For Pathology.

Only now am I able to speak about it. For years I've kept silent and let it gnaw at me. Tomorrow night I'll be in bed, petting Fleefur, reading some novel. A Russian author I think. I can't remember which one it'll be. I'll begin to nod off close to midnight and be awakened by her claw dug into my side. I'll hear a strange noise and lie there for a few seconds staring at the ceiling. The door will suddenly open, I'll scream, and he'll turn on the light.

"Hey! Reason-To-Live, get a grip," he'll say, and make a calming motion with his hands. I'll be in shock and hold the blankets up to my neck. Fleefur'll scurry under the covers. I'll stare at him as he slowly walks around the room, scoping. He'll be holding a gun in his right hand and a pacifier in his left. He'll be wearing jeans, a jacket, and the kind of sunglasses old people wear after they have cataract surgery. "Hi. Stay there," he'll casually point the gun in my direction, and continue to look around the room. I'll notice he'll also have an American flag pin above his left breast pocket.

"How did you get in here?" I'll ask w/ speed and fear.

"I don't understand the question." He'll take an extra few moments to inspect the drapes.

"What do you want?"

He'll turn his head toward me. "I don't understand the question."

His name is Milton Tate. I dated him some months ago. He'll look pretty bad, will not have shaved in a while, nor, it'll appear, washed his hair. Gained a little weight too. He'll stretch his neck, pull the desk chair out, and place it near the bed. He'll sit, take a deep breath, and say: "I'm hired to work with the Rockettes. I have 29 shows next month at Radio City. I want you to be my agent." I'll be motionless, looking at his gun. He'll sigh and scratch his eyebrows. Bite his lip a couple times and turn on the television on the dresser. Fleefur and I remain still. I'll not know what's going on. She, well, I don't know what she'll be thinking. Milton'll turn the channels and start speaking to the television. "I think you're a wide-eyed chump." Channel turned. He'll look at me again. "Media's for alleviating boredom obviously, but also to serve as a conversation piece." He'll smile. Turning channels, comes to an advertisement about bedwetting. A child'll say he can now live without embarrassment. "Not anymore, ya fuck. You're on t.v...Jesus." Turning channels, comes to film credits. "I knew I either wanted to be a gynecologist or a casting director." He'll look like he's about to cry.

"Please leave," I'll say, caffeine-voiced.

"Nay vote." Turning channels, comes to a science-fiction show. A man'll be standing next to a monster. Some meters away'll be his friend, telling him not to move; that the monster can't harm him unless he's wearing a purple helmet. Don't move and he'll eventually lose interest and leave. The man'll do as his friend suggests and look into the eyes of the creature. The monster'll produce a purple helmet, put it on the man's head, and tear him to pieces. The friend'll look at the camera and say, I didn't know it could do that, and shrug. Channel turned. "That's so funny I remembered to laugh." He'll look at me again. "Histrionic transposition? When you use emotion to put on a facade. I'm mad at my boss, so I come home and yell at my wife for not having dinner ready?" He'll point at the television then turn it off. He'll pick up a magazine on the t.v. "Is that the first name of the Jones you keep up with. Cosmo Jones?" He'll grin, looking at a small, empty Centrum bottle with earplugs inside. "Earplug symphony." He'll pick up my d.v.d. of Squid 2. "I'd have rented that but I haven't seen Squid 1, so I wouldn't know what it's about." I'll be frightened so try to be friendly and engaging: "Did you see Traffic Ghost?"

"I blinked a few times but I saw most of it." There'll be a silence. The heater'll come on. "I like to run it and peek my feet out of the blanket so it tickles them." More silence. He'll tap his foot. "You gals are a laugh a minute." He'll sigh. "I'm not gay yet but I'm getting there." He'll lift his rearend slightly off the chair and break wind. "Whoa, almost shit my pants. See, I don't...I have no concern..." he'll check the time on his watch, take a few breaths, and pat his belly. "Do you know in what zip code I can lick my own ass? See. Nothin...Is that bad? Should there be a stigma there?" I'll try to think of a way to get out of this. "Other day I'm unlocking my front door, I see a roach, I step on it, I unlock the door, a six-foot roach is standing there asking me where I'd been and saying it can smell liquor on my breath. It made me cough cough. Phphphphphooey." He'll search his beard for lint or unknown material. "Politics," he'll speak while unconsciously brandishing the pacifier, "is lies, compromise, and image." He'll stick his knuckles and fingers in his sockets, flick eye gook, and continue speaking. "There's a strong urge to stay roughly even with one's peers and the expectations of one's personal past," will point the pacifier at me, "To be overcome, you know." He'll appear to grow unhappier, as if going through the motions of a mandatory lecture. "People are either letting you be or trying to attack you out of your stoicism. You gonna let em?" I'll shake my head. "Do you believe all relationships are quid pro quo?" Again, shake. "Doing good, doing poorly, having talent, being in the dumps - with proper 'coaching' or luck - getting on a role ~ being committed on the upward path vice downward; up with heightening stimuli and discipline not down with filth and fodder. Positive inertia momentum train. Staying on the tracks and keeping the coal shoveled. I'm not the first to allude to it, but if you have purpose to your strife, you can walk through firewalls," waving the pacifier in a tapping motion. If it won't be for the shades and pacifier I'll have been much more at ease. And the gun. "Private enemy number x: comfort. Without dedication to death, you aint got jack." He'll lean back in the chair and fold his arms. "I've lived extraordinary lives with nothing to show for it. The best I could do was not good enough. Pitifulness is an admirable characteristic, correct?" I'll shake my head again. He'll look to the floor and slightly tilt his head. "I'll try not to. Oh, you were talking to Jude." He'll look back at me. "Criticism unaffiliated with the law is the consolation activity for those with fear of action." He'll put the pacifier in his jacket pocket and keep it there a moment, as if checking for something, then remove his hand. "We have our differences but the bottom line is I love you. Don't ever let me forget that. You were invented to fulfill my needs and I yours. The last few...weeks have been like Leaving Las Vegas without the alcohol and prostitution." He'll put his hand through his hair. "Gramps was in the Philippines after the mess in the Pacific started. His crew retreated to Australia. The Japanese were breaking down the walls, those with kids got first dibs. My old man was two, so gramps gets on the boat. 397 men were taken prisoner. My goddamn grandfather buys a ticket because of my old man?! No. I set it right, now." He'll stand up and move the chair out of the way. "I was thinking, if you wanted, maybe later we could be involved in a murder together. Namely, yours of me." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out another gun. "Or if you didn't wanted." He threw the second gun on the bed. "Take it."

I'll start to cry. "We both know you've made mistakes..."

"Yea vote, I'm living a big one. Take it."

I'll pick it up, afraid, "There's no reason why...you don't have...please, Milt."

"I neither believe that nor believe you believe it. Shoot. Here," he'll point at his heart. "Shoot. Shoot."

"No, I can't do it."

"Lift the fucking gun." I'll point it at his chest. "Shoot now," he'll brace himself.

"I can't," I'll continue to cry.

"Shoot it. Goddamn it, I'll kill her," he'll point his gun at Fleefur who'll still be under the covers.

"No!"

"Shoot!"

"I can't!"

His nostrils'll flare and he'll mumble something to himself before: "Eat lead, Fluffy."

I'll pull the trigger and scream. He'll fall to the floor. A few twitches then he'll be gone. Needless to say, it'll greatly traumatize me. I'll go into therapy for a while. A new breakthrough in forensic evidence will show that his gun wasn't loaded. What all that has to do with the disintegration of culture, I don't know. Wish me a lucky time.