Ace of Cups [Reversed]

Back In School—DAY

Walking across campus I must pass by a gang of jocks hanging out on the corner of the quad drinking beer outside the cafeteria. Though having fun, they seem primitive and I can sense the latent hostility in their posturing. I don’t want to be involved but play it cool.

“Hey guys,” I say as I pass and I head across the muddy athletic field. But they are going this way too or have changed their course to bug me. There is an abandoned construction project we pass near the gym and since they have pegged me as a nerd they begin to shout questions to me about archaeology and geology in regard to an open utility trench.

I shrug and point out the layers of soil and how the construction has mixed them. As we go I bound around the dirt piles athletically to show I am no slouch. When I get to the top of a very tall one, I find a small, but steep crevice leading back down. I leap into it dashingly, but the action starts the hill cracking and falling apart above me as I half-fall half-scoot down the crevice and back out of the hill. I burst out in front of the jocks just as the whole hill comes down.

“Did you see those moves?” I brag dusting off, “I’m like an action hero or something.” They look back silently, unimpressed.

They suddenly rush me and push me towards the in ground lap pool. I am tossed in and they jump in after. I am too weak to fight them, though I try. They tear my clothes off. In the melee I am able to pull myself out but not in time. One of them makes fun of my genitalia as I climb out.

I spot one of them is in a wheel chair, laughing along from the side. So, I counter “At least mine works.” He is startled and angry. I run and push him into the pool. As the gang rescues their friend and his chair, I grab my clothes and storm off.

Trying to regain my cool, I pass a few girls loitering and smoking under a fire escape.

“Ducking out for a smoke is cool, but I am one-upping you. I’m leaving the school entirely.” They begin to mock me but then seem a bit more impressed as I wave them off.

“Whatever.” I growl and simply brush past them.

I meet a guy sitting in the bushes, daydreaming, also ditching, but just not going very far. He introduces himself as Spike. We talk tough to one another but as two rebels without causes. We quickly make fast friends despite the jokey chastising of each other. It has a decided Tom and Huck feel.

“If your such a believer in nothing,” I smile and point to a wet old log he has been etching faces into, “Why carve these psychedelic jester faces?” I pick one up and the outer layers of wood slip off the log. I slough the rest off to finish the job of ruing his artwork.

Meanwhile the girls have gone back inside and are watching us through the window. They look us up and down and lick their lips suggestively and we decide to go back in and fuck them, which we both see as inevitable. We argue over who will get the smaller, pretty Asian one. The other brunette is a bit chunkier, but more than pretty also. The bookish, library type which excites me but I don’t admit to around other guys like Spike.

I head to the bushes to piss first, hitting some stinging nettle and hoping I didn’t get any on my dick. We both agree that we’d, of course, prefer the smaller Asian, will gladly have the brunette so long as it means getting our dicks wet.

We are way too much alike!

Four of Pentacles

The Market—MORNING

As I try to squeeze the big van into a space at the market, Maggie explains to Andrea about her decision to move back to Illinois.

She says that she is unsure and worried but has, it seems, been given some new age advice on the subject and says things like “The move will be good for her chakras.”

Sigh. I am not sure how she and Sailor Lou ever got together.

When I park, however, Andrea and I quickly depart from her company. Andrea takes me inside where there is some Greek or Middle Eastern stand serving some sort of shawarma-like meat wrap that she wants me to try.

We find a couple of deck chairs and a little table in the food court where we can eat our pitas and look around the Market. There is a small patch of sun between two of the stands and this small alley several bronzed men and women are in thongs sunbathing, crowded together on blankets fighting for a ray.

“When in Rome” says Andrea, way out of character, and strips down. Soon she is topless and in a yellow thong. I sit in a deck chair and she sits in my lap. I want to make love to her really badly, even though she really needs to shave her legs.

We meet back with Maggie later in the market. After stacking her purchases in one spot with mine, I take one last trip around the vintage clothes rack and grab a box to stick our things in. I stick Andrea’s things in the box; one woman comes after me as I pick up an electric mixer. Andrea sees and apologizes to her, as it was her purchase, for my mistake.

“Jesus, no problem lady,” I say, “I wasn’t about to throw down over a mixer.”

VII. The Chariot.

A Farm—EVENING

I wander dark hall in a remote farmhouse outside of the city. There is some sort of fetish party going on. I am not sure how or why I would get invited to this.

It is a large sprawling place. A modern compound and not a sort of antebellum plantation. As I walk down the hall with my champagne, I am disgusted by the contents of every room I pass. In one is what seems an innocuous banquet table; but I soon frown at ground beef shaped like genitals and quickly move on. In the next room scantily clad women pleasure themselves with tongues cut from butchered horse’s heads. In another room a woman is shoving sausages up her ass.

“Congratulations,” she says, opening the little door wider for me to enter, “You’ve won 35 snakes!”

I am nauseous and try each door for A: One that is unlocked, B: One that is not hiding some worse sex-act, and C. One which will let me out of this maze-like house.

At length, I find a door that seemingly leads not to another room but instead leads directly outside without fanfare or even steps. As if a planned wing or dogtrot was never completed.

The stars shine brightly overhead in the dusky sky. My old black Impala, as are the other guests’ cars, is parked in the grassy field in front of the compound, I and stealthily march towards it trying not to call attention to myself. I quickly pop the trunk and throw my bag. A guy lingering on the porch spots me and saunters over. I recognize him as Spike, one of Andrea’s hunky douche bag guy-friends that I don’t trust and wish she didn’t have. I am not surprised to see him at this depraved meat party. The gold chains in his open shirt flash in the thin moonlight. I try to ignore him but as I reach the driver’s side door he calls out.

“Hey, Frank! Don’t leave there’s a girl I want to set you up with.”

“Huh?” is my well-crafted response, “I seriously doubt that.”

His interest, I imagine is to wreck things with Andrea. I know he is of the general opinion that the beautiful people of the world should be a well-kept reproductive harem class serviced by the uggo ilk such as myself. He’s described his world view to me at social gatherings before. Anyway, he makes his pitch.

“She’s very pretty. Very pretty. Seriously. In fact, she’s actually here to meet me.” He grins, “But, well, she's not that pretty.”

“I see.” I jingle my keys and motion towards the car door to leave. He grabs me by the shoulder.

“Still, she’s great for you. I set her up with your number to get rid of her. That is, when you show up as me, she realizes that I am a jerk and not the handsome stud she remembers and never bothers me again.”

“Fun.”

“Or, I mean, maybe she just likes you instead?”

“Please intercept the girl and call this off. I am not interested. Not in her. Not in any of this.”

“Just go with it, Frank. The farmer and the people that own the farm won’t let anyone leave, anyway.”

I shake my head at this. They won’t let me leave? Bah.

I round the car and scowl at some strange symbols that I realize have been written on the driver’s side window in soap. Okay, now I am unnerved a bit. I am rusty on hieroglyphs, but will look them up later. For now, I cup my hands over my eyes to look inside. All is quiet. I quickly get in gets inside. Spike tears off back to the house. Cackling. Smiling.

“Run, Frank! Run!”

I turn the key in the ignition but it doesn’t start. I try several times in a sweat. Meanwhile through the windshield, I can see what seem to be a farmer and his clan moving in from the fields brandishing pitchforks, shovels, and the like. The farmer’s dogs are much faster than the people and are soon snarling and biting at the car door outside. Finally the car turns over.

“Ah-ha!”

At this instant; however, the farmer hands are also on top of my car, smashing windows with their tools, clawing at the doors and screaming for me to get out. I gulp and slide it into gear, but it is slow to warm up and chugs sluggishly.

“Come, on, baby!”

I talk to the car soothingly and jerk the wheel as it warms up and moves ever faster and faster. The farmer hands begin to fall or move off the car and run to tractors and pick-ups to pursue me. My car, back at full power, now tears through the yard and unto the driveway. I press the gas for dear life, and am soon on the main road, with the farmers’ sub-par vehicles losing ground.

“I’m gonna make it!” I smile.

On the slick road behind me, I see one of the trucks skids and takes out two of the tractors. I look in the rear view mirror— The big moon now hangs in the sky— and laugh, and then turn back to see a black truck pull out of a side road ahead of me. I slam on the brakes.

VI. The Lovers. [Reversed]

Our Rooming House—NIGHT

Andrea has put on her pajamas and is making herself comfortable in the bed. As always, I am pleased that she seems at ease and content in my presence. But anything or everything else in the Universe is unsure. Even if I wanted to risk further romantic advances, I have run out of opportunities for the evening.

Heading to the bathroom to brush my teeth, piss, etc. for the night, I hear voices outside the door. Looking through the spyglass in the front room, I see a couple of technicians from my office, Mary, an older woman, and the other one. The redheaded one.

They are coming down the hall to our door. With clenched fists, I continue back to the bathroom, urinating as I dread the inevitable knock. It comes.

“Just a minute,” I cry, not wanting Andrea to answer it. Coming back into the room amid more knocks, Andrea is half out of bed. I open the door a crack and the women push their way in past me.

“What’s going on Francis Trautman? Who’s this?” the redhead calls. She thinks it is cute to call me by my full name and pretend to be surprised that I am not alone in my apartment.

It is cute.

“What? How’d you even know I was here?” I stammer as they make themselves at home. After all, why wouldn’t I be here? Why am I panicking? I can see Andrea in the bedroom, is now up and is throwing on a robe, embarrassed to be caught in her extremely modest nightware.

“Who are they? What are they doing here?” she chirps innocently enough.

“I don’t know! Don’t come out here!” I plead, shoving the door closed, “She’s nothing to me. I haven’t loved her for a long time!”

I am suddenly struck down sick is some vague and painful manner, and collapse near but not on the chaise lounge.

“Oats!” I exclaim. Randomly. Incoherently. “Cereal Oats!”

Mary is quickly is there, clucking.

“There, there, poor baby,” she coos, “Let me help you.” She plucks the filthy glasses, smudged on the couch as I fell, from my face and begins to clean them on her blouse.

“Hello? Francis Trautman? You all there?” I hear the voice and know the redheaded one is there too. What is going on? I bat Mary’s hands away and get back up.

“Why are you in my apartment?” Seeing me up and coherent again, the redhead scoots away from my desk and I fumble to shut the drawers. How long had she been poking around on it? How long had I been out? Where is Andrea?

Six of Pentacles [Reversed]

Our Rooming House—EVENING

Later, I pull my car into my driveway, not thinking that everyone else on the tenement claim the drive in its entirety. I am expected to remain in the street.

But before I can back out someone is pulling in a huge Winnebago camper in behind me, honking angrily. I gun the car in reverse and barely manage to back around them, but clip the end of the maroon sedan they have in tow before hitting the street. I get out. The sedan has barely a smudge on it. My car is somewhat dented. Maggie and Sailor Lou get out calling “What’s the matter, Frank?”

They sound more concerned than angry as I inspect the damage. But they are only concerned about their car, not me or mine.

“I am having the worst day ever,” I yell.

Andrea is nowhere to be found. And after this day, I suspect the worse. So to take my mind of things, I pour a brandy and find an old movie on the small television in the bedroom.

Soon, there is a knock at my bedroom door, but it is not our annoying boarders, but a pretty young woman. A redhead. Of course.

“Hello. Mr. Trautman?”

“Yes?”

“Sorry to bother you, but I am the Phone Checker.”

I don’t know exactly what a phone checker is. But I point her to the bakelite beast in the front room. She has a string of personal questions, census-type questions. I stammer and spit a little trying to talk to her. Half feeling intruded upon and half feeling intimidate by her beauty. I answer her questions while she inspects the phone. And then follow her out to the parlor to talk to the tenants. She talks to the old crank a bit, while Sailor Lou scowls in my direction. And then Lou follows her out the door to show her the exterior telephone hook ups.

I’m left alone with the old man.

I hate the old man.

He says. “Lou is pissed at you.”

“Why?”

“He saw you flirting with the Phone Checker.”

“I wasn’t. Who cares if I was?.”

“Lou is going to ask her out.”

“So, I’ll apologize for flirting with her. I don’t want to get in the way of Sailor Lou’s extramarital affairs.”

“This is not what is supposed to happen in this time continuum,” the old man says, jabbing a finger at me. you have messed up what is supposed to happen. Now who knows what will happen next?”

“Oh, come now,” I chide but the old man claps his hands over his ears and screams.

“History is unbound! History is unbound!”

Four of Swords [Reversed]

On The Front Lines—LATER

Next thing that I know is that I am on some sort of makeshift gallows platform on the advanced front of the battle performing some sort of Kafkaesque play for the officer’s entertainment and distraction from the raging war all around us. The mysterious redhead acts opposite me, handing me a sack which I assume no-doubt contains the boar-woman’s head. The text of the play talks about Jungian archetypes and monsters, and I study some of the South American artifacts on the stage. Many feature creatures with big white heads and almond eyes? I think, is this whole weird war dictated by some alien race?

But this thought is cut short by the roar of engines overhead. I do not know if it is one of our aircraft or if we

are under attack. I leap off the stage. The redhead follows. A private hands me the small pistol, saying, “I found this in the field.”

In what is an inordinate amount of trust, I hand the gun off to the redhead who stares at it.

“Who has the caps for it?” I ask, half-joking at its size. In the roar of its engines, I get no reply.

The private, along with most of everyone else, is running into a nearby bank. I decide follow. Perhaps the idea is to seek safety from the bombers in the vault.

Inside, we cross the lobby quickly to the surprise of the tellers, customers, and bankers. But across, there is a glass window looking out into the heart of the city, where we can still see the weird jet. And everyone is eerily silent, waiting for anything.

I am still looking for a way out of the country when the soldiers start streaming in, our and theirs from both sides. Ours talk about just surrendering but fight on only because of the fear that the other side isn’t taking prisoners. I alternately pick up a surrendering rifle as its dropped.

I turn on two young soldiers. Theirs. Resting near a counter in the back and approach. I call to them shaking the gun in air to look alive. I am capturing them.

They come to attention and instead quickly train their guns on me. Outnumbered, I slowly motion that I am putting the rifle on the counter. One of the soldiers grins.

“Of course you don’t know if we both will just shoot you. Or shoot you, capture you and torture you. So you have to decide if you’re really going to risk putting that gun down.”

I don’t hesitate.

I snatch it back and shoot both of them.

Five of Pentacles

The City—AFTERNOON

I find myself outside Spike’s trailer in Andrea’s little Japanese car. He wears the green wool jacket that I loaned him last winter and paces his tiny lawn, nodding into his cell phone. He spots me, flips off the phone and approaches my open window.

“You found it this time?”

“Yea.”

“So, what do you want to do? I’m up for anything so long as it doesn’t cost more than 15 bones.”

“I’ve got a little money. We could have a beer at the Whale at least.”

Spike climbs into the passenger side and we roll back unto the road. Spike’s curiosity is soon peaked.

“Let’s pull over and check this out.”

I pull over into a Christmas tree lot, where Spike jumps out and wanders off. I trudge around, and stop to watch two Mexicans wearing latex gloves. They are behind a chain link fence, delicately pruning white pines. To my right there is a rack of the little, shiny stainless steel snips they use. But, mindful of the sore on my left index finger, I also don a pair of latex gloves from a nearby box before trying the devices out.

As I reach for the shears they practically seem to leap into my hand, stick to the gloves and dig into the sore. The Mexicans watch as, trying to yell, I rip the shears and the gloves off my finger. One Mexican shrugs.

“That always happens the first time.”

Spike returns as I squeeze out the pus.

“Oh, fuck!” I curse. The finger is red and swollen, and the sore, adjacent a healing blister is now cavernous, it is so large—

I think I can—

And then try and can, put a finger into it. I grimace, knowing the solid bottom of the wound is the finger bone.

“I need someone to look at this, Spike.”

But I regret this statement even as it leaves my mouth—I’d rather attempt to heal it myself then have a doctor amputate it.