0. The Fool. [Reversed]

Our Rooming House—MORNING

I practically run from The City back to our little rooming house By the Shore.

But my second thoughts catch up to me as I cross under the red rose arbor. My hand falls from the knob in hesitation. I stare blankly at the wreath upon the door for a moment. It’s the holidays. New beginnings.

I go in.

Through the living room and down the hall. I enter our rooms cautiously, slowly, closing the door behind me.

Andrea sits in the bed, naked, swaddled in purple blankets. When I enter she jumps and covers herself, reaching for the batons she kept near the bed to fend off an intruder. Realizing it’s me, the blankets fall again. They are grayish I think, not purple at all.

Sex and Love, I muse, Is it too much to ask to Master these Two Worlds?

She looks at me with sad eyes. Tosses the cudgels aside.

“Tenez-moi. Aimez-moi. Toute la journée.”

I take two hesitant steps towards the bed, “Toute la journée?”

“Pour toujours, Piteux.”

With nervous obligation, I hedge, “Okay, but I really have to get to my job.”

She grabs at me. “I have such bad cramps and look! Voila! My breasts are swollen!” At her indication I cross the room, and then move a hand over her belly and chest to confirm. She adds, “I know that you want to make love to me.”

I nod. I just want Freedom to Live.

“And I want us to make love, as well, but I cannot in this condition.”

I am crestfallen. I fall to my knees.

This has happened before.

She pats me on my balding head, soothing the sweaty strands of hair back to my scalp. I am shortened, but awake. Back in the World. She smiles.

“I am not always well. You know that, my Piteux.”

XXI. The World.

The Coffee Shop—MORNING

The Waitress and I sit back in the coffee shop again. The Waitress is behind the counter and I at my usual stool at the counter. She is being a bit flirty with me because she knows I am so down. In appreciation, I’ve tossed a sizable tip on the counter with every refill. We chat about how hard it is to meet someone on-line, especially because people look at one attribute and then reject you.

“Deal-breakers,” I say, “That’s what they call it. For me it is my height.”

“Really?” She says, surprised “You’re not too short.”

“Have you never had a good look?” I ask.

She shrugs.

“Most of the time I’ve been sitting on a stool next to the counter.” I reason. She comes around the front of the counter. I step off, finding her much taller than me.

“Yep, you’re short,” she frowns, “And going bald. Forgot about that.”

With that she seems to lose all interest, and goes back to her work. I melt into a puddle. At length she notices and drops a bagel on a plate before me, saying, “On the house.”

I tear up a slice of bagel. One of the regulars points at my bad manners and laughs.

“Tearing up your food? That’s a bad thing.”

I gnaw at the bagel. The Waitress slams two more bagels on the counter before me, condemning “That’s your dinner? You’re cheap!”

“I’m cheap?” I beg, “I can pay.”

“Whatever,” she huffs and spits. Sits on a stool opposite me.

Now we are both staring blankly at each other, my mug and the bagels both left untouched and growing cold between us. At length, the pay phone on the wall rings and I dash over to pick it up.

I smile to hear on the other end of the line a faint “Piteux, are you there? It’s me.”

It’s her. Andrea.

“Yea, it’s me. I was waiting.”

“Come home.”

“Okay. Coming.”

I eagerly slam the phone down and grab my satchel from the counter. The Waitress frowns. I say in sum, “It’s her; she wants to see me!”

The Waitress frowns even more deeply on this, but I hurry off, happy that I have her back.

I have My World back.

Nine of Swords

Back In School—UNKNOWN

I am sitting in a large, near-full amphitheater. I am groggy but soon comes awake enough to realize that He is the subject of the lecture. At a podium a dull speaker in a short-sleeved white shirt and bow tie, adjusts his glasses as he moves through endless slides, indicating each with a laser pointer. The slides show FRANK’S LIFE and are variously named HIS IMPALA, THE SAILOR NEE CHIMP, FRANK BY THE SHORE, FRANK AT WINES AND LIQUORS, and FRANK HANGING UNTO ANDREA.

Next to me, I thought, was a girl with long black hair and glasses in a black skirt. She reminds me of Andrea of old. But she adjusts herself in her seat and pretends not to notice me. But then on second glance I find she is not next to me at all. There is a girl to my other side with curly red hair slumped in the seat next to me. When I notice her she slumps towards me and puts her head on my lap.

Once comfortable she asks if her forwardness is bothering me. She says that she has a headache and could use the compassion. I say its okay and begin to stroke her hair and shoulder.

After a bit she moves off me but then apologizes and returns, saying that I really am making her feel better. I wonder what she looks like. I never got a good look before her face buried itself in my lap. Probably just like Iris of old I imagine as I seem to be in a familiar old place between raven and red.

Anyway, I don’t I have a bottle of aspirin in my bag anymore, but I probably have some anti-depressants that would also do the trick. Of course, that would be an awkward thing to offer a girl I don’t know.

Meanwhile, the speaker drones on about me. “Francis Jupiter Trautman lives in Guillory’s Motor Lodge on Route 276 in St. Martin Parish, Louisiana, and also for long stretches in the backseat of his 1973 Chevy Impala, with his cat, John Merrick. Frank’s current projects include a travel guide for East St. Louis, as well as a screenplay for an episode of NBC’s “Watching Ellie” (Please do not inform him that the program has been cancelled.) Mr. Trautman holds advanced degrees in semiology and forensic entomology both from the Mail-order University of Toledo, as well as an honorary PhD in mixology from the Businessmen’s Association of Greater Baton Rouge. In his spare time, Frank enjoys his collection of porcelain unicorns and velvet painting of clowns (Not the sad ones!), and his turn-offs are legal action and women who won’t commit. His advice to young writers?: ‘Hop a bus. Join a cult. Kill a vagrant. It’s just good copy. Period.’”

Now they all know my secret truths!

The speaker continues. “...and the scab on his lower back is really the scar tissue from the vestigial tail he had removed shortly after birth...”

I hide my face. Everyone knows all my secrets now! They have somehow come across my notes, journals and everything! What a presentation! A fascinating look into someone’s psyche! He even shows my dream about—

The appropriate slide flashes. FRANK SNIFFS PANTIES.

—sniffing Lu’s culottes——Complete with sketches, photos, recreations, everything. I am so embarrassed—perhaps if he presented them more tastefully, I would be proud of the material?! Is he not illustrating all the secrets worries, terrors, loves, et cetera of my generation?

The slides continue through FRANK IN SUPERMARKET, FRANK AND ANDREA IN SCHOOL, and FRANK IN THE AMPHITHEATER. I grimace with embarrassment at each one, now sinking further in my theater seat, as I am confronted with a photo of me sinking further in my theater seat.

I am much relived when the slide flashes on to BACK IN THE COFFEE SHOP AGAIN—

XXI. The World. [Reversed]

The Bar—NIGHT

I am with Iris and Mary. Sitting under a table in the Bar where Iris has proposed some sort of Truth or Dare game. I have been stripped and am sitting in my boxers. Iris checks me out with a smirk.

“Wow! Look how small your penis is!” She exclaims.

“It is cold and it’s shrunk.” I mutter defensively.

Surprisingly Mary defends me saying “It gets pretty big when it needs too.” She must have rubbed against me when we slept together or something. She continues in tears, “Frank was always big when it counted, like when he brought cake and champagne to our video shoot. Even when he cheated it was big.”

“Andrea and I weren’t together at the time, Mary.” I remind her, “So it wasn’t cheating. I never cheated.”

But Andrea has recently gone missing, suspiciously taken, so I also do not want to belabor the point. I don’t want to remind everyone about my association with her.

Iris balks. “I am just more than a bit surprised to hear Frank described as a hot commodity that you or Andrea would be sad to have lost.”

Seven of Pentacles [Reversed]

The City—EVENING

I get to the back of the hearse but no one else is there yet. I grab the surprisingly smallish coffin.

It’s surprisingly not too heavy either so I shove it in myself, thinking, “Let’s get this thing over with.”

Some on-lookers seem offended, some relieved, but they bring out bread to nosh on nonetheless.

Four of Cups

Back In School-NIGHT

After a while, we sit closely in an awkward silence. Just like old times. She smiles at me.

“Piteux, will you move in with me?”

“You asked me that before. A long time ago.”

“No! I never said that. You always make up things I said.”

“Okay,” I stammer, I know she’ll say I was drunk and imagining, but we were both drunk and she was off her meds to boot.

But she did say it.

But that was long ago.

And it isn’t important.

“Piteux, you just don’t know what to make of me. You think of me as crazy. A little girl.”

“No.”

“Oui. Le fou. Le fille.”

“No. I am glad of what you’ve become. A stable, well-adjusted woman. I am proud of you.”

I don’t wholly mean it.

She is crazy but she is also all mine. A least for a little bit. There is some comfort in thinking she was never quite right. Always a little off. She probably wasn’t even a virgin anymore. And I had considered that, sadly, if not crudely, to be a prize that had been promised to me. Taken away before I could claim it. No matter.

Lose to win. That is the way of the Fool.

Ace of Wands

Back In School—DAY

I am unhappy with the way my works have been presented. They have practically shredded all my panels. Each a small part of a larger epic triptych, consisting of a black and white photograph collage with magazine ads, newspaper print and other larger “found” pieces of electrical wiring, doilies and the like.

The catalog for the exhibit, sponsored by Pepsi Cola (of all things) is a huge tome, though, my work still takes up several pages in the badly laid out book. Though I think no one will ever consider my work to have merit under these conditions.

My parents who have flown out for the show are exceedingly proud. They didn’t understand my work anyhow and cannot realize how it has been butchered in its presentation. Besides, just to be chosen is an honor; especially considering no one had given any merit to my photography or collage previously.

As I shut the catalog with a heavy thud, my eyes catch sight of a voluptuous brunette girl passing by. Our eyes meet. I do not know what to say for it is Andrea, my old and disturbed college girlfriend. So, as I frown, she beams and takes my hands with a quick wink.

“Bonjour. Comment avez-vous été?” And then takes back off across campus.

“Wait!” I call after and chase her out of the hangar-like building and into the quad, “What’s going on? Where are you going?” I catch up to her and try to take her right hand to slow her down.

She sees this and crosses to the other side of the sidewalk, “Zut! No! Stop your tricks. We shouldn’t do that.”

I see she means that we shouldn’t hold hands, but now that she is on my other side I take her, surprised, by the unaccustomed left hand. “Andrea, we were holding hands from the moment we met. Now, slow down and talk to me. What’s going on?”

She stops to face me, “Alors. What’s going on is that the gallery is going to show my work.”

“That’s great, Andrea,” I hadn’t even known she had become an artist, “I’m showing here, too, I mean, I’m so proud of you!”

At this I put my arms around her, and her eyes flash with all the fire they used to look at me with back in her cluttered little dorm room.

“And I’m proud of you too,” she blushes. And then as if no time had passed she reaches for me and we kiss, as passionately and uncontrollably as back then, when we were practically kids. Her solid frame crushes me to the ground like it always did.

I do not give a damn what the on-lookers though of we two artists rolling about in the grass like mad.

XX. Judgment. [Reversed]

Our Rooming House—NIGHT

The Sailor has died.

And Andrea has suggested that Maggie to spend the night with her, so they may comfort each other. But Maggie doesn’t want to leave her room, and Andrea says she herself is also still too ill, to go down to Maggie.

So I am volunteered for the duty of spending the night with Maggie. As I gently knock and enter, the first thing Maggie asks if I think the Sailor’s spirit is still here. That was the first thought on my mind too.

“I guess, we’ll find out.” I say.

XX. Judgment.

The Market—DAY

I’ve followed Andrea.

Perhaps.

In any case, I’ve Crossed a Return Threshold of sorts. Back to the Ordinary.

I follow her into the Market. I shrug at the used books and clothes, no longer in the mood to shop or follow.

“I don’t want anything,” I call to her, “But I do need to pick a tub or crate or something to keep my clothes in. Let me know if you spot anything.”

She immediately points to some large plastic bins.

“Great,” I think, “Now, I not only don’t have the search for a clothes basket to preoccupy me, but I have to lug that bin around the market as well. Why am I even packing up my stuff?”

She has meanwhile disappeared. I now find myself stewing, pushing my bin aimlessly around in a shopping cart.

Seemingly aimlessly, that is.

I smile and pull a U-turn as I pass a liquor aisle, bringing myself face-to-face with an old lady with her own cart seeming to loom over me.

“Son, I can smell that liquor on you.” She scolds, “And you’ve had that stink for a long time.”

Knight of Swords [Reversed]

In The Mountains—DAY

I am with Spike riding cross-country thought the Mountains on motorcycles and in trouble with the law once again.

Now, in order to speed us along in making our getaway, he slows down just a little in order to kick the blonde tramp he has picked up off his bike and send her head over ass into a ditch at 20 mph.

“Adios, Tina,” he smiles and waves, and then catches back up to me, “What? Just lightening the load.”

But soon enough, we spot some of his buddies camped alongside the road, anyway and pull over so we can duck in to hide. Spike leaves me to set up the tent then gets in the tinted-out red pick-up with his friend, Bill.

When camp is ready, I knock on the door and when Spike opens it. He is looking at porn and has forgotten to button himself up. He wears a trucker’s cap that says, “Fuck.” Bill wears one that says “You.” I guess if they were to ride in the truck like that on-coming traffic would get the message.

Nice of Spike to be discrete while on the lam.

XIX. The Sun.

Back In School—DAY

A teacher is lecturing a bunch of rowdy art-school kids, taking away items he suspects of being involved in illicit activities. I sit next Iris near the front. I can spot Andrea and Spike toward the back.

The teacher lectures, waving a sheaf of papers. “I know you are all involved with dope-head stuff! It may be all fun and games now but this test, here is going to determine how you end up in life! Where you go to school, what job you wind up with, who you marry! You there what’s in that lunch box?

He points a student who shrugs. “Give it to me! It will be in my office. After school!”

He takes the lunch box, and as he turns with his armful of contraband, the students hurl everything at hand, wads of paper, pens, etc. at him in retaliation for relinquishing their personal belongings. Infuriated he turns and next singles out Iris, who now has long braided ponytails that she twists in her mouth adorably; she looks to me for a cue.

The teacher roars, “You there, what do you have in your back pocket?”

Iris answers now with fake, innocent Texas Baptist gal voice. “Why, it is just a poem my momma wrote for Jesus!”

He swipes it as she takes it out; it is, in fact, a poem for Jesus, written on her standardized test form.

This infuriates the teacher further. “A poem?”

Iris bats her eyes and repeats. “It’s for Jesus.”

The teacher sneers as he now notices the poem is on a test form. “On your test form?! Well, you’ve left some blanks here, didn’t you? What’s your Social Security Number?”

“I don’t think Jesus cares much about that.”

The class laughs. Emboldened, Iris and I move in closer.

The teacher rages. “How about date of birth?”

“I think Jesus probably knows that, already.” Iris is yelling back and even smacks him on the cheek sardonically.

The teacher screams, “Okay. You forgot to fill in Religious Affiliation!”

Iris screams back as the class howls in laughter. “I think Jesus CERTAINLY already knows that one!”

Iris jumps up on the desk and smacks his face and pulls his hair as people cheer. The bell rings, class lets out; I pack up my things. Meanwhile, an older couple is greeting Iris in the hallway and I can overhear them talking to her. They seem to be her grandparents, who have come to pick her up.

She kisses each on the cheek. “So what are we going to next? It’s a nice day. The park? What?”

“Just home, dear. We’re tired.” Grandma says.

“But, it’s so nice out! I mean, how many days like this have you got at your age?”

“At our age, we’ve seen a lot of them already, and we have limits.”

Iris is near tears. “But, Gramma!”

Her grandparents shrug and saunter out. I try to ignore the scene, but she begins to sob and run past, I yelp. “Are you okay?”

I hesitate at following her. But then do. Trapped by blue eyes.

Out in the hall, there is no sign of Iris. But Andrea is directly in my way and talking to another girl. I must go right past

her, but smile, enjoying ignoring her. Iris pops out of a bathroom and skitters out and past me. I unthinkingly grabs at her hand. She lets it fall.

“Iris, remember if you need to talk I am always here.”

At this she runs back and embraces me tightly; I am buried in her chest. Deeply ensnared in the trap now.

“Thank you, I know I can talk to you, Frank, but right now I can’t.”

“Well, I just wanted to tell you, I think a lot of how great you are to your grandparents. Such amazing beauty in what you are trying to do for them. I wish you’d call me.”

Andrea now sidles over, smiling to Rescue me from Without this trap. “Frank, you never told me you had a girl all this time?”

“Well—”

Iris backs off from this scene but still holds my hands for a minute, smiling kindly.

“Well, she’s not my girl, she’s just—”

I look back. Iris is just another beautiful creature that will never be mine. At length I tell Andrea. “Her name is Iris.”

Now Iris smirks and perks up. “And who’s she?”

Andrea frowns expectantly but I don’t answer, so she waves off sweetly. “Well, I guess I have to be going.”

Iris and I are left staring at each other.

After a moment, I say matter-of-factly. “She’s probably gone forever.”

Iris pulls me back. “You’ll probably want to follow her.”

XIX. The Sun. [Reversed]

A Bar—DAY

I am sitting with the Sailor drinking in the Belly of the Whale bar. The bartender is ignoring us. As usual. So, we have brought in our own bottles. No one stopped us.

I note that I am almost finished with my fifth of bourbon but am not too wasted. It is Sunday so we will be kicked out soon and won’t be able to buy more. I hope the whiskey kicks in soon and I will be able to sleep, not stay up watching TV.

Sailor Lou has decided to plan for tomorrow’s drinking. He is figuring out Maggie’s checking account balance for him to show her there is enough to buy drinks. I pull out some receipts from my wallet and try to figure mine too.

I realize suddenly. Drunkenly. I am at a table surrounded by all the girls I ever wanted in my life but couldn’t have. What am I to do? I ‘accidentally’ drop my papers to the floor. And then dive for them.

I sit under the table for a second thinking I should kiss or fondle someone’s foot. But who? I want them all. Maybe the redhead with the toe ring visible under a white sock.

Iris.

Besides they’ll all expect some sleazy move from me. As I come up one asks about something I was supposed to do to help their son.

Mary.

“Yes, your son. Willie,” I smirk, “That’s who I was thinking about under there.” The girls are chatting about the Asian one and how the guy who likes her still hasn’t got the nerve to ask her out.

Anna Feng.

I remember my wife has left me.

Andrea.

That makes us both single.

Now is my chance to do.

Something.

XVIII. The Moon.

The Library —NIGHT

Andrea hangs on my arm kissing, nibbling, but she is also actually pretty sad. We enter The Library. I take Andrea up to the security guard at the front desk and clear my throat.

“We are looking for a—a—err—a man with red-spiked hair?”

The desk officer nods his head, yes.

“He caused quite a disturbance. Earlier, you know,” the guard shakes his head sadly, embarrassed, “I had to call for backup. City cops came and hauled him off.”

I curtly address the girl off to the side.

“Andrea. He’s been arrested. That’s good for Him, but I really don’t think it’s good for You. I think some time in jail might straighten him out. In any case We should leave, because I don’t want to hang around The Library looking like accomplices to whatever mayhem Spike has been currently up to.”

Andrea flushes pale and runs out. I follow. We are free.

I follow her Magic Flight outside. Andrea is still sobbing and still running. Her black skirt is flying up showing her large white behind and black panties. I run to catch up on The Library steps and hold her skirt down as she goes.

Covering her butt, I think to myself, I don’t know if I am embarrassed for everyone to see the prize I have been working towards for these years, or embarrassed that my prize may have gotten less desirable over the years.

We approach my Impala, parked at a meter in front of the building. She scoots into the passenger’s seat of the car.

But! I think, I want her as much now as ever!

I slide into the driver’s side, take her and kiss her.

Three of Swords [Reversed]

A Flophouse—DAY

I am a moving into my new place, unpacking the bedroom in what is purportedly a haunted suite. It seems a woman committed suicide in this apartment. So I was able to quickly and cheaply snap it up.

The hotel owners have actually boxed up the dead tenant’s stuff and though ten years past, her possessions are still in the closet. Since then, the ghost has been quickly scaring away a string of occupants.

Now, I pull out her things to try to appease her. As I empty boxes, I converse with the empty room.

“See this stuff? Recognize it? It’s your possessions. You remember them from years ago, right? You liked them didn’t you? Well, they are coming back out.”

I can now feel the presence of her and other spirits. As I walk about the room the lights are flickering and on the TV screen flashes images. I keep talking to the sprit or spirits and tell them I can sense them but offer no harm.

As I talk, I climb on the back of the sofa and press up against the wall, so I can survey the whole room. A force grabs me and pulls me up further the wall until I am hanging almost near the ceiling. I know there is some bad history here; especially the suicide and that it may be the result of demons so I try to foster the woman’s good spirit for protection. I say, “I can feel her pain.”

A voice answers “Seven.”

“Yes,” I peep from the ceiling, bluffing, “I can feel seven of you.” I remember there has only been one instance recorded when the spirits seemed to be a threat, but I am worried about being the second. I call out to the woman again, now remembering her name.

“Trudy?” I say, “Trudy, I am sorry you died.” The force stops pinning me to the wall and I fall to the floor.

She probably didn’t even know she is dead.

The door creeks and I jump back up. But it is the Sailor, winded, and wearing an uncharacteristic suit.

“Sorry I didn’t call first,” he puffs, “But it’s not easy anymore.”

He flashes a hand that is covered in scar tissue and missing a finger or two. I nod. The Sailor looks around the room at the mess as I try to explain that I was talking to the supposed ghosts. I am not crazy. He seems not to have any knowledge of them, so I begin to talk about the deaths in the house as he plays with the TV remote control.

I am weak and collapse on the cot. The TV drones with celebrity gossip.

The phone in the hall rings several times. Both I and the Sailor look towards it but I cannot move my body, lying half on the low little pad. We shrug at each other. The call could for anyone on this floor. When it rings again, the Sailor shrugs again, and goes out. He immediately returns.

“It’s for you.”

I drag myself up and out into the hall, where I grab the dangling receiver and put it to my ear.

“You have reached the answering machine of Frank Trautman,” I say. “Please leave a message. Beep.”

An actual computerized voice returns my message

“You didn’t think I was up on the technology,” it says, “Well, now you-know-who is dead.”

In a sweat, I demand, “Who is this?” but for all my struggles to comprehend the phone call, I now only hear the click of a hang up on the other end.

XVIII. The Moon. [Reversed]

By The Shore—NIGHT

In the evening, I picked up Andrea. Spike, her now estranged lover, waved us off, grinning, as we left timidly hand in hand.

“We’ll try to get back soon as possible.” I lied, not sure what would happen.

Now, my Impala is parked on the pier in the cold, wet evening. I have a flu that is killing me and she claims that she is starting to get it, too. And, as close as she has been this night, for a change, it is likely, perhaps. We have take-away soup from the only little booth still open on the pier this late. And as we walk back to the car slurping it, she wishes there were a bar open on Sunday night.

I put my arm around her and say, “You’re always there. From Saturday night specials to Sunday night soups.”

At the car she heads around the passenger side and I the driver’s side, wondering where we will go. I manage to get in and hand her my open container without spilling it, then struggle to pull find the lever to pull the seat back so I can comfortably fit behind the wheel and eat. As I struggle, she puts the soups on the dash and lays back, putting her feet up there too.

At length, I make myself comfortable, admiring her white legs poking out of her long, slitted black skirt, and then pluck at the leg of her panties as the skirt falls way to reveal them. She giggles, and I reach down and tickle her there as well.

But as she snuggles sleepily against me, I feel myself drifting off rapidly as well; the cold medicine we had taken back at home is apparently stronger than I have expected. My brain is flying and my last thought, as I give in to sleep, is that there is someone outside of the car.

When I come to, I find myself on the beach. At first, as I struggle to get up and maneuver in the dark, this all seems familiar and typical. Then I remember being behind the wheel of my car but also, a nauseating and frightening impression of us slumped together in the back seat of a moving vehicle.

In the dark, I blunder back towards the piers, banging face first into a lifeguard station. My hands find a transistor radio. I snap it on. A news report blares in the dark.

“Police are remaining tight-lipped about the identity of the body found on the 800 block of the City Boardwalk earlier this evening. However, a nearby abandoned car is registered to Francis J. Trautman of...”