling them to a dealer was far too great to ignore. So, one of the first things they did, upon their arrival in Acapulco was to try to find someone they could approach to suggest a deal, even after realizing that selling what were in their minds, beautiful counterfeit copies, might mean years in prison.
“You’re sure you want to go through with this?” asked Ari, after stopping the car and pausing in front of an established art gallery called; El Gallería Boozamente. The question though, he believed, was quite necessary considering the danger involved.

“How are we going to pay for gas?” questioned Bette. “What if the car breaks down? What then?”

“Are you sure you’re not just worrying about things that haven’t happened yet and probably won’t?”

“Then take a look in your wallet and tell me how many pesos you’ve got. Go on…”

“Okay, okay… I just hate taking chances like this. We just have to stick to our story then, right? I mean, a friend painted these for his own amusement and gave them to us, right? Then if he turns around and calls the cops, we run out the door screaming.”

“Well, we run out the door anyway. You’ve got that part down pat.”

“Alright then,” acknowledged Ari, while parking the long car in a strategic spot, just in case they needed to get away more quickly then they’d arrived. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Don’t worry,” Bette began, doing what she could to calm Ari’s nerves. “If they’re dog lovers at all, Sweetie will soften them up, won’t you sweetie,” she said, pulling him from the big handbag she carried to admire him. “Everything will be a-okay. You’ll see,” she added, as she pulled back on the door handle to open the big passenger side door. But in reality, the peril of their intention was imminent and rested not so much in the hands of God, as it did in the permutations of simple mathematics or the toss of a pair of dice.

“We thought you might be able to help us,” asked Ari, of one of the art dealers who came to greet him - a man who seemed inquisitive of the two Americans in his store, but lacking much in the way of enthusiasm due to the nature of Ari’s question… especially because the prospect of accomplishing a sale did not look particularly hopeful.

“What exactly can I help you with señor?” returned the proprietor in well spoken English. A fact which added a certain ease to Ari’s mood, knowing that at least the barrier of language between English and Spanish was not about to become a matter of great concern. But as Ari propped up the two paintings he held against a low wall provided by a front counter, the art dealer’s interest increased dramatically, although he thought it best to conceal any emotion and not to let it become a deciding factor in any type of transaction.

“I have these paintings that were sort of lying around collecting dust that a friend of mine…” But before Ari could finish what he was saying, the dealer interrupted with a flowing gesture of his hand, enough so that Ari believed any further explanation might well get in the way of their exchange. Then crouching in front of the art, the dealer thoughtfully observed the artist’s signatures in their respective places, but made no comment as to what his conjecture might be and after a few moments, took the opportunity to turn both paintings around in order to examine the back of each.

“I don’t want to know…” he began to say, which could not help but spark Ari’s curiosity.

“Ah, I’m not sure we understand,” replied Bette, who’d been watching intently, but had not yet felt the need to intervene.

“I don’t want to know how it is you have acquired these, but I would like to make you an offer if you are willing to sell them. Do you have any more like them?”

“We have two more in the car. I’ll go get them,” said Ari, pointing to the door of the store to articulate his intention, but in his absence, Bette took the opportunity to speak, thinking that a private conversation might shed more light on what was beginning to appear to her as a very clandestine or unconventional business practice.

“Forgive me for not introducing myself,” she began to say. “My name is…” But again, as he had interrupted Ari in mid sentence, he similarly hindered Bette’s speech and bluntly curtailed her endeavor to display good manners.

“I do not need to know your name,” he plainly stated. “It may be for the benefit of us both that I know as little about you as possible.” And then, after he seemed assured that he’d examined the backs of the paintings as thoroughly as the constraints of time would allow, he walked to the storefront window and watched as Ari pulled the two remaining paintings from the station wagon and began the short trip back. “After I see what else you have,” he said, leaning against the metal mullion of the storefront window. “I will give you a purchase price you may think over with your friend. Think carefully though, I must warn you, because you will not have many other opportunities available to you… this I know.”

“I don’t understand,” returned Bette, just as Ari was opening the door to come back in. But in her mind, the paintings in question could not have had much value and for that reason, lacked the measure of seriousness the dealer had put upon them. But to him and in his mind, the matter and its seriousness could not be stressed highly enough. The matter of acquiring them and the cost of obtaining them was the only obstacle to be overcome.

“This is it,” declared Ari, referring to the remaining two paintings in his possession and leaned them up against the same low wall beside the others. But the reticent art dealer said nothing as he stood in thought and only rubbed and pulled at the ends of his mustache with forefinger and thumb in a pensive, introverted posture. Even then, the silence he communicated lasted long after he’d made his decision and Ari and Bette watched mutely as he stood behind the low wall of the countertop, scratching numbers down, thinking intently to himself.

“I have one offer to make you,” he said finally, after the passing of some very long and difficult to endure moments of empty and uncertain time. “I would like you to consider it most thoughtfully,” he added, handing the slip of paper to Ari, and then kneeling to continue his careful scrutiny of each work of art.

“Do you mind if we talk this over in private?” asked Ari, feeling that he and Bette would be more effective at bargaining a position if they acted more as a team and less as a divided couple with separate interests.
“By all means,” returned the dealer. “You must take your time. If we make a deal, then it is done and there must be no record of it,” he maintained. “It is a cash deal with no receipt. If you should decide… once I have given you the money and you have given me possession of the paintings, there is no turning back. You see?”

“Yes, we understand,” answered Bette, as the two walked out the door to talk things over amidst a tension in the air that they never could have anticipated.

“What’s going on here Bette? What’s he trying to pull? This is real money he’s offering us,” continued Ari, as he showed the slip of paper to his traveling companion. “What’s he thinking?”

“I don’t know… I can’t figure it out,” she replied, as the clandestine dealer watched them speaking to each other from the interior side of the store front window. Then slowly losing interest in a conversation he could not hear but only wonder about, he retreated to the recesses of his shop to continue taking inventory of stock. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” asked Ari, who was really at a loss for any reasonable explanation.

“Unless, he thinks they’re real. Why else would he be acting so secretive? Why else would he be offering us real money for copies?”

“But where would that nutty Raymond guy have gotten a hold of genuine works of art? If they’re real, they’re worth a fortune. A lot more then this dealer’s willing to pay. Maybe we’re doing the wrong thing here? Maybe we shouldn’t be here at all?”

“We don’t have a choice Ari,” complained Bette, but truthfully so and in appeal of their cash predicament. And so, in light of the fact that the two weren’t sure where their next meal was coming from, or how they would keep their car moving, they did what they thought they must do and sold the four original pieces of art that day for a fraction of their true value… a grave error to someone who could afford to be a patron of the arts but a necessary evil to those who could not.

“Gracias,” said Mr. Babalu, as he sat back down into his office desk chair. And opening a side drawer in the big mesquite wood desk, he pulled out an impressive box of cigars and lit one up.

“Does this mean Raymond can keep his job?” asked Vicky, after rearranging her tousled hair and dress.

“We made an agreement, didn’t we? I am a man of my word.”
“Thank you Mr. Babalu, you won’t regret it.”

“I am very impressed with him, you know. It is as you said… he is quite talented. I can see his ideas materializing. It makes me wonder why he is not more famous then he is.”

“Oh, he has his drawbacks,” replied Vicky, as she held the door open for herself, ready to make her escape.

“And what would those be?” inquired Mr. Babalu from behind his desk. “We all have our little handicaps we must work around. Who knows,” he wished to add at the last moment, before Vicky took her place at Raymond’s side. “Maybe the faults in him are a benefit to his work, no? Maybe the obstacles we must overcome make us better. Skills like his do not come easy. God…” reminded Mr. Babalu, suddenly finding himself in a talking mood as he pointed his forefinger toward the ceiling of his office. “He is one who gives and takes. You are the lucky one if He gives you more then He takes, no? Many people, they have nothing. No job, no skill. But Raymond, he has something to give back to his fellow man. Now that is something everyone cannot say. He is a man who gives more then he takes, that much is obvious.”

“It’s just that…” Vicky began to say, searching for words to explain herself without calling to much attention to Raymond’s strange role in life as a hopeless schizophrenic with a penchant for murder. “He has a hard time controlling himself at times.”

“Oh, he is just a temperamental artist. I would not dwell on it if I were you. That is the nature of the beast.” But as Vicky let the door close behind her and walked toward Raymond, she couldn’t help but wonder of the nature of the beast and the toll of human life spent feeding it, supporting it and even nurturing it, and to what end? That is what bothered her most of all. It wasn’t that she felt guilt or remorse for others, but she wondered how anyone could sustain the types of habits that had become so much a part of Raymond. But of that concern and to what end, only the passage of time could tell.

“I like what you’re doing Raymond,” said Vicky, admiring the huge panel of charcoal pencil that he’d more then sketched out behind the long stretch of bar. “I just can’t tell if that’s supposed to be Tony or Pancho Villa in the center?”

“It’s both really,” returned Raymond, focused more on where she’d been for the last half hour then who the characters were in the theme of his work. “I missed you there for awhile. I ran out of charcoal again so I started painting some areas in.”

“I can see. It’s looking good,” she said, lighting a cigarette more so for something to do rather then really feeling the need to satisfy her nicotine habit.

“Where were you?” he replied, standing up straight on the scaffold, nervously addressing her, but with the caution he believed necessary in order to keep from alienating her and pushing her away.

“I… I’ve been here all along. I was in the bathroom.”

“For half an hour? I couldn’t help but notice… Tony’s door was closed.”

“Raymond,” she replied with obvious anxiety, fidgeting with the cigarette that she held, dropping ashes from it all over the floor, which was something she rarely did. “I swear… I don’t want to go through this now. I can’t go through this now. I’ll tell you later tonight.” But Raymond’s mood which consequently altered both his tempo and brushwork had become riddled with anxiety and his work - until later that night - suffered greatly.

“I’ll tell you what I’m doing,” said Vicky, about to admit the truth to Raymond, who could feel by way of intuition that something was going on behind his back. “I’m cooperating with Mr. Babalu and that’s it… that’s all there is to say. I’m doing whatever I can Raymond… you don’t know the half of it,” she said, trying to explain what she’d been going through for Raymond without spelling things out.

“So… you’re going behind my back. You’re doing it again Vicky. You’re starting all over again, aren’t you? As if I don’t mean anything… like I’m not even here. I go around thinking you’re my best friend and then you do things like this to me. Why… why do you do this to me? Why?” And he continued to ask ‘why’ over and over again until his tears had filled the surface of the pillow he’d pressed against his face and at the time, the luxurious amenities of the apartment they were living in meant nothing to him or to Vicky, and the ocean view from beyond the big sliding doors they looked out from may well have been the sobering panorama of the most awful part of town, or a vista from the recesses of places one can only dream into existence… a catacomb of some netherworld we have thought briefly of, but cannot conscionably describe to much depth.

“No wonder he was so nice to me,” said Raymond, turning over on his side, still languishing in bed.

“It was the only way Raymond,” responded Vicky, as tears began to stream down her pretty face. “He… he was about to fire you. I had to do it. It was the only way,” she reiterated, finding it necessary to repeat herself not only for Raymond, but also to remind herself that indeed, cooperating with Tony Babalu was all that she could do to help Raymond maintain his job.

“I think I’d rather be fired,” he answered, stuffing his face back into the pillow which offered him at least part of the comfort he sought so badly. “I think I’d rather be dead,” he said this time, as the impact of what was happening filled him with grief and maximized his agony, torturing him from the inside out as nothing else on this earth could.

“No you wouldn’t Raymond,” answered Vicky, soothing him as no other person in this world could have, patting him and rubbing his back to try to make him fell better, as a mother might soothe her beloved son. “You know you want to live,” she replied, knowing exactly what he needed to do in this life. “And you know you need this project. Please…” she continued, as she took her place by his side. “Do this for me, and do this for yourself. We both know, it’s best if you finish this mural… and then, if you want, we’ll just move on, and move on with our lives.”

“Okay, if you think I should,” he responded, knowing that she was the key to his getting along in the outside world, which was sometimes just as cruel and unjust to him as he was to it.

“Yes, I think you should,” she replied, laying her head upon his chest, which made them both feel as if the struggles and conflicts in their lives were met more through a combination of both of their efforts rather then of just one… a clear indication of a working relationship between a man and a woman, even though Vicky did not technically satisfy all the criterion or physicality of womanhood.

“We have to celebrate the New Year, don’t we?” asked Ari, as the big car sped towards Acapulco. A destination both he and Bette thought appropriate in consideration of New Year’s Eve and how best to spend it.

“We do… don’t we Sweetie darling,” answered Bette, pulling the tiny Chihuahua from her handbag in celebration of the money they’d made on the paintings they had stolen from Raymond’s hotel room and the fact that New Years Eve was just around the corner.

“Can we get him into a nice hotel?” asked Ari, wondering what would happen if the dog in Bette’s handbag suddenly felt the need to show himself and consequently, give himself away.

“Don’t you worry about Sweetie; he’ll be as quiet as a mouse. You hardly ever hear him bark, do you?” explained Bette. “That’s just his temperament,” she went on to say, petting the short smooth fur on his head with the palm of her hand. “Like some people, he’s just as sweet and relaxed as he can be, isn’t that right Sweetie? Besides, he’ll be in my handbag and no one will ever even guess that he’s there.”

“If you say so,” replied Ari, but events don’t always go as planned, and people and dogs with the finest of temperaments are sometimes led astray by circumstances which may very well be beyond the limits of their social graces. And when the three arrived at one of the most polished hotels in Acapulco, all Sweetie could think of doing was to stick his head up from Bette’s finely hand tooled leather purse, to bark his head off… an event which surprised his owner, but made Ari believe that this reaction was amongst one of the ever unexpected consequences which might be considered ‘par for the course’, and that dogs like Sweetie were amongst the usual crowd who could not keep buried secrets to themselves... a prominent but unsettling feature amongst even the most intelligent of canine and human species. And after listening to ‘I’m sorry sir, but we do not allow dogs at the hotel’, Bette only turned to Ari with a facial expression that needed no other verbal support and the three walked out feeling as though they’d been discriminated against, even though it was not a case of racial or religious abasement.

“Sorry,” Bette responded as they got back into the car. “That wasn’t the only place in town though.”

“I know, I’m just so tired,” answered Ari, annoyed with what had happened, especially after listening to Bette speak as if she was sure about her dog and what they could expect from him. “…So tired of driving.”

“Don’t worry… the worst is over. We put a lot of miles behind us, didn’t we? Look at it this way... we’re here in Acapulco, how hard can it be to find a place? Why don’t you pull in here,” she suggested, spotting a well lit sign from the road. But even though they believed they were safely isolated and that no one would be able to pick them out of a crowd of well to do vacationer’s, chance always has a way of turning things around, forcing itself upon us like some unwanted guest, and awkward things may happen when one least expects them to.

“We’ve got time for a swim if you want. Maybe it’ll improve your mood?”

“I don’t know. I don’t feel much like swimming right now.”

“You’re ‘ruminating’ again Raymond… isn’t that what your doctor called it? You’ve got everything to look forward to. The mural will be fantastic and I bet word will get around and you’ll get another commission and another, and best of all… you’ve got me.”

“Tell her ya love her,” said Joe in Raymond’s mind, although to Raymond, there was hardly a barrier between reality and hallucination.

“I didn’t think you cared,” said Raymond aloud, in answer to Joe, but Vicky naturally thought Raymond was talking to her - since no one else was around – which presented just one of the obstacles in their relationship that Vicky struggled to overcome, but she knew that Raymond’s delusions were incurable and that the struggle would only persist.

“Are you really talking to me now, or someone else?” she asked with good reason. “You know I love you… why would you say something like that?”

“Okay, so it took me some time ta get used to the idea,” replied Joe. “An I ain’t just speakin’ for myself, neither. But what the heck,” he continued, along the same train of thought. “If you two are right for each other, why fight the feelin’?”

“I don’t need your approval,” answered Raymond, who had again replied in response to Joe… a long time denizen of Raymond’s psyche. “Especially at a time like this... can’t you see I’m in pain?”

“You need a rest Raymond,” responded Vicky, which was the usual procedure she liked to follow at difficult times like this, where schizophrenia complicated what should have been a simple conversation and made reaching out to Raymond an extremely difficult task and one she could not always find it within herself to cope with. “I’ll be at the pool if you need me, but if you ask me, the best thing you could do for yourself is to take one of the lithium pills the doctor gave you and get some rest. We’re both just doing what we need to do right now. I hope you’ll come around and see my point. We’re a team Raymond… that’s the way I see it. And team members go to bat for each other, not just for themselves. Besides,” she added, as she slipped into the tight fitting, one-piece bathing suit. “I can’t reverse what’s happened… I can’t take things back now. I did the best I could at the time Raymond. Please finish the mural for me. It may very well make us both feel better about ourselves. As if,” she began to say, but hesitated before speaking. “As if we didn’t live our lives in vain... we lived for a purpose. You’ll have made great art and I helped you. People might even remember you for your contributions to society and overlook your transgressions.” But as Vicky opened the door to leave and recalled some of the severed heads Raymond had collected through the years, it occurred to her that those transgressions she spoke of were not really as minor as she’d made them out to be. Only the temptation to explain them away as she had was all too great considering the kindness Raymond consistently showed her and the nature of the man in question… one who had truly fallen into an abyss he could never return from, and if it weren’t for Vicky – his full time nurse and lover – he would surely perish, just as any beast caught in a death trap surely would.

“You believe it if you want El Greco,” facetiously stated the policeman Raymond had killed on Christmas Eve – in Raymond’s mind and whatever was left of his conscience. “But the truth is, the law will catch up with you and for stuffing me inside the piñata like that… you know what they say gringo… an eye for an eye. They will cut your head off too, as you have done to me and use it to play the soccer game. You wait.”

“I can’t worry about that now,” said Raymond in return. “I need to get ahead in life, and Vicky’s helping me. I need to get my head in a better place… since you’re no help at all. Writing a poem for Vicky might help, but what do I call it?” he wondered aloud, getting up out of bed to pace back and forth in front of the wide, glass sliding door. “I can’t help feeling depressed… but that’s pretty much par for the course,” he muttered to himself.

“You got that right,” replied Dan, another of Raymond’s virtual friends. “But what makes today any different then any other?”

“You could always hang yourself,” offered Lorin, another of Raymond’s good friends.

“That’s not very nice,” interjected Raymond. “Besides, that’d shock Vicky into last week. I can’t do that to her.”

“Too bad,” replied Lorin.

“I know… I’m depressed and this is winter, right? So why don’t I just put the two together and call it; ‘Wintertime Blues’?”

“Stick to painting,” quipped Lorin, callous to Raymond’s delicate hold on life.

“Okay… I want to finish this by the time she gets back,” said Raymond, pulling a chair from its resting place at a desk next to the bed. “So here goes nuth’in…”

“That’s her… I’d know her anywhere.”

“My God,” replied Ari, sensing that Bette was right. “How’d you see her in that crowd? I never would’ve known.”

“I saw her blonde hair, then the black bathing suit. And when she turned around, I recognized her glasses. I’d remember those big dark sunglasses anywhere. They’re the type you can see out of, but no one can see into them… like a big bee or something. Know what I mean?”

“Yes,” answered Ari. “But let’s get out of here before she spots us. This is making me feel very uncomfortable… especially after we stole everything in their room that wasn’t nailed down. That doesn’t sit well with me. I feel like a common…”

“Thief,” interrupted Bette, anxious to interpret the facts on her own. “What’s that in comparison to murderer?”

“Please, let’s not go through this again. You know the way I feel about it.”

“Then don’t blame me for taking a few crummy paintings. Without me, you’d be sleeping in your car fighting off rattlesnakes and scorpions, but I got us a room at a swank hotel, didn’t I? Well,” she added, determined to wait for an answer. “Didn’t I?”

“Sometimes Bette… you go too far. Isn’t that what got you into trouble at home? You just go too far.”

“How’s my little maestro,” asked Vicky, kicking off her high heeled pool shoes and swinging the door closed behind her.

“I wrote something for you. Would you like to hear it?”

“You’re really getting into this poetry stuff, aren’t you? Go ahead, let ‘er rip.”

“Okay,” said Raymond bashfully, then clearing his throat and standing to face her as if he were addressing a much larger audience, he began to recite… “I call it; ‘Wintertime Blues’.”

“But what does that have to do with me? I don’t give you the blues, do I?”

“No, no Vicky… you don’t give me the blues. That’s just me. I always do. Dan says I’m chronically depressed and he thinks I need another drug better then lithium.”

“You’re not listening to your nutty friends again, are you Raymond? They’re not real,” explained Vicky, frustrated in her many attempts to get Raymond to stop hallucinating. “They’re dead… they don’t exist anymore… they’re gone.”

“Okay… sure, I get it. They’re gone, so let me read you this,” he began, still stubbornly at odds with himself over the existence of his friends...

“I can paint the day away
But all these colors tend to grey
I cannot rule my sun to shine
But rule it does; on me, on mine

I only wish that charge I had
Of my time here
Through err and then
I wake again
To find I had
But never knew the paint was mad

I never knew, the paint was mad
I never knew you anyone
And least I knew myself as one
And tried to beat the starting gun
And wish it were that otherwise
I knew I lived but must surmise

I know but one
Does not deny
She knows my end
And does not lie”

“So… whaddaya think?” asked Raymond shyly, who was a person capable of stabbing someone to death over some minor encounter but at the same time, was afraid of criticism or one word which might be construed as unpleasant, even when coming from his best friend; Vicky. A contradiction that might lead one to believe that even the most heinous murderers have had friends and emotions like anyone else… the only difference being in the amount of hate that person has stored up inside themselves, like a capacitor designed to store some electronic energy which has gone badly, awry.

“It just sounds so depressing. When you said you wrote me a poem, I thought you might be telling me how happy we are together. I don’t hear any of that in your verse.”

“You hate it,” returned Raymond, who turned his face back into his pillow and began again to quietly shed tears that only the most temperamental of artists would have felt the need to indulge in.

“No Raymond, don’t get me wrong,” said Vicky, coming to his side to soothe him, sitting on the edge of the bed, calmly pushing the hair away from beside his face so that they might look at each other as lovers are often want to do. “It’s good, I like it… it’s just that I can tell you’re so darn depressed. You really need a better drug then what you’re taking. Lithium just isn’t enough... or maybe you need a higher dose. Why don’t we call someone? I’ll go with you.”

“Just leave me alone,” answered Raymond despondently, but for him, a mood no worse then any other day. “I do as much as I can and I always feel like it’s never enough… it’s just never enough. Just go away.” And after showering and getting dressed again for her night’s performance, Vicky did just that. Leaving Raymond to himself and to whatever delusion he might unintentionally choose to torture himself with that night.

It was New Year’s Eve as the two hungry traveling companions opened the beautiful glass entry doors to The Club Bamm-Bamm and looked around. They were very impressed with what they saw, but Ari could never quite shake the anxiety he felt. “What now?” he asked, as they stood waiting for a host to seat them.

“What do you mean, ‘what now’? We wait for a host, get ourselves a table and spend some of the money we made, that’s what. Look around… this must be one of the grandest places in town. Let’s have a little fun… loosen up a little. You only live once, even though nuts like you wanna believe otherwise. I don’t wanna waste my time in this life trying to find out.”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” returned Ari. “I mean, what do we do if Raymond and that girl see us back at the hotel, then what? We can’t just give them back their stuff anymore. It’s gone.”

“We deny it, that’s all. Now quit worrying about it and let’s eat,” replied Bette, as the maître d’ approached to escort the couple to an empty table. But within the span of mere seconds after being seated, Raymond and Vicky walked in through the very same glass doors of the nightclub, ready to begin what was to be for them, an afternoon and evening of work and pleasure amongst a crowd of some of the luckiest people in all of Mexico. And that day, Raymond felt especially determined to perform his job task, having changed his mood with Vicky’s help into something much more temperate… knowing in his heart that she was giving him the right advice - doing her very best to guide him along a proper path, which was really the only path for him, as long as he could remain outside the cold, desperate walls of psychiatric prison.

And this wasn’t just another typical afternoon at the popular club, as their waiter demonstrated when he began to hand out party masks to every patron and pointed out a huge piñata suspended from the ceiling – a sight which was not at all unfamiliar to Raymond and Vicky, but brought with it an unwelcome air of apprehension as Vicky watched it from her seat, recalling what had happened over the Christmas holiday just a few days before... a memory all too fresh in her mind to forget that easily. But before she had much time to discuss the matter with her beloved, the house band started to play, patrons began to dance and life’s little problems began to dissipate with the anticipated festivities of the night. Even those concerns Vicky expressed over Raymond’s vices, which included murder and decapitation seemed to disappear as gaiety replaced disquiet and discontent.

“Do you think it’s okay if we dance a little?” asked Raymond, wondering what the club management would think knowing that employees were mixing with a crowd of paying customers.

“I don’t think Mr. Babalu would mind,” answered Vicky, who looked absolutely stunning in her gown and was the envy of many. “Besides, he won’t know for sure who we are with our masks on. C’mon,” she persuaded. “Let’s have some fun. We deserve a little fun Raymond - everyone does sometimes.” And so the couple walked to the dance floor, completely unaware that they were joined by Ari and Bette - rhythmically moving under the very same suspended piñata - enjoying their fair share of the holiday and dancing as they hadn’t done in years.

“I had no idea you were such a good dancer,” declared Ari, moving to the tempo of the music just a few feet away from where Raymond and Vicky also moved in time and step – having never expected to see each other in the first place. But the varying types of masks they wore made it especially difficult to identify anyone, regardless of how recognized they may otherwise have been.

“Neither did my husband,” replied Bette, very frankly. “He never did care about anything much. Dinner was just about it. How about you?” she asked without reserve, as they circled about each other like two planets of equivalent mass, unwavering in their orbital paths, but conjoined together, spiraling erratically through three dimensions as no two heavenly bodies ever would. “Did your wife care about the good things that you did, or the times you meant well?”

“Oh yes,” answered Ari, without hesitation. “She loved me… and I loved her.” But the logic Ari expressed that afternoon was not of a sort common to most people and Bette decided not to probe the issue further since she knew inherently that she would not understand the answer. Instead, between song sets, Bette and Ari along with everyone else on the dance floor slowly went back to their tables. But the real celebration had only just begun and waiters started handing out pieces of paper with numbers written on them just to find out who might be the lucky ones called on to break the piñata. And so, in the time it took for most of the nights participants to get back to their seats, nearly all of the numbers had already been handed out and Raymond was soon preoccupied with the small, folded piece of paper he’d been given, looking as if much more then just the breaking of the piñata depended on this one lonely number.

“What do I do with it?” he asked Vicky, who joined him in this simple game of numbers, but did not seem anywhere near as disturbed by it as he... until at least, a few moments of time had elapsed. After all, she believed, Raymond might just have a more keen insight into the upcoming event then she, and it might prove to be one of those situations she would rather not have to deal with, especially if history could ever state any claim to the future... or if the law could ever state any claim to a crime, which of course is a grand understatement.

“Oh, don’t act like a child Raymond. You know what to do. Just hang on to it and if they call it out, you get to break the piñata.”

“But… I’m not sure I want to,” he replied, which only drew her concern all the more.

“Why not?” asked Vicky, who was by now afraid to ask, but did so because she could not contain her curiosity… a trait characteristic to many a human tragedy and a reason some of us have brought hardship to ourselves – a thing Vicky would love to have circumvented, considering some of the difficult times she’d spent with a companion who was considerably more odd then the term ‘eccentric’ would imply.

“Because I…” But Raymond did not have much time to deliberate his reason, as the maître d' began suddenly calling numbers out over the house microphone, drawing the attention of everyone, including Raymond. But after three people had already been chosen to help destroy the paper-mache personification, or sacrificial lamb so to speak - determined by God and man for sacrifice to the common good – Raymond and his better half had begun to give up hope, thinking that chance had passed them by. But when the number Raymond held in his sweating hand was called, new meaning had been given to the number ‘13’ on that day and ‘The Thirteen Attributes Of Mercy’, or the way in which God governs the world, suddenly meant much less then it had for millennia. When by chance, Raymond rose from his chair and joined the chosen people on the dance floor to become one of many who’ve been known through the ages as one of those actors - ambiguous in God’s eternal play - who we have considerable difficulty in deciding whether good or evil. A problem handed to us no doubt for us to exercise our own ability in judging one another at important times, when heaven has determined that we must act of our own accord. And people who have taken life must be held accountable for it, by His law and by our own.

“Just go do it Raymond. Put a little fun in your life. Maybe it’ll cheer you up?” And when Raymond finally joined the others, his sullen mood and lack of desire to participate in an act for the common good changed somewhat more to one of interest and involvement, but when the sticks began swinging, he calmly leaned on his own, as if to rest at some picturesque spot in the midst of nature’s wild, watching the natural order of events unfold. And all at once, as one of the ladies struck it, the piñata opened and revealed its contents to all in the nightclub, which were a considerable amount of nothing at all… that is, nothing but one, lonely piece of candy which Raymond calmly picked up. Then realizing there was a message written on it, he walked to the microphone and read it off for all to hear… “It says ‘Eat Me’,” he said, and so he did just that – following those written instructions to a ‘T’ and ate it, to the dismay of some who were sorry that more had not fallen out from the mute beast and that there was nothing else left for them to indulge in, save for the fond memory of violently opening it’s virtual gut. But when contestants found their seats again, Vicky could not hold back her view of what took place and scolded her man to the fullest extent of authority vested in her.

“I can’t believe you Raymond,” was at last, all that would emerge from her although she felt that there was much, much more to say. Moments later though, she could not help but follow up her remark by asking, “Did you do that?” And Raymond, who could never lie to her, replied by saying, “I’m mad.”

“At who now?”

“You know who… Babalu, that’s who.”

“You won’t be happy until you get us both fired Raymond. What will we do without jobs? I finally make it possible for you to continue painting and what do you do? I can’t believe you. Now look at all the people sitting around looking at each other, wondering what happened. What have you to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured grudgingly and then added, “I suppose some people might think it strange. I couldn’t help it… I have to sit still and not say anything while Babalu takes advantage of you. Can’t you see things the way I do sometimes. It would be so much easier, just to know you understand me.”

“I understand you Raymond, but why can’t you learn to leave piñata’s alone? That’s the second one you’ve messed up now, honestly. And why in the world did the candy have ‘Eat Me’ written on it? What are you trying to say?”

“I don’t know exactly but, do you remember the part in ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’ where she finds a cake that has ‘Eat Me’ written on it? It changed her after she ate it. I want to be changed too, Vicky. I want my life to change.”

“But making everyone mad at you… lashing out like that… I don’t understand how that will help.”

“I don’t know, I suppose that was all I could think of at the time. Sometimes, you know, even doctors say it’s good to act out your emotions instead of letting them accumulate inside, like toxins in our bodies. Maybe, I did the right thing.”

“You did a selfish thing Raymond. It was all just for you. Honestly, couldn’t you be just a bit more altruistic?”

But Raymond did not hesitate to answer by proudly stating, what were to him, the facts. “I have some very good friends who seem to appreciate me.”

“If you say so Raymond,” replied Vicky, knowing to her dismay that his friends spoke solely to him.

“Did you see that?” asked Ari. “Am I seeing things or what? That was that Raymond guy wasn’t it?”

“It had to have been,” answered Bette, just as surprised to have seen Raymond again as Ari was. “I don’t know anyone else as nuts as he is. Who else would get up in front of everyone and say ‘Eat Me’?”

“Oh, I knew quite a few people,” stated Ari, sure that Raymond Mort was not the only nut he’d ever met who was capable of such a deed. But as the evening was still young and Vicky began to sing as she did almost every night, Raymond lost track of her in his mind, as he lost himself in thoughts of his own mural design and exactly what shape it would eventually take on. It was the adoration he felt for Vicky which always lingered in his conscious mind that made thoughts of her never far, never too distant and he began to wonder about her whereabouts, knocking on the ladies bathroom door repeatedly, unaware at the time of wherever else she might be.

“Vicky… are you in there,” he asked repeatedly as he knocked, until the knuckles of his hand became sore, but never too sore to stop him from his search, as they both knew in their hearts and minds that it’d taken too long to find each other, in a world that at times was too big, making it far too difficult to find that special someone; trustworthy and ready to endure any obstacles that might impede a lasting relationship. “Are you okay?” he continued, this time turning his hand on its side to avoid hurting it anymore, but still no sound came from the opposite side of the door, which added greatly to his concern. Then at last, he decided to ask Mr. Babalu if he knew where she might have gone and as his growing concern turned to fear, the fear of being without her compelled him further to turn the handle of Mr. Babalu’s office door without first knocking and to his astonishment, he found her, but not in any condition or position he would have hoped. “I can’t believe you! I can’t believe you’re doing this to me,” he yelled, in a sudden rage which just as suddenly turned to wailing and then to weeping in a fit he could not control, as if he were being made to watch a most deeply loved person die and lacked all means with which to stop this course of action.

“Please Raymond,” he heard Vicky say. “Just leave… just turn around and leave. I told you I had to. I told you,” she tried desperately to explain, pulling her dress back down, covering herself as best she could, doing everything in her power to hide the shame she felt now more than ever. But Mr. Babalu, who’s natural reaction became one of self-preservation, was by now thinking only of himself and how best to avoid a confrontation he had not planned on.

“We can work this out,” he found himself saying, which may very well have been the nicest thing he’d ever said in his adult life. “Don’t do anything rash,” he followed with, as Raymond stood sobbing in the middle of his office, unable to collect himself. “I can do things for you… ah,”

“His name is Raymond,” interjected Vicky, in time to fill in the blank space in Mr. Babalu’s speech.

“I have friends… friends that owe me favors,” he said, while in effect, pleading for Raymond’s forgiveness. “But I cannot help you if you don’t let me,” he added, meaning that if Raymond could not find it within himself to forgive and did something irrevocable, there would be no way he could serve Raymond’s foreseeable best interests and the future of his career.

“That was the worst New Years of my life,” said Raymond, opening his eyes on New Year’s Day after a typical sleepless night due to the abundance of voices in his head… keeping him up… keeping his mind racing and helping to serve no purpose at all.

“We talked about it Raymond, remember? It’s not like the whole thing was a surprise was it? Can’t we just drop it?” asked Vicky, hoping to come to a compromise with Raymond, thus settling the issue – which was like a raw open wound - in both of their minds. “But I wanted to tell you that he promised me… after you’re through with the mural, you can paint any wall you want. Babalu said, you have a free hand. You can do one big motif if you like. He just doesn’t want any trouble Raymond. Are you listening?”

“I can’t get it out of my mind Vicky. I keep seeing you back there. It hurts. What do I do to forget it? How do I put it out of my mind? I couldn’t sleep before I saw you with him… and now this. What am I going to do?” Raymond implored, wondering where life would lead him now after finding his one true love in the heart-clenching embrace of another.

“You can try being patient Raymond. I’ve done everything I can for now. How do you think I feel being stuck in the middle like this? Have you ever thought about me and my feelings? Why is this all about you?”

“Okay, okay, I just have to get a hold of myself I guess. I needed to make sure I’m not losing you. I can’t stand the thought of losing you to Babalu after all we’ve been through together. I can’t stand the thought of you being with him.”

“Please try to put it out of your mind for now,” Vicky pleaded, pushing the dark black hair back on Raymond’s forehead with a gentle stroke of her hand, as only a woman could have done. But in Vicky’s case, those attributes that defined womanhood seemed to be instinctive, even though she was not physically, naturally born to them. And the list of those instincts only went on and got more involved, even upon closer examination.

The excitement of being able to paint almost anything, anywhere in the nightclub began to take hold of Raymond as he thought of expanding the theme he was working on to encompass each and every wall. Standing on the scaffold he’d hastily made, he wondered where his thoughts might lead him, but he didn’t have long to wait before answers began to arrive in the strangest of ways… which unfortunately for Raymond, was a part of everyday life and a struggle just to survive.

“Better start throw’in some paint down,” remarked Joe. “Nobody likes a slow worker.”

“This is all my project,” reminded Raymond to one of his resident personalities. “And nobody can tell me what to do, or when to do it.”

“Of course Raymond, you tell ‘im,” said Guy. “That’s one of the benefits to being your own boss. Mr. Babalu will just have to wait.”
“Do me a favor Guy and don’t mention Babalu to me right now,” Raymond bluntly stated, to someone only he could appreciate, or even imagine for that matter. “I’ve had enough of him for a lifetime. All I need is a theme now. As soon as I can think of one, we can discuss it.”

“I know,” said Lorin who was decidedly more competitive then Raymond’s other cerebral friends. “Why don’tcha just continue what you’re doing, but give it a beginning and an end.”

“Good idea,” added Dan, able to surmise the rest. A decisive friend who always took part in the planning of events in Raymond’s life, which was indeed a welcome feature to his personality and came in very handy at times. “You’re suggesting that he paint Pancho Villa at the start of his life, all through it until he dies at the end. I like it… it’s a lot like a book, only in a different media.”

“Exactly… you got it,” agreed Lorin. “Whaddaya think Raymond?”

“I like it,” he answered aloud. But during the day, when Raymond worked on his mural, only a few employees were milling about, speaking Spanish at a comfortably low volume level, making Raymond feel all the more as if no one were around but his closest companions. “I’ll start right away,” he said. And the new enthusiasm he felt carried him to a higher level of interest in his work, which had a trickle-down effect, as far as the rest of his exclusive friends were concerned and made everyone involved just a little bit happier, knowing Raymond had again, found himself in his work and for the time being, was occupied in a most innocuous pastime… innocuous if it weren’t for his decision to depict Babalu as Villa, slumped over in the driver’s side of his nineteen-nineteen Dodge, riddled with bullets.

“You will pay with your life, El Greco. And for defaming the reputation of Pancho Villa, you will burn in Hell,” said the policeman Raymond had killed, who was however, still on speaking terms with Raymond as surprising as that may seem.

“I’m just telling the story as it really happened,” returned Raymond, who felt that his intensions were good and the story, as accurate as he could make it.

“You crazy gringo,” added the officer, who seemed very upset. “The people here don’t want to see him die. They want to see him in life… leading his troops to victory. I hope they run you out of town. That is the least you deserve.”

“You can’t tell the story without the end,” argued Lorin. “Like a book that just stops after two hundred pages and goes nowhere. It won’t make sense. Besides,” he added, about to say something no one could deny. “Everything has a beginning and an end… everything.”

“He’s right,” said Raymond. “You can’t tell a story without an end and anyway, I won’t make compromises. I’ve sacrificed way too much to get to this point,” meaning of course, all that he’d gone through between Vicky, Babalu and himself and all the years he’d spent painting murals for inappreciative wardens while in psychiatric prison. “The show must go on,” he quoted, to any or all of his emotionally captive friends who were listening. But most importantly, to himself, who was at once the most lacking in self-esteem of all and the most egotistical… a very strange dichotomy and a source of great contention.

“I know what I have to do now,” said Raymond, resting in bed beside Vicky, staring at the ceiling with his hands folded behind his head.

“It sounds pretty serious when you say it like that,” she answered, lying beside him, dressed in a most flattering nightgown which made the most of every curve of her body. “You’re not thinking of making me one of your ‘friends’, are you?” she replied facetiously. But still the danger of actually becoming one – although exceedingly minute – remained a possibility throughout the lifetime of their relationship. But fully aware of how much he needed her at all times and in every way, she was not much concerned with the thought of having the physicality of their friendship drastically altered, or of becoming just another helpful voice in Raymond’s mind. The whole idea - she believed all along - roughly akin to the thought of living with an animal that could be tamed but never totally trusted... a facet which also added a secret air of excitement to her.

“I love you just the way you are,” he reminded her and really felt the words he spoke.

“Then what do you mean?” she asked. “You must be talking about the mural, right? Have you got it planned out yet?”

“Well… yes and no.”

“I don’t get it,” answered Vicky, wondering if Raymond had really resolved the problem presented by such a grand, expansive wall area or if he might be referring to something, or someone else.

“It’s like… I didn’t really think of it. Lorin thought of it. I just sort of agreed to it.”

“You know how I feel about things like that Raymond… when you tell me that so and so thought of it,” said Vicky, rising from her side of the bed to brush her long blonde hair. “Why don’t you give yourself credit when you deserve it? You want to beat yourself down sometimes and at others, you can’t stop patting yourself on the back… congratulating yourself. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll ever understand you. Now what you’re telling me is, your fiend thought of it. But I’ve been telling you all along, you’ve just got a vivid imagination. Sometimes,” she began to say, about to make excuses for Raymond’s delusions as she’d done out of love many times before. “We all think we’ve heard something strange that’s not really there. Sometimes, I think I’m going a little bonkers myself. It’s just because you’ve listened to so many people throughout the day and through your lifetime, it’s hard to get it all out of your head. Do you know what I mean? We’re all like big sound and picture recorders and some of us let those recordings playback at the wrong times. It’s just that, you’ve lost control of the ‘play’ button Raymond, that’s all.” But even as she spoke - trying to persuade Raymond that all he need do was adjust his ‘play’ button - the warm rays of the early morning sun worked to elucidate the contours of William ‘Wild Bill’ Benoy’s shrinking features, and even the varnish Raymond had applied could not save the decapitated head from decomposition. It just seemed the perfect ornament for the balcony outside and was so much more meaningful then another potted plant.

“People come to the nightclub to get happy and forget their troubles. You are painting a death scene on my wall, eh…”

“Raymond… my name is Raymond and every scene is important to the story. I can’t just leave out the ending. Besides, that’s not what we agreed to.”

“What?” asked Mr. Babalu skeptically. “What did we agree on? We agreed on nothing. I said you could paint, but this… this is blasphemy.”

“My friends and I,” remarked Raymond. “We decided that the way Pancho Villa died is an integral part of the story. Can you tell a story without an ending?” asked Raymond, determined to get his way, as so many of his friends had helped him decide in its favor.

“No but, this… this looks like a scene from Hell. People here are superstitious… you don’t understand. They will look at this and never come back. You will ruin me,” continued Mr. Babalu. “Is that what you have planned? This is some kind of crazy plan of yours, no?”

“No,” responded Raymond quite sincerely. But nothing he could say would have convinced Mr. Babalu of his true intensions or motivating factors - such as the opinions of his friends - and the nightclub proprietor went back to his office to brood over a situation he felt he’d lost total control of, which was in itself to the likes of Tony Babalu, a reason to cause panic beyond hysteria.

“Come in,” said Babalu from his office chair. But in facing the wall, staring blankly at it, his voice didn’t carry much and he was forced to repeat himself. “Who is there? Come in,” he struggled to say, turning his chair around to face the door, resting the half finished bottle of tequila he held in his hand on his desk. “I’m glad you are here. You must explain to the police that my death was a suicide. I will leave a note of explanation to that affect. Here,” he offered, lifting a small glass in the air to fill it to the brim for his guest. “You must have one last drink with me.”

“I don’t understand Mr. Babalu,” asked Vicky, who’d walked in to try to straighten things out between him and Raymond. “What’s this talk about suicide? You know this place would go straight downhill without you. That’s just a lot of hooey.”
“Your boyfriend… he is trying to kill me. He is painting a monstrosity on my wall. I may as well be dead.”

“Raymond wouldn’t do that. He’s devoted to his work. Something’s wrong here.”
“You can say that again. He is at work painting Pancho Villa as he died… gunned down in his car… blood everywhere. Here,” he went on, reaching into his drawer to produce a long Bowie knife he kept hidden, putting it to his own chest in one dreadful act of anguish. “You can help me push this in if you want to be kind. No one will know.”

“You’re not committing suicide over this, Mr. Babalu. I won’t let you,” said Vicky, as she walked around the desk and bravely pulled the knife away from his chest, knowing that there was nothing to stop him from attacking her with the same knife, given enough redirected aggression.

“Will you talk to him?” asked Babalu, after he grudgingly gave up the weapon and suddenly embraced her about her waist, pressing his head against her flat abdomen in an act that she could not resist – it played so upon her womanly emotions. But as this affection took its course, Vicky did what came naturally to her, and reciprocated by placing her hands around the back of Babalu’s head, unable to turn him away in this, his time of need. It just so happened that as before, Raymond was about to walk in, making the scene almost as awkward as the first time the two were caught together, which in turn only slowed, or completely stopped any emotional healing that may have otherwise taken place.

“Again?” asked Raymond, hardly able to believe his eyes. “I can’t turn my back for a minute. That’s it,” he decided, in one furious moment and lunged for the knife he saw on Babalu’s desk – naturally gravitating to it in an unrestrained rage, as he had many times before. But as he held the murderous blade to Tony Babalu’s throat - about to do what came so naturally to him throughout his adult life – Vicky intervened and used her own body as an impediment between them, preventing the action that surely would otherwise have taken place had she not.

“Don’t do this Raymond… I won’t let you ruin everything. You let your temper rule your life as it is and if you do this now, you’ll only be setting yourself back. Sometimes,” she went on to say, hoping that by delaying his anger, he might become more willing to listen. “…you have to give something of yourself to get somewhere. Where has this ever gotten you anyway Raymond? You can’t kill everyone you have a problem with. If we all did that, there wouldn’t be anyone left in the world… just think about it. Put the knife down. Please,” she implored. “You can’t kill everyone who says ‘boo’ to you. Besides, I was only trying to comfort him for the way you’ve conceived the mural. He thinks you’re wrecking it.”

“Alright… okay,” answered Raymond, who lowered the knife to show his cooperation. And in order to achieve the desired end, Vicky stepped away, trusting that Raymond would submit to her plea and the reconciliation of laws between God and man. But it was not to be so, and in her brief absence, Raymond plunged the knife deeply into Mr. Babalu’s chest, who seemed oddly grateful to Raymond in his last moments of life, as Raymond muttered the word ‘boo’, pulling the weapon from the fatal wound he’d made, as if to finalize some grand and barbaric design. But most of all and in accordance with his past, Raymond had once more satisfied his need to bring pain and woe to himself… a thing he could not control, for all of Vicky’s substantial effort.
“Great,” she said. “Now look at the mess you’ve made.” Referring of course to the bloody mess Raymond had made of Mr. Babalu, but even more profoundly, of the mess he had made of himself and his own torpid existence… having brushed aside all things moral and just - for the duration of his adult life. “Now what?” Vicky continued to say, wondering what the immediate future held in store for herself and a man who could not keep his knives to himself. “You can kiss the mural project good-bye now… after I tried so hard to get it for you. Don’t you ever think about me? Why is it always about you?”

“I slipped… I’ve got a headache… My back hurts… I didn’t mean to do it…. I…”

“Sure,” replied Vicky, before Raymond could think of anymore excuses. “Go lock the door and help me clean this up. We’ve gotta get out of here. People are going to want to know where he is. They’ll come looking for him pretty soon.”

“But…” Raymond began to say, thinking aloud but inventively. “Why can’t he just stay where he is? He’s not even all that bloody,” he observed, wondering if a bandage and a change of shirt might be in order.

“He’s dead Raymond… why would you bother neatening him up at a time like this? I don’t think you understand the situation we’re in.”

“But…” he reiterated, believing he might be in touch with the ‘situation’ more so then Vicky thought. “He might be just fine where he is. What if we put him in a kind of pose? What if he just looks like he’s thinking, so when people walk in, they’ll think he’s busy, what then? Whadda you think?” asked Raymond inquisitively. “Will it work? We might not have to leave after all.”

“What are you suggesting Raymond? You’re saying we leave him where he is and just carry on as if nothing ever happened? We leave a dead man in his chair like that? That’s preposterous Raymond… that’s the craziest thing I ever heard, but… if it worked, it might buy you the time you need to finish the mural. My word,” Vicky thought, impressed at last with the whole idea. “Sometimes you’re so smart, you make me jealous. Come here,” she uttered softly, while reaching out her long shapely arms. “Give us a kiss.” And as Mr. Babalu’s blood began to coagulate over his wound - suggesting that not much more of the life giving fluid would issue from it – the passionate couple embraced, mended the fatal injury with several layers of duct tape and dressed the corpse in a clean new shirt and pants, hoping that for at least the time being, fellow employees would accept the given depiction and not suspect it for the illusion that it was.

“There,” said Vicky, taking three steps backward to admire her work. “I think he looks good. What do you think?”

“Mmm… what if his chin falls away from his hand? Won’t that look a little awkward? His head will be on his desk.”

“He’ll be as stiff as a board Raymond. That’s the beauty of it… don’t you see? He’s already starting to freeze up; I don’t think his head will fall at all. The more I see it, the more I think it’ll work.”

“But if people see him in the same position for too long, they’ll begin to suspect won’t they?”

“We can change his pose every now and then, like a mannequin in a store window. Don’t worry about it,” answered Vicky. “It’s worth a try anyway.” But the couple did not have long to wait to test their theory, when a band member who’d come to talk about musical changes knocked on Mr. Babalu’s office door. When no one answered, he tried turning the door handle and upon finding it locked, only became more persistent rather then give up on his attempt.

“Whadda we do?” whispered Raymond, who for all his sanguinary instincts became very nervous at the thought of being caught ‘red-handed’, as the thought of going back to psychiatric prison did not appeal to him in the least.

“Let me do the talking,” returned Vicky, who automatically began smoothing out any wrinkles in her dress, as most ladies would at such a time. “Just a second,” she said, loud and hopefully naturally enough to appear unsuspecting, as she unlocked the door and opened it wide enough to peer through a four inch gap. “Oh hi Miguel,” she said, on familiar terms with the visitor, having known him since her start at the nightclub as its resident female vocalist. “Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

“Yes,” he answered in English as a courtesy to her, knowing it was easier for her to understand then Spanish. “Some song changes for tonight. I wanted to know what Señor Babalu thought of them. Can he talk now?”

“He’s deep in thought right now,” answered Vicky, who opened the door just wide enough to show that indeed, Mr. Babalu was very much absorbed in something or other, and did not wish to be disturbed. “He told me he can’t talk right now,” she explained, and the truth of the matter was that he never would again.

“Okay… I see,” answered Miguel - watching Mr. Babalu intently as he spoke - taking in, and believing the entire charade as Raymond and Vicky had hoped. “Should we just go ahead and do what we planned?” he asked, hoping Vicky would just say ‘yes’ and let them proceed with their plans for the evening.

“Definitely… let’s go over it as soon as we’re done here,” she returned, doing what she could to make it appear as if she was in the middle of an important exchange with Mr. Babalu. And after closing the door – finalizing her brief conversation with Miguel – she again turned to Raymond for any emotional support he might have to offer, although those moments were rare. “It looks like he believed it for now,” she said, wrapping both her arms around the base of Raymond’s neck, bringing his body closer to hers.

“You really think this will work?” Raymond asked; reveling in the bond between them that had drawn them even closer the more they’d gotten to know each other - throughout the years of their most unusual relationship. “I mean… I know it was my idea, but I’m having second thoughts about it. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“But you’ve done everything else. Besides, what have we got to lose? You saw what happened just now, didn’t you? I say we go for it. But before we leave, help me put him in another position. This one’s a little used up, wouldn’t you say?”

“He’s been known to hit the bottle a little, right?” asked Raymond, who had just conceived one of his best ideas ever – a difficult task for a man who could barely concentrate, even when he was hard at work painting. “Well… why don’t we put the tequila in his hand and lean his head back like he passed out… whaddaya think?”

“Genius!” replied Vicky, hardly able to contain herself after realizing Raymond’s brainstorm. Sometimes, you make me so proud… honestly. When we get back to the hotel, remind me to give you a great big kiss.” And after carefully arranging the bottle in Mr. Babalu’s right hand; shutting his eyes as if he were asleep and tilting his head to rest upon the back of his chair, the two congratulated each other on a job well done and went about their business as usual, with barely another thought concerning the entire incident. Having rested the burden of worry on Raymond’s grand design and having all along, one very important thing in common – the fact that neither of them had much in the way of conscience at all.

“Those I’ve lost
Become my gain
And I have made them friends again
They live inside
My glass and then
Is it half empty?
Remember when?

They visit me
My mind again?
Or is it real?
Of me and them

I just can’t say
They talk to me
Is justice blind
To what I see?
I tarry not
In my en-vy
My life is lived
In place of me
And those I touch
I barely see”

“Why is your glass ‘half empty’ Raymond? Are you sure you took your lithium?”

“I don’t think it helps me much, do you? I’ve been taking it for a long time but, I think all it does is help me get to sleep. Do you notice any changes in me when I don’t take it?” Raymond asked inquisitively, pondering the blue color of Vicky’s pretty eyes as they lay in bed.

“Hell yes,” she answered, having been through many manic episodes of up and down mood swings with Raymond, in conjunction with an abundance of other psychosis. “You may not realize it, but I sure do. Please,” she implored. “Take your medicine. You’re so much easier to live with when you take it.”

“Oh well,” replied Raymond, who was a master craftsman and predominant artist despite his handicaps – which were far too numerous to list. “Can’t we stop talking about my medicine? I just wanted to know what you thought of the poem.”

“Umm…” she returned, hesitating as she searched for words which would not weigh too heavily upon Raymond’s sensitive ego. “I’m always wondering about your friends Raymond. Do you really think they’re real?”

“I plead the fifth… the whole fifth. Can’t we talk about the rest of it? What about where I say, ‘Is justice blind to what I see?’”

“Okay… spill the beans. What about it?”

“I’m glad you asked. I’m trying to say that I can’t believe the inhuman acts we commit. It really brings me down sometimes.”

“Oh no,” began Vicky, unable to keep from reproving Raymond. “It’s not like I care,” she began to say. “But you just killed a man over practically nothing. Just because he didn’t agree with your ideas and now you’re talking to me about inhumanity. Sometimes, I just don’t get where you’re coming from. That’s some kind of strange dichotomy.”

“A what? Never mind then,” remarked her mad artist – mad in many more ways then one. “Do you like anything I do?” he questioned deliberately, desperately seeking approval for any artistic endeavor.

“Of course, I love your painting Raymond. I think it’s great. The poetry though… it’s just a hobby right? I mean… it doesn’t really matter much right? It’s just not gonna pay the bills, know what I mean? Or if it’s recognition you’re after, painting will probably get you some faster then poetry. There’s just way too much competition out there. A lot of people want to be poets and writers.”

“I guess you’re right,” he replied meekly, but in all actuality, he could not rid himself of the idea of self-expression given another type of media and one which would allow him the type of free form articulation that poetry did. And so Raymond swallowed his pride – which he did only for Vicky and no one else – and went to work that day, involving himself in the theme his friends had helped conceive, as Vicky slept the day away, resting her mind and body for the night which was soon to follow.

“Señor, it’s Mr. Babalu,” asked Miguel of Raymond, who was hard at work painting a scene in which Pancho Villa had led his men across the border into New Mexico and Texas – having been angered after buying a batch of bad bullets from the United States.

“Ahh… what about him?” replied Raymond, from where he stood upon the scaffold he’d built.

“He is stone cold drunk. I went in there to talk to him and he is passed out in his chair. He acts as if he cannot hear a word I’m saying.”

“Well duh now,” said Joe in Raymond’s mind, who was not exactly helping matters by interrupting at an especially bad time. “Pour him another drink… that might help put some life back in ‘im.”

“Not now Joe, can’t you see I’m busy here?”

“Señor Mort, my name is Miguel. Have you forgotten?”

“I’m sorry Miguel, some people are always bothering me,” confided Raymond. “Is there anything I can help you with?” he asked wisely, hoping to shift attention away from the deceased Mr. Babalu over to himself or Vicky. “Maybe we should leave Mr. Babalu alone for awhile. He’s been under a lot of stress lately. He probably needs the rest.”

“We just want to change some of the lighting. Shouldn’t we let him know first? You know how he does not like surprises.”

“Is that all? I think you should be able to do that. I don’t see why he would mind.”

“Gracias Señor Mort, but there is one other thing… we also want to shift the spotlight to Vicky. She is so pretty, I think the audience should focus on her, don’t you think so?”

“I don’t see why he would object to that. Don’t worry about it. I’ll take full responsibility for it. I’ll tell him we discussed it.”

“Sure Ray, you go in there an you tell ‘im you discussed it,” admonished Dan, in Raymond’s poor, schizophrenic psyche. “Come to think of it, you’re probably the only one who can talk to him.”

“I can’t now… I’m busy,” said Raymond in answer to Dan, but Miguel was under the naïve, rational impression that he and Raymond were the only ones present.

“You don’t have to do it now, just when you get the time Señor Mort. I will see you later. I also wanted to tell you I like what you are painting. I am sure Mr. Babalu will appreciate it, don’t you think so?”

“I don’t know… I hope so,” answered Raymond, who spotted Vicky coming toward him through the corner of his eye. “If there’s anything else I can do, you just come to me and let me know. Maybe we can save Mr. Babalu some aggravation. He’s looking a bit peaked lately, don’t you think? We should probably just leave him alone.” But as Miguel left Raymond to the task of beautifying the walls of The Club Bamm-Bamm, the artist was greeted affably by his one true love Vicky, who’d come to visit with good news on her mind.

“Raymond, we’re invited to a big party, Isn’t that wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Everyone will be there. I can’t wait.”

“You sound a little like Scarlett O’Hara from ‘Gone with the Wind’. Is it a bar-b-queue or what? What’s the big deal?”

“The most important people in Acapulco will be there. We can attend as Mr. Babalu’s friends, isn’t that great!”

“Yes but, he’s not really in the best shape right now… I don’t think he can make it. You may not have noticed lately, but he’s starting to smell like rancid meat.”

“We’ll just say he’s not feeling well.”

“You can say that again… he’s not feeling anything,” returned Raymond, trying to rub off some of the more stubborn red paint from his hands which would not come off even when he washed – an occupational shortcoming he thought, but in essence, he coincidentally wore the marks of his objectionable deeds.

“That reminds me Raymond… I wanted to ask you, has he, you know, like the others?”

“If you’re asking has he spoken to me, the answer is no… not a word. I think he’s still depressed about the mural. Nothing’s good enough for him... I’m doing the best I can and nothing I do is good enough.”

“Well, that’s okay,” thought Vicky, always determined to keep Raymond as mentally healthy as she could. “You’ve got plenty of friends now anyway, don’t you? It’s not like you desperately needed him. Just come back and get cleaned up as soon as you can. We have to be there by eight.”

“You mean it’s tonight? That’s kind of all-of-a-sudden, isn’t it? I can’t just drop everything.”

“Raymond, you need to get out more and meet people. You need to make connections to the right crowd to promote your talent. I can only do so much for you. What will happen when you’re done with this mural? You’re not thinking ahead. Life is a sequence of plans.”

“You know what they say about ‘the best laid plans’, Vicky. Maybe they work for you, or for some people, but mine always wind up going nowhere. I stopped trying to plan my life a long time ago.”

“This is just another pity party Raymond,” replied Vicky, who refused to listen to another of Raymond’s complaints just when things were looking up. The chance to mingle with high society had presented itself at a time when Raymond’s talents appeared to be at their peak, but a poor attitude and a bad outlook on the future would never do. “I won’t listen to it,” she added, with a talent of her own for taming Raymond’s frame of mind. “You just wash your hands and come home.” But Raymond deliberately lingered at the nightclub, thinking over a lifetime of discontent - feeling as though he’d been pushed around in life like a tired swimmer forced to struggle against powerful ocean waves, unable to really set a course for himself or remain stable and positive for any length of time. But the possibility of making a success of himself still remained – as slim as those chances may have been - even though Raymond’s anguish sometimes greatly outweighed his powers to affect and guide his career.

“Have an hors d’oeuvre Raymond, they’re delicious. You’re missing out on all the fun.”

“I don’t know Vicky; they just don’t look people friendly to me.”

“You got too used to lady finger sandwiches if you wanna know what I think.”

“There weren’t that many ladies Vicky, mostly men.”

“You have an articulate taste palette Raymond, but that’s not going to help you now. Try to think of what may benefit you in the near future and not so much of what you think you want right now. That’s the kind of planning I’m talking about. You’re looking at these people as if they’re fresh meat, but they may be fresh opportunities… don’t you see my point? Seize the moment and use it to your advantage. Here… watch me work,” expounded Vicky, as she left Raymond’s side to talk briefly with a man she’d met at the club who was essentially, someone who thought she was just another pretty face. And in fact, he was not all that much mistaken, for that measure of his first impression was true.

“Do you eat oysters?” he asked Vicky, who carefully watched as the appetizer tray circulated around their guests hacienda, adding interest to the party to those who had arrived with an appetite – unlike others who were merely hungry for the attention they hoped they would receive.

“When I have them,” answered Vicky, who was still only mildly focused on this newly begun conversation.

“Do you eat snails?”

“I’m not sure I understand,” replied Vicky, who was busy trying to flag down the waiter carrying the tray. “What’s the difference? They both taste good to me... a lot depends on the chef though.”

“Do you consider the eating of oysters to be moral and the eating of snails to be immoral?”

“No… hey,” asked Vicky, slightly confused that such small talk at a cocktail party could take on such gravity of importance. “What’s with all the questions?”

“Of course not. It is all a matter of taste, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose... so?”

“ And taste is not the same as appetite, and therefore not a question of morals.”

“It could be argued so, I guess.” But Vicky was still confused and answered further with a question of her own. “… what’s up with the snails? I get the feeling there’s something here I’m just not getting.”

“My taste includes both snails and oysters,” the guest finished saying. But Vicky only shook her head and walked back to Raymond, who was by now himself, deeply involved in the tray of hors d’oeuvres, trying to select the one that best suited his immediate needs and satisfaction.

“So,” he asked Vicky. “How’s the mingling going? What’d your friend have to say?”

“Not a heck of a lot,” she replied innocently. “He was more interested in my diet then anything else. But look at me Raymond,” she demanded, doing her best to get his full attention. “I’m not giving up and neither should you. I have a career to promote and you do too.” But Raymond did not think much of having to win others over with small talk and what seemed to him to be a lot of bragging. He had done many things that were far beyond questionable, but no one could seriously accuse him of being a braggart. The idea was much too offensive to a person like Raymond, who acquired the bits and pieces of confidence that were owed him through the work he performed. Only the concrete reality of a completed canvas or mural – such as the one he was hard at work on – could support his ego enough to make him wake up the next day and carry on in life. In fact, there existed a breach in his already thin skin that the act of boasting could not begin to fill or repair. And instead of mingling with the guests, Raymond looked for the nearest soft chair, pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper from his sport coat breast pocket and began to write his feelings out, which at the time consisted of words he did not feel like sharing, for all of Vicky’s enthusiasm and desire to climb the social ladder…

“If the pen is mightier
Then why is blood the ink of choice?
And why the fallen
Have no voice?

There are no words
Or lack of them
To fill the ranks
Of empty men
You must take stock of them
And then

Recall the day
Remember when
The pen was mightier
But then

The sword seems still
Embrace our will
And in the end
Prevailing still”

“Raymond Mort,” exclaimed the man suddenly standing before Raymond, very proud and confident about himself – the exact opposite of Raymond. “I have heard about you. You are the one who paints the mural at The Club Bamm-Bamm. Señor Babalu has told me much about you. Welcome to my home.”

“Thank you very much. It’s nice to be here,” said Raymond, who put his pen down to stand and shake the hand of his host.

“I am an art dealer,” explained the man, who twirled the end of his long black mustache as he spoke – a habit which helped to fill the gaps between carefully chosen words. “My name is Abel Muerto. Look around you,” he continued to say, raising both arms to elaborate and persuade Raymond to take in the many fine pieces of art which hung about the house. “What do you think? It took me many years to accumulate them. But wait…” he said most emphatically. “I have a room which I only show to those who can appreciate what is there. Join me, please,” added the wealthy Mr. Muerto. And Raymond followed as anyone would have out of curiosity and dutiful courtesy to his host, which was after all, only human.

“What do you think?” asked Mr. Muerto, as Raymond walked into the special viewing room and joined his host. “As I understand, you have knowledge which permits you an understanding I would expect. Please… tell me your thoughts. I am always interested in what people like you might think.”

“It’s great,” answered Raymond in all sincerity, as he glanced around the room filled with all types of art, including examples of mobile and stabile sculpture. But on one expansive wall, something of special interest caught his eye and he brought it to the attention of his host. “Those paintings,” he asked, pointing out four works of art that were very familiar to him. “Where did you get them?”

“I don’t see how that is significant, Señor Mort. What is your concern?”

“They were mine. They were stolen from my hotel room not long ago.”

“That would mean you were in possession of some of the most priceless artwork in the world. Forgive me for asking… just how is that possible?”

But Raymond wisely decided to evade the question – with the help of his friend’s advice… “You don’t have’ta tell him nuth’in Ray,” said Joe, adding his opinion at just the right time. Although the only one who could hear him was Raymond.

“Whadda we do now?” replied Raymond to his long time and long deceased buddy, wondering what to do about the four famous paintings that were once his.

“Excuse me señor?” answered Mr. Muerto, who didn’t understand Raymond’s reply. But the real solution to Raymond’s immediate problem came from within and as Mr. Muerto watched, Raymond’s facial expressions changed from anxiety or apprehension to resolve and determination.

“You there,” asked one of the typically haughty ladies at the party. “Where are you going with that rug?”

“You mean this rug I’m holding?” answered Raymond, who was by now having a very difficult time holding up his end of the pricey, rolled up Oriental area rug.

“Is there another?” she countered, lowering the drink she held to her side, gesticulating her prying interest through facial and body motion. But as she spoke, Vicky also appeared to be having a tough time, as the opposite end she struggled to support began to slip from her hands.

“Silly me…” began Vicky, anxious to get going. “Wouldn’t you know, I spilled my wine on it. If we don’t hurry, we’ll never get the stain out.”

“Oh my,” returned the inquisitive guest. “Do hurry then. Our host will have a fit. And don’t worry about me,” she added with a smile. “I won’t say a word.” And with a renewed grip on the sagging weight, Raymond and Vicky carried the expensive piece of carpet out the front door with Mr. Muerto rolled neatly inside - like the contents of some huge cigar - but the four paintings to which Raymond insisted ownership of still hung firmly on the wall in their respective places and posed a different and significant problem in themselves.

“We have’ta go back for them,” insisted Raymond. “I don’t wanna leave without them. They’re mine.”

“Alright,” returned Vicky, with barely any hesitation. “After we put Mr. Muerto in the trunk, we’ll have to carry the carpet back in and act like we forgot something. Then we can wrap up the paintings in the carpet.”

“But what did we forget?” asked Raymond, who’s talents did not encompass such covert operations.

“How should I know Raymond? We’ll have to think on our feet now. Haven’t you ever had to do something impromptu in school? If you’re so worried about it, just let me do the talking… I’ll do the best I can.” And as expected, the same lady who needed to know where the carpet was going, also needed to know why it was coming back so soon.

“We forgot something,” Raymond blurted out, feeling that he must take control of a situation he felt largely responsible for having caused.

“Oh?” replied the puzzled looking guest. “And what might that be?”

“My watch,” returned Vicky. “I can’t find my watch”

“But you’re wearing one. I can see it on your wrist.”

“My watch inside my purse… I think I left my purse behind.”

“But I didn’t see you come in with a purse,” reminded the attentive but annoying woman, who had by now, consumed a fair amount of alcohol and appeared to be losing interest in Raymond and Vicky as quickly as she’d gained it.

“That’s because Raymond was holding onto it for me,” stated Vicky, who quickly dismissed herself and Raymond and began to tug on her side of the carpet, urging Raymond to move along in tandem with her.

“That was close,” said Raymond, as they once again entered Mr. Muerto’s special viewing room. “I didn’t know you had a watch in your purse.”

“I don’t silly. Just get the paintings off the wall already and help me wrap them up in the rug. We have to get out of here pronto.”

“I’ve gotta get you something nice for Valentine’s Day,” said Raymond, as he removed the paintings that the late Mr. Muerto had bought from Ari and Bette… taking special care to wrap them neatly within the Oriental rug.

“The best thing you can do for me right now is to get me out of here,” returned Vicky. “After that…” she continued to say, doing her best to help conceal the priceless artwork within the area rug. “You can help me pray that we both stay out of jail. I’ve never been too fond of girls in spiked black bras who want to make me their bitch.”

“How do you know if you haven’t tried it?” asked Raymond, who was partly joking, but the thought of sharing his true love with anyone else – no matter their sexual orientation – was quite repugnant to him.

“Whaddaya think?” asked Raymond, who was really not sure of his latest artistic creation and needed to consult the one person he trusted in the world.

“I think you’re a genius,” replied Vicky. “They really look like they’re playing chess. If I walked in right now, I’d never suspect a thing.”

“Great,” answered Raymond. “Then I can just go on and finish up the mural. There’s just one more thing…”

“What’s that?”

“Who do you think should be winning the game…? Mr. Babalu, or Mr. Muerto?”

“You always did get involved in the details Raymond. I wouldn’t have even given it thought, but if you really want my opinion, I’d give Muerto the lead. He seemed to be more like the type who’d plan things out. Mr. Babalu was a good manager, but planning just wasn’t his thing.”

“I agree,” replied Raymond, and in answer to Vicky’s suggestion, began to reshape the appearance of Mr. Babalu’s face into an expression of great frustration and once this was accomplished, he put Mr. Muerto’s queen in his right hand, making it appear as if two of Mr. Babalu’s major game pieces were in grave danger. “How about that?” he wanted to know. “Is that realism enough for you?”

“I have to say Raymond, sometimes you’re talents really shine. I’m so proud of you. You made this wonderful sculpture out of two dead assholes. I like them now more then I did when they were alive. If you were only given the chance, you could fix the whole world.”

“I know what you mean,” answered Raymond, thinking that what Vicky had just mentioned reminded him of what a perfect, or utopian world might be. “But that would mean quite a few changes would have to take place, and some people might not be in favor of them.”

“People don’t know what they want, Raymond. They only say they do. You just have to do what’s best for them sometimes… like you did for Mr. Muerto and Mr. Babalu. If only more people saw things the way we did.”

“Then, you think the world would be a better place?” asked Raymond, as he made final adjustments to Mr. Mureto, resting his chin upon his left hand to make him appear more contemplative.

“Well…” asked Vicky, hoping to lead Raymond to conclusions she felt she’d alluded to. “What do you think? Don’t you appreciate your own hard work?”

“I do, but… at times, I just can’t help doubting myself.”

“Oh Raymond, don’t be silly. Everyone feels self-doubt sometimes. If you could only see yourself the way I do, you’d be so much better off.”

Before anyone knew it, the month of January had come and gone and Saint Valentine’s Day was right around the corner. Historically, it seems that on February 14th, in the year AD 269, Saint Valentine of Rome was executed for having tried to talk Roman Emperor Claudius II into Christianity. But before he died, he’d inadvertently written the first valentine card when he addressed a letter to his jailer’s daughter beginning with; ‘From your Valentine’. Too bad Raymond had no idea how many sacrifices had been made in the greater realm of things. It may have been that he was just not very good at acting the martyr.

Aside from ancient history, the more recent event that took place on Saint Valentine’s Day in 1929 in which seven men died in a hail of seventy bullets and two shotgun blasts probably sounds more familiar. Most people thought it began when Al Capone’s patience ran out and decided to get rid of his bootlegging competition by killing them off. When police walked into the crime scene - a garage on Clark Street, in Chicago, Illinois - all they saw was a floor covered in blood; a bunch of corpses and a whole lot of shell casings. But there was one man who miraculously stayed alive for three more hours and would not say anything about who the killers were. When asked, “Who shot you?” all he muttered were the words, “Nobody shot me.” But incidentally, all they heard when they walked in was the noise coming from the only other survivor… the terrified yelping of a dog named ‘Highball’… a German shepherd who was trapped beneath a beer truck and understandably, could not calm down.

“Can’t you get him to stop that yapping? We finally get to a swimming pool and he won’t shut up.”

“Sweetie dear, come to momma,” appealed Bette, weary of Ari’s complaining. But for all her attention to the tiny Chihuahua, she still had no power or control over the rules of the hotel. And for Sweetie – who was unusually sensitive to people he didn’t trust – there were plenty of guests to complain about.

“Sorry mam… the hotel doesn’t allow dogs at the pool,” maintained a lifeguard, who’d heard Sweetie from across the pool, and he pointed to a sign of rules to reinforce his cant.

“But the sign is in Spanish,” replied Bette, with good reason. “I would never have known,” she added. “I can’t read Spanish.”

“For Christ’s sake Bette, can’t you just pick him up and get him to stop barking?” asked Ari, removing the sunglasses he’d bought at the hotel gift shop for emphasis.

“That’s a good idea, isn’t it?” implored Bette. “I’ll just put him in my purse. No one will even know he’s there. Look,” she said, hoping to appease the hotel employee by stuffing Sweetie into her handbag. But this only made the Chihuahua more curious and he stood up on his hind legs to peer over the edge of the big purse, and like any dog trapped in a confined area, he made his case known… as the fear of what had happened in his past, or premonition of what was about to happen, had culminated in a final tussle inside Bette’s handbag. The same leather handbag she’d left home with – the day she killed her husband.

“Wait’ll you see what I’m gonna get you,” said Raymond, knowing that since they’d been acting as owners of the Club Bamm-Bamm, money was not an issue.

“You know what your problem is?” asked Vicky, as insightful as ever. “You never learned how to save money.”

“Why is money an issue now? Don’t I have to get you a present? If I don’t, then everyone but you will get something… then you’ll really be mad. I know you.” But when Raymond removed his sunglasses and his vision became clearer, he’d found something else to bring to Vicky’s attention… something even more important then a present for the holiday. “Look,” he said, acting as removed from his discovery as he possibly could. “It’s them… it’s those two nuts who took my paintings and left that big guy’s head in our room. What were their names?”

“Their names?” responded Vicky, removing her own sunglasses to get a better look. But her eyes were unavoidably drawn to the disturbance from across the pool, as Sweetie continued to complain from the confines of Bette’s handbag. “Ari and Bette… that’s all I remember. Look away Raymond,” admonished Vicky. “Don’t attract attention to yourself,” she said, putting her glasses back on and turning her head to a different direction. “Don’t do anything rash. We’re in enough hot water as it is.” But like so many other times, the lure of the present and the hardship of his past only presented Raymond with new objectionable challenges. Challenges that he forever strode to meet head on – despite warnings or any positive association in his life… a thing many headstrong, determined killers have chosen to look blindly past – recognizing only the bad, to forego the good.

“Are you ready?” asked Raymond, with a pitch of excitement to his voice.

“For what?” returned Vicky, never knowing exactly what Raymond had on his mind, especially since so many other people lived inside it… slightly confusing issues at hand from time to time.

“For what?” he mimicked. “Why… for my ‘pièce de résistance’, for the day we’ve been waiting for, that’s what. For my ‘chef-d'œuvre’, my masterpiece, and for Saint Valentines Day.

“Oh Raymond, you’re so dramatic. I’m going back to sleep.” But letting Vicky turn over in bed and allowing her to miss out on what he’d planned was just an impossibility, or maybe just imprudent at this juncture? And when Raymond opened the sliding glass doors to the deck beyond, the unavoidable barking of a dog - who’d boldly made his presence known – caused Vicky to rouse and wonder about the commotion. But before she had time to ask, a part of Raymond’s surprise present had run into the room and jumped up on the soft, queen size bed.

“Raymond!” Vicky exclaimed. “What is this?!”

“It’s a dog.”

“I can see that, but we don’t have room for one. Besides,” she added. “I recognize that dog… It’s Sweetie isn’t? What’s he doing here?”

“He needed a place to go. Ari and Bette… they didn’t have any use for him really. Not anymore. Not the way things are now.”

“No Raymond, don’t tell me. Where did you put them?”

“There’re with the other ‘Yaqui’ people. Don’t worry,” Raymond continued to say, just to ease Vicky’s mind. “I think they like where they are. You know what realtors say… ‘location, location, location’. And they’re never going to wreck that place with a bunch of suburbs either. Those nice views will always be there.” And it was true that Raymond had disposed of the bodies as neatly as ever, but their heads… their heads were another story entirely, and Vicky did not have to go far to find them. To Raymond, they’d become constituent parts of a very important work of art on the deck outside, surrounded by some very pretty indigenous plants. Almost as important as the wonderful mural he’d completed which was quickly becoming famous, adding great credibility to his name. “But that’s not all,” he said, standing proudly with the bewildered Chihuahua under his arm, holding his sketchpad in his other hand. “I wrote you another poem. But it’s not just about you… it’s about everything. Everything around us… the whole world. You ready? Here goes…”

“My funny valentine
Are you truly mine?
It’s more then Cupid’s arrow
Has wounded you this time

We’ve taken now a course
That casts us in remorse
‘Or never was a place for us
Your fertile ground discourse

But am I one to blame?
For casting you in shame
When all the world does conjure up
Their way to wreck and pain

There must to some degree
Be room enough to be
But vision says
And eyes report
My sentiment to thee

Will time run out of time?
Deliver this to mine
And tell her that
I loved her so –
My words run out of rhyme”

“It’s kind of pretty Raymond, but I’m not sure I get it.”

“Gee,” replied Raymond. “You know what I’ve been thinking lately? If I explained it, or even if anyone could explain every mystery there is, would it help matters? For one reason or another, the killing just goes on. Why do we bother, anyway? Why don’t we all just stay in bed?”

“Oh Raymond,” answered Vicky, as consoling as ever. “I’m so glad I met you. Come here and hug me,” she said, turning back the blanket to welcome him into bed beside her.