Collected in Down the Road to Eternity: New and Selected Fiction (Talonbooks, 2009). Dozens more of her tiny stories are available in The World Afloat: Miniatures (Talonbooks, 2014):

The Bright Gymnasium of Fun

How many laughers make up a laugh track? How are laugh tracks engineered?
Is there a laugh track company? With its own building/parking lot/cafeteria? Does the laugh track company have its own stable of laughers and highly trained technicians? Are laugh track companies union shops? With shop stewards and an annual general meeting? With negotiated contracts covering such items as sick leave for laryngitis and with the right to strike for better working conditions?
Do laughers laugh at anything? At nothing? Is the mark of a good laugher one who can laugh for no reason at all, as if a switch were turned on?
Do laughers practice laughing? Sitting or standing in their living rooms/kitchens/bedrooms or on public transportation systems, do they suddenly ring out with laughter, practising the same laugh over and over until they get it right? Do professional laughers, therefore, have to carry identification on their persons at all times which will reassure startled or frightened passersby that they are indeed just practising their trade and not, in fact, mad or deranged or both?
Is there a pay scale for laughers? Are guffawers, hooters, roarers and howlers paid more for their work than are gigglers, twitters, cacklers and snigglers? Do belly laughers and shriekers command the highest fees, enough to make a decent wage? Enough to claim, in real life, the equivalent of the humorous, middle-class counterpart presented in many of the TV sitcoms they perform for?
What is real life? Is it that state of being which exists other than what is presented on television and in movies and videos? Something other than performance and posture?
Are there child laughers in special demand for childhood laugh track events such as cartoons/birthdays/tooth extractions? And what of amateur laughers? Are there how-to-laugh books developed especially for them which can be purchased at airport magazine shops/drugstores which encourage them to embrace laughing as a hobby? Are there night school courses that amateur laughers can attend in January/February/March? Tricks of the trade they can learn from practitioners who are slightly more skilled at laughing than they are? Techniques such as breath control/crescendo/decrescendo as in the training of singers and musicians? Are there laughing forms to master?
And what of those sad/abnormal souls who stubbornly refuse all merriment, all lampshade and lewd joke activity? What of them? Should there not be places/institutions/homes where they can receive treatment for their affliction? From which they can emerge, restored to rapture, and armed with tanks of nitrous oxide to declare that it is not better to sorrow than to laugh, it is not better to die than be born?
Is it true that the aging process kills off dopamine cells in the brain, that as we get older euphoria declines, and our capacity to have fun diminishes? Why there is no fool like an old fool, young fools being a dime a dozen?
Is there a market, therefore, for personal, portable laugh tracks? Small, special recording devices that we can all carry around? Attach to our persons? To enable us to laugh at our families/governments/worlds? Would illness/despaihopelessness/anguish finally vanish as some people have suggested? Would we then all be prodded into states of chronically good moods, becoming perpetually pleased, and not tormented to death as we are now with the what-fors and whys of an absurd existence?
Would the boundaries, then, melt away between what is laughable and what is not? With everyone wearing their portable laugh tracks and laughing at everything/nothing, even in their dreams, even in love, would not the world as we know it become like one enormous California, as smooth and mild as a grapefruit? A heaven on earth? A bright gymnasium of fun?
On the other hand, in a world of stunned, uniform laughers, would there not emerge a deviant subclass, a deliberately unfunny, underground movement of anti-laughers declaring their right to misery/ bleakness/doom? Intent on the destruction of stand-up comics and gameshow hosts? Would not the cry of dadaist ecstasy be heard again, this time as “Assasinate the Laughers!” in an updated attempt to startle/ shock the smiling millions who, poised before their television screens, are laughing on cue as if possessed by some grand/homeric/universal tic?
Should not television laugh tracks be scrutinized? Do they not control the quality/frequency/duration of our laughter? Do they not disallow transcendence by rendering all experience cute? Do they not tranquilize us by rendering our laughter thin and meaningless until death do us part?
What if all the laugh track laughers went on strike? How would any of us know what is funny?

Kristmas Kraft

I heard about this cute Christmas gift idea that you can make at home—your own Kraft nativity scene, colourful too, and mmmmmm yummy.
First hollow out a three pound brick of your favourite luncheon meat so that it resembles a stable and so that you, looking down through its roof, look like an angel. Then put your stable onto a cookie sheet and surround it with shredded coconut. This is the hay. Next stick four tooth picks into four wieners and stand them up. Top each wiener with a Kraft green olive. These are the cattle. For Mary, top an upright cocktail wiener with a Mini-Mallow and use strands of coconut for her hair. A hollowed out Maxi-Mallow will do for the manger and the infant Jesus will be a cocktail wiener wrapped in a Kraft Cheese single. Surround the table and the hay with Miracle Whip and shredded Velveeta Cheese.
Take a picture.
Then place your Kraft nativity scene in a three hundred and seventy-five degree oven for forty-five minutes. Serve when friends drop over on Boxing Day or use as a festive centrepiece, a Merry Christmas gift from Mom in the kitchen, that happy lady, that wise shopper.

On Holiday with Giants

Our children are larger than us. They carry us about on their huge backs like packsacks, you on the boy, I on the girl. Riding them through the city streets in search of playmates it’s evident that other parents are being carried about in a similar way; some are even slung on their children’s hips like bags of groceries, some ride anxiously on fat shoulders. Then we are set down in designated areas for drink and conversation, dozens of parents gathered together for worried viewing of the park across the way; the children are playing their fearsome games there with baseballs the size of pumpkins, and bats sturdy enough to support a house. Grandparents, no bigger than dolls, sit amongst us nodding quietly to one another: Ah, the wisdom of the world!
At night it’s back to the hotel room. You and I in a corner of the room sharing a single mattress on the floor. The children each with a king-sized bed arranged before the TV set where they watch game shows and eat peanuts—the shells rising in mountains from the floor. The room growing smaller by the minute. The children growing larger and larger.
During the night the room heats up like an incubator. But the children don’t notice. They sleep with massive fists thrust in their pink gaping mouths. When our daughter laughs and tosses in her sleep her roundness bruises the hotel walls. At three A.M. our son cries out in a man’s voice: Barricade the door, the troops are coming! His size twelve feet flailing against the hotel quilt.
We, on the floor, sweat and lose moisture, shrivel a little more, dry out. Our lotions of little help. Our lovemaking of little help. We keep reducing in volume. Peanut shells spill onto our mattress. On the way to the bathroom we wade through a clutter of pop cans and pizza cartons, track shoes, comics.
Regarding these sleeping giants, we realize it’s too late not to have had them. The die has been cast. Inexplicably, our pride in them remains.

Vacation Time

Each summer during the two weeks of vacation time goldfish flee their bowls to build dazzling orange nests in trees. Monkeys, lions and snakes trade places with accountants, lawyers, and priests, holidaying in another kind of zoo. Free birds fly voluntarily into cages allowing their rarer brothers a two-week dose of the sky. All the hard-working ants, red and black, get two weeks off to loaf on the beach. Worms crawl out of their dirty holes to hang like brown tinsel from the eaves of churches.
During the two weeks of vacation time every wronged animal is avenged: gangs of domestic cats and kamikaze budgies rampage the streets in search of juvenile delinquents; a committee of gerbils and hamsters makes plans for the eradication of small boys; angry butterflies work round the clock sharpening their specimen daggers; pet turtles grow temporarily huge commanding their owners to languish in slimy tanks on the front lawn—two weeks go by and they don’t feed them or change the water.
During vacation time, old women watch in horror as their pet terriers turn into porcelain dogs, as their china figurines come leeringly alive—girls with parasols, boys with fishing poles—to run off for two weeks of fragile sex in a place far away from glass cabinets.

Refusal

SLAP
First there was a slap. Two slaps, one on either cheek. Don’t interrupt me when I’m on the phone! Slaps you’d see a princess give a nobody in a movie, or a maid, or a workman. Smack, smack. Like that. Quick. With the hand that fed, that washed the body, that brushed the hair. Slaps like the sound of sudden gunfire, unpredictable. And the war zone: the living room, the narrow hallway where the telephone rang.
She must have placed the phone under her chin, must have positioned it carefully so she could slap with ease. Come here while I slap you. No, it was the pulling at her skirt, at the long slim high-heeled legs that did it. Close enough for her to whirl around, one hand free. And a dummy child in place to receive it, not figuring it out in time, always too close, always surprised and shocked. A sudden slap like the slap of birth, or of insight.
ANGELS
There’s a house at the foot of a steep hill, a rented house with dusty passageways and hidden rooms, with balconies overlooking a large wood-panelled living room, a castle of a house. In an upstairs bedroom there are angels. Yes, angels, you’re sure of it. Three in white gowns, two in blue, with thick, waxy wings. Hovering at the end of your bed; one is floating near the ceiling, its golden hair brushing the overhead light. Angels living—if that’s what angels do—in your room. They don’t speak but their presence is so claustrophobic you scream. Scream and scream. Their presence is sucking the air from the room, but they’re smiling at you warmly, like Bible drawings of Jesus, and their smiles never change. Smiling while they eat your air.
Quit imagining things, you’re later told. Come down to earth.
HANDLESS
This woman who slaps. What of her? Oh, you keep away from her, at least you try, keep her at arm’s length, refused. Because a nightmare is having your arms cut off below the elbows. There’s so much blood when you push her away. But still she grabs, still she slaps.
Why won’t you call her Mother? Because the word sticks hard in your throat like a growl and won’t form into music?
Instead, you call her the slapping woman.
BROWN
What does the slapping woman look like? Is she beautiful? Is she a beautiful, wicked Queen? No, not beautiful though she has a certain grace, like the cold stiffness of a China figurine.
But everything about her is brown. Like dirt? Yes, like dirt. From her thin hair to her dull-brown eyes, from her tailored suits and her alligator high-heeled shoes to the fox-fur she wears when going out, draped around her shoulders like a live thing. Two tiny fox heads with yellow glass eyes staring at you from either side of her neck.
MUD PIES
In the back yard you mould the slapping woman out of mud and twigs, a whole family of mud-pie women, some larger and more fierce than the others, some small and helpless. When the mud is powdery dry, you have wars with them, smashing them together until they crumble, until armies of perishing slapping women are strewn in broken clumps about the ground.
You use twigs for their arms and legs because her bones are so sharp they hurt you when you’re held. Twigs that snap easily in half, then snap in half again.
LAPS
Tea in the living room. She pulls you onto her lap in front of a neighbour woman. Her knees are sharp through her brown skirt; it’s difficult to balance, to sit still without falling off.
She’s being careful with you, formal, slow. No, you couldn’t call it kindness, but her voice is even, a silky veil, a kind of song. She’s talking to the woman about her home, far away, across the ocean. The sun shines all the time in Australia. Just shines and shines. Not like here where there’s nothing but rain.
Warily you let her hold you, soothed by the delicious sound of her newly soft voice.
Her slapping hands for the moment lying still.
MUSIC
A crowd of strangers with drinks in their hands have gathered around the piano at the far end of the living room. The slapping woman is playing “Kitten on the Keys,” “The Twelfth Street Rag,” “Hernando’s Hide-Away.” Everyone is singing. You’re sitting on the piano bench beside her plunking at the high end of the keyboard, at those shrill notes that are never used. Miraculously you’re at the heart of things, ignored.
Once during these times she calls you Darling and strokes your hair. Darling!
Play us another one! Something we can get our teeth into. Play “Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ra.” Play “My Heart Is Like A Red, Red Rose.”
Darling! The music of that rare caress.
THE FATHER
She’s given him your plate with the cut-up meat. Then laughs and laughs. Standing at his side, she’s feeding him the meat, one piece at a time. Be a good boy and eat your supper! And he’s laughing too, his head’s thrown back, his wide mouth open. Oh, the bells of that private laughter! His paper napkin at his throat like a bib. He’s holding his mouth like a hungry bird, she’s teasing him with the meat. Don’t be a naughty boy! Making him bend after it, further and further, until he falls off the chair.
PRISON
The slapping woman is shouting. Throwing plates of food against the kitchen cupboards, a bowl of stewed prunes, a gravy boat against the kitchen door after the father’s retreating back. A white door, brown gravy.
Once again she’s crying. I want to go home. I hate this country, and all this rain. It’s a prison. I hate everything about it.
SAILORS
Dressed in a night-gown, you’re running circles around the edge of the living room rug, jumping on the armchairs, keeping time to “The Teddy Bear’s Picnic.” Play the record again! And again! The Father’s on the floor beneath a lamp holding a needle and pink thread, sewing doll’s underpants. And a cape! And a doll’s skirt made from a piece of cut-up pillowcase. Threading elastic with a safety pin through a crude waistband. I learned how to sew at sea, on the ships at night. We had to do our own mending.
You’re sitting on the living room rug with the Father eating toast and jam. Then the floor’s a heaving black ocean with orange circle islands made from the light of table lamps and you’re a sailor hopping from one circle to the next. Yo ho ho. The Father’s clapping his hands. And a bottle of rum.
GONE
Where is the slapping woman?
She’s gone.
Gone like a drifting fog because her departure is so quiet. She’s slipped out at night, floated through the bedroom ceiling with the angels.
You’ve looked up from your playing, turned around at the supper table and she’s not there. You weren’t watching and she stole away. You weren’t watching and she’s slapped you again.
BOAT
Why won’t you eat? The Father’s given you all your favourite foods: chocolate cake and ice cream, fish and chips, orange pop, jelly beans, marshmallows. You should be happy; this should be a celebration, she’s gone away. Why won’t you speak? Cat got your tongue?
But there are no words for this emptiness, it’s too large to name. You long for her slippery legs, for the hands that once stroked your hair. Without her presence you feel eerily alone.
The Father rocks you on his lap. He reads to you: Winnie-the-Pooh, The Owl and the Pussycat. You cry and cry, adrift in your sadness. You’re clinging to a ball that’s too wide for your grasp. Hold onto the Father, he’s a sailor, he won’t let you drown. Listen he’s telling you a story: She’s gone away on a boat, maybe never to return.
She’s sailed in a boat, in a pea-green boat, she’s slapping the ocean blue.
BOOK
In the living room of the castle house. You’re helping the Father put toys into a large cardboard box.
And where will I love?
You mean live?
Yes, where will I live?
With your Grandma on the Island. And I’ll visit every weekend. You can make me toast and jam, and we’ll take rides in the car and go to the beach.
And stand on the shore, and wave at the waves, and stare at the boats in the distance.
And what about your tricycle? Do you want to take that?
Oh yes. And the doll and the doll’s clothes and all the books. Hans Christian Andersen. The Princess and the Pea. The Snow Queen. The Snow Queen! There once was a child who lived frozen inside …
Pushing aside the toys you take hold of the Father’s hand.

All Chickens are Sucks: Notes from the Litshow

A man asks if he can pray before I begin a reading, kneeling in the cafe and asking for God’s protection. This was in a dream. The same dream in which my reading was sabotaged by a young Jehovah’s Witness poet who flung my books into a bank of blackberry vines.

I give a reading on a B.C. ferry. Over a hundred Japanese tourists are in attendance. All of them are asleep except for one who is manning a video camera. It occurs to me that I often see Japanese tourists sleeping en route—heads slumped against bus windows, bodies leaning into each other in airport lounges. But there are always one or two taking pictures. Perhaps they draw straws to pick who will stay awake and do the filming. Perhaps they gather, later on at home, on their day off from the corporation, to view these slides and videos. All of them amazed and delighted by what they slept through. In this way having a kind of second vacation.

A literary agent writes to say he’s interested in representing my work. He wants to tell me about his clients, most of whom, he says, are professionals in one field or another. “There are medical doctors,” he writes, “Ph.Ds, an Indian author who used to be a movie star, a lady veterinarian pilot who has spread her wings into adult mysteries, an eighty-five-year-young medical missionary with a wooden prosthesis leg (lost to gas gangrene in her early thirties) who has worked for over fifty years as a nurse in the remote regions of Northern India. There’s a … ”

An organizer who has a German accent gives me details about an upcoming reading: “You will catch the three-thirty ferry. Dinner is served promptly at five-thirty. The reading begins at seven-thirty. You will read for forty-five minutes. Then there will be a lengthy coffee break after which you will read for another forty-five minutes. You will sleep on my couch. If you bring your husband he will sleep on the floor.”

Driving to the town in southern Saskatchewan which has become famous as the home of junior hockey coach-pedophiles, the reading organizer tells me that there is one word I cannot say during my reading. “It’s the four-letter word beginning with ‘c’ and ending with ‘t,’” he says. “They just cannot abide that word.” I ask him if the four-letter word beginning with “f” and ending with “k” is all right. Also the seven-letter word beginning in “a” and ending in “e” which is used for rear end. “Are these words okay?” I wonder. These words, the organizer assures me, are fine: “There’s no problem with them. But they’ll walk out if you use the ‘c’ word.”

After seeing me on a cable interview a woman acquaintance telephones. “You did very well,” she tells me, “but I noticed that you used a lot of ‘ums’ and ‘ahs.’ I can help you with that. I’d like to invite you, as my guest, to the next meeting of Toastmasters International. It’s at the Silver Threads. You go in the front door. But don’t turn right. That’s Bingo. Turn left.” I instantly decide I love my “ums” and “ahs.” I’ll keep them. It’s what saves me from sounding like I’m in sales.

After a reading I sleep in the home of a woman who is enamoured with angels. Small, glittery angel forms appear on tables, floors, countertops. They’re everywhere like air freshener. There are also angel sayings placed here and there. On the sewing machine: Every blade of grass has its own angel. On the typewriter: If everyone only listened to their angel. On the bathroom mirror: Make angel wings ten times.

A large poster in the bedroom where I sleep is titled “How To Be An Artist.” The poster lists several things I can do to become one: invite someone dangerous to tea; make friends with freedom; swing as high as you can on a swingset in moonlight; give money away; believe in magic; laugh a lot; take moon baths; draw on walls; giggle with children; play with stuffed toys; build a fort with blankets; hug trees.
The poster is colourful; there’s an angel blowing a golden trumpet in each corner and the how-to instructions are printed against a large rainbow. A Care Bears ambiance hovers in the room. In the morning I flee. As I’m getting in my car, the woman calls gaily from the front steps, “You never know when you’ll be touched by an angel!”

A book reviewer creates a prize. It’s made out of an empty cereal box. He calls it the “Wet Salami.” I am one of seven winners. It’s possible I dreamt this. The winners are required to perform a musical number on stage; all of us wear identical blonde wigs. One of the winners plays the piano, the rest attempt a chorus line. I then step forward to deliver a speech of thanks. Looking back at the other winners I notice that they are all idiots, drooling sub-normals happy to be fêted. Each of us is holding a wet salami. One of the idiots is eating hers.

I give a reading before twenty-four empty black chairs. The reading goes well. There is nothing dreamlike about this occurrence. The reading goes well because I’ve given up all hope of an audience ever arriving; it’s become clear that the twenty-four chairs have become my audience. I therefore conjure up significance: There is something exquisite about the way this double semicircle of chairs have hurled me into the moment, something … er, wonderful … about the way I’ve crashed into where I am. Which, on this rain lashed Wednesday evening in mid-December, is exactly nowhere, or as Donald Barthelme would say: nowhere—the exact centre.

At the last minute, my publisher changes the title of my new book to All Chickens Are Sucks and puts me in charge of promotion. This may or may not be a dream. I take my duties seriously. At the book launch I wear a chicken outfit and sing in a chicken squawk the theme song from Saturday Night Fever: “Stayin’ Alive.” Then I read excerpts from the book. Every so often I let out a terrible chicken screech. For my finale I settle myself on the floor, grunt several times, and lay an egg. Everyone rushes for the book table. The publisher immediately begins a second printing.

The Compassionate Side of Nature

For five weeks we watched the video feed of the eagle’s nest. A man had placed a video camera in the nest and we along with several million people sat transfixed before computer screens and watched as a nesting pair took turns sitting on two eggs. It was exciting. Soon we would witness the birth. But mysteriously one of the eggs disappeared. It was explained via the newspaper and TV coverage that this often happens with eagles—an egg may be empty. We consoled ourselves: this was raw nature, after all. Then holes were seen in the second egg and we became excited once again—a chick was about to peck its way out of the egg. But it soon became evident that this egg was also empty. There was great sadness among the several million people. But we continued watching to see what might happen next, if anything, and were not disappointed. Three days after the second egg was discarded a new form appeared in the nest—a miniature dachshund wearing a rhinestone collar. We think—and hope—that the dog is a replacement for the failed eggs. You hear about these things, about the compassionate side of nature. For example, mother ducks adopting abandoned kittens, and so on. Perhaps it is the same situation here. The parent eagles at present seem attentive to the dog; they feed it and have in no way harmed it. And they appear mesmerized by the rhinestone collar, staring at it for minutes on end then tapping at it to see what it might be. During sunrise the collar glints spectacularly. But we fear for the dog. What will happen when the eagles decide it’s time for it to fly? Will they push it from the nest to its certain death? A rescue operation has been mounted. The world watches as firefighters, who have a well-deserved reputation for rescuing cats from trees, confer with wildlife experts. The great worry is that the eagles will be spooked by human intervention and fly off with the dachshund in a bid to protect it from predators. The dog’s name is Bismarck. His owners, an elderly couple who live in a cottage nearby, are receiving trauma counselling. Meanwhile scores of grief workers are on standby should the story end badly.

Because of Russell Edson

They are clearing out old theories, their no-longer-fruitful theories: the theory of possible; the theory of want; the theory of restlessness; the theory of wandering; the theory of lizards; the theory of coffee mugs; the theory of figure skating lessons; the theory of clocks.
They’ve shoved the old theories into garbage bags and set the bags at the end of the driveway. A propped sign says: Free.
Behind the living room curtain they watch who stops by.
A boy on a bike takes the theory of lizards.
Predictable, says the son.
A woman with a dog drags off the theory of clocks.
She’s old, says the mother.
A woman pushing a stroller grabs the theory of want.
Makes sense, says the father.
The daughter lets out a scream. You threw out the theory of want? While I was still using it?
We thought, says the father.
How could you? It goes with the theory of desire!
We got rid of desire last summer, says the father.
You what? screams the daughter.
Oh dear, says the mother.
We’ve still got the theory of open, says the son.
Open? shouts the daughter. That old thing? I wouldn’t be caught dead.
Dead? says the father. We threw out dead when you were born.
Oh dear, says the mother.
Now I’ll never, cries the daughter.
Never? says the father.
Shut up! screams the daughter.
Didn’t we give never to your cousin Shirley? says the mother.
Shut up! Shut up!

A Little Something

Fifty thousand vaginas were sent through the mail. Free samples. Part of an ad campaign for a revived play. We couldn’t get ours open. It was shut tighter than a bivalve. “Useless!” My husband cried. “You call that a talking vagina?” I knew how he felt. Last week, a shriveled penis was left on the doorstep. Another free sample. It came with a card: “A little something from the Goddess.” Goddess is a line of lubricants. The penis was supposed to enlarge and chase you around the house and call you baby when rubbed with the cream. No dice. I couldn’t even get it to squeak. The cream’s a fraud. The penis lay on the dining room table like an old carrot. Then the cat dragged it off but gave up trying to chew it because the skin was so tough.
We’ve buried the vagina and the penis together in the back garden. Perhaps a little something might erupt through the dirt this spring.

Breakdown of the Month Calendar

January. Outside, the everlasting wheezes and falters. The dog poses on the community picnic table then vanishes. The town is flabby and grey. At home there is a tight limit on table language.
February. Mother’s mind goes missing on a drive for soft ice-cream. A return to the picnic table turns up a bird’s skull. Grandma wears work boots and lime-green stretch pants to Grandpa’s funeral. The language on the fridge magnet says You Are Loved.
March. At home Mother’s mind is found buried beneath the laundry. Sister writes a poem in praise of emotion. A new dog is bought and named Odysseus. Outside, the everlasting is crackling and green.
April. It rains on the town for thirty straight days. For thirty days Brother watches TV. Father unplugs the sink, the toilet and the storm drains. Mother’s mind scurries off in a torrent of ditch water.
May. Brother gets a prize for taking a bath. Grandma wears a black sarong and bare feet to Old Age Bingo. Sister writes a hymn about dread. The planet tilts nearer the sun.
June. Outside, the everlasting bubbles and bursts. Mother’s mind returns inside a yellow helium balloon. The balloon settles in a backyard tree and glows at night like a lamp. Father lies on the living room rug laughing hysterically.
July. Odysseus begins his wanderings through the blue and silver town. The balloon bursts when a robin lands on its surface. Grandma breaks her arm climbing the tree to gather pieces of Mother’s mind. The robin is taken to the vet.
August. The car breaks down on a trip for Krazy Glue. For two weeks, the glue keeps Mother’s mind attached to her brain. One evening the everlasting, the town and Mother’s mind are cast in a lovely bronze light. The car breaks down on a trip for pizza.
September. Brother wins a prize for taking out the garbage. Mother gets a new broom to commemorate renewed effort. Grandma gets a new pot to bang on because she’s not dead yet. Brother wins new love—the vet’s comely assistant.
October. Mother’s mind hitches a ride on her broom and soars towards the moon. Father says the trick in life is to keep your eyes averted. Grandma says the treat is hardly worth the effort. Grandma runs off with the bingo caller.
November. Outside, the everlasting is ragged and brown. Odysseus returns with Mother’s mind on a leash. Father lies on the kitchen floor laughing and laughing. The planet tilts away from the sun.
December. Sister writes a poem about renewal. Brother wins a prize for leaving home. Mother’s mind is housed with the budgie. The car breaks down on a trip for birdseed.

The Gnats That Blur Our Vision

We turned off the lights to see through screens into other worlds. To absolutely lose ourselves in madness, passion, abandon, sublimity. To fully fucking wreak shit with our puny conscious minds. Because each of these new worlds has its own physics, its own creator. Because after everything the screens were so lovely, glowing, casting a deeper spell, allowing multiple universes, allowing ecstasy. “Because after something comes nothing. No enemy armada. No music. No score.” Just us and our control of the unseen. Plus the satisfying wasteland at the end of rapture. Our only requirement is to have a kick drum knocking at all times, occasionally wind chimes.
Still, the old deities hover nearby like a cloud of gnats. Some burrow beneath our eyelids and blur our vision. This has happened more often than we liked. One such gnat was especially persistent. This was the blind seer Jorge Luis Borges. Suddenly our eyes would feel scratchy, as if a handful of dust had been thrown at them, and then, when we’d try to rub them clean, there he’d be trailing his entourage of former selves, multiples of Borges.
“Every man runs the risk of being the first immortal,” he and his younger selves would intone, their hawk-like profiles flickering across our screens.
“Every man runs the risk of disconnecting his subconscious.”
We’d fiddle with the controls.
“Every puny ecstasy rushes toward its own demise. Not even a bird’s trill can save you.”
We’d shrug him off, having no time for the prophesy of dead seers. Having time only to execute our parts as the kings and queens of the graceful glide. For the engine running mankind’s ambitious extinction.
Our eyes glow like abalone swans in a pool of glare.

The God of Banality

We have washed the house in morning rain. Bathed the children with words plucked from the lips of poets. Bathed ourselves with the music that inhabits the end of dreams, three descending notes of rapturous birdsong.
We have swept the pathway of ashes, tethered our farm animals to oak trees, chopped wood at sunrise, sprinkled salt and milk across our doorsteps, lit outdoor fires for the morning feast where eggs boiled with pig’s snouts and magical words have been offered and consumed. We have re-told the death anecdotes and the tales of narrative luck that allow us to take heart in this world.
We do these things every morning to ensure the enduring presence of the god in our lives. The god of the everyday—soothing, predictable, common to all—a singing hologram that lives in dust.

Play Button

I want to be the play button that sends out laughing songs. Thereby reprising the merry view. Where its folk reign. Sacred champagne. An endless ticker tape parade.
I’ll even project pictures of the world’s dumb work. What we do, the mush of things, the clinking animosities, the wondrous starving in the wondrous world.
If I can stay the old form, thoughtful and sweet from the history store.
If I can be a slot machine for Chekhov. A one-armed bandit winning a jackpot of sight. Though I’ll settle for a sly aside of knowing why. And how and when. A merry-go-round as to words, tra la …

What We Need

A handler. A hand up. A hand-hold. A Han(d)sel and Gretel. A handstand. Handlebars. Handball. A handbook. Handwriting. A handicap. A handgun. A hand grenade. Handcuffs. Hands wringing. A handle on it. A hand out. A handmaiden. A handyman. A hand job. A handbag. A hand mirror. A handout.
A good hand. A hand over a fist. A hand over a hand. A handsome thank you.
A hearty handshake. A handful of good luck. The sound of one hand clapping.
A handspring. Another handspring …

Jesus Loves me but he Can’t Stand you

I’m drinking alone this Christmas.
I’ve hired a wino to decorate my home.
I’ve put a bar in the back of my car so I can drive myself to drink.
Jesus, will you be drinking with me this Christmas?
Will you be thinking of me if you do?
My head hurts and my feet stink.
I don’t know whether to kill myself or go bowling.
* Compiled from C&W song titles.

Pulse

The timeline is shrinking. We are entering the risk zone. Consumers are in the dump, victims of financial advisors, psychopaths, corrupt CEOs, their own greed. We wonder: should we stay in the dump or should we go? Cut our losses or take a wait and see approach? Spend what’s left on Christmas or cut back, hunker down? It’s a rich mystery. It’s feared the crisis could get much worse. Surplus has been scaled back by billions. What does this mean? Falling prices in a broad range of categories have created a nightmare scenario that worries the top cop. He’s pledged to end disorder. We’re not in the best place on earth any more. This much is clear. This much has been repeatedly stated. The homeless are no longer docile or whacked out but angry. Their numbers have swollen to include former haves. Now everyone’s in danger of slipping into the red. It’s feared the bloodbath’s about to begin. We are in deeply negative territory. We are plunging hard and fast into meltdown. It is feared we are headed beyond what is known.
* Compiled from newspaper headlines, late 2008.

Author Interview

Thank you.

Sure. Appears to be. But isn’t.

Five of us, actually. Though everyone’s left. Except us.

School. Work. One to a nursing home.

That’s right. Two of us in this big house.

Not bad. I write. He cycles. We visit the others.

Oh, every few weeks.

To Be Continued

Last night we returned to the beach to see the massed gulls. So many were circling the sky overhead as we walked that we were certain we’d find them perched on the rocks as before. There was a strong wind and the sun had broken through the heavily overcast sky so that the underbellies of the gulls were illuminated, flashing white as they rode the wind. But the beach was empty of birds. The herring must have moved farther down the inlet. The strong wind, cold on our faces, pushed at the sea with such force that whitecaps had formed. The light on the small surf, on the overhanging arbutus trees lining the beach, and on the larger firs and cedars beyond them was green and yellow. The scene was hectic, exciting, with the cawing birds overhead. We climbed the rocks and stood looking out, the dog beside us. The wind blew our hair back and the dog’s fur was blown flat against her body; she angled her nose and sniffed the windy air. When we returned to the path along the shore we saw uneven lines of grey and brown herring roe spread along the beach. They were woven amongst the seaweed, and together they glistened in the yellow and green light like a living veil.
There are times when the experience of living in this world is rapturous. And there are times when it curls us crying in our beds. Between these extremes we tell one another what we know …

Am I being controlling?

An attempt at a Mattress FAQ

Hey all! I thought I'd take a few minutes today and attempt a draft at a mattress FAQ. This is something I've meant to do for quite a while, but haven't found the time for due to life events and exhaustion. Some of that exhaustion has come from sleeping on a few terrible mattresses over the last few years in grad school, and I don't want anyone else to go through that same situation. I have no experience in the industry itself, although I have done literal years of research and spoken with coil, foam, and mattress manufacturers in person and on the phone. Some of what you'll read here is pretty much the party line and similar to what you'll find on The Mattress Underground, and some of it is my opinion. I'll mark areas that are less evidence-based and more my opinion as such. So... without further ado.

What's the best mattress? Let's start here. There isn't one. Certainly some mattresses are better than others, but what works for you might not work for someone else. I'm sure you've had the experience of sleeping rather well on a poor quality mattress in a hotel or motel, and you may have also had the rather unpleasant experience of sleeping poorly on a very expensive mattress in your own home. So rather than ask "what's the best mattress?" let's instead consider the more useful question - "how do you find the right mattress for you?" And to find that mattress, you need to consider two things. First, what do you find comfortable? And second, is the mattress you're considering made of quality materials?

So how do I find something that's comfortable? The easiest way to find a comfortable mattress is to go into a local store and try out a few beds. I would strongly recommend finding a local manufacturer rather than a big name store, as local manufacturers typically use more durable materials and at better prices. You might find that you like the classic feel of a traditional innerspring mattress, or the slightly more conforming feel of a pocketed coil system. You might also enjoy the feel of an all foam bed. If nothing (or everything) feels comfortable to you, then I'd advise you to consider what you've slept well on in the past. This might give you a clue as to what works well for your body. I generally prefer an alternating coil innerspring (a slightly more conforming traditional innerspring) or a pocketed coil mattress. I've slept well on some foam mattresses, but I generally find these to be too warm. Once you have an idea of what you like, then it's time to evaluate each mattress for it's quality.

And how do I evaluate a mattress for its quality? Mattress quality is primarily determined by the quality of its two main components: the quality of the support system and the quality of the comfort layers. The support system for most mattresses is typically a spring system or a layer of dense foam (typically polyfoam or latex). Other more exotic support systems do exist (such as wool, water, or air), but these are much less common. Comfort layers are typically much softer foams (either polyfoam, memory foam, or latex) or much softer coil systems (called microcoils). Some other comfort layers include gel matrixes, wool, or cotton batting. So for simplicity's sake let's break this discussion into two parts: foam quality and spring quality.

What are quality foams? This is the easiest part of evaluating a mattress and is usually what people take away from the Mattress Underground. Generally, quality is determined by the density of the foam as measured by pounds per cubic foot (lb/pcf) as denser foams are more durable and retain their "showroom feel" for longer. For ease of understanding I'll break these down into three categories.

Polyfoam: Or polyurethane foam. This is the most common comfort material and has a "classic" foam feel. My own polyfoam quality metric is as follows: 1.0lb/pcf or lower is very low quality; 1.2lb/pcf is low quality; 1.5lb/pcf is a medium quality; 1.8lb/pcf is high quality; and 2.0lb/pcf or higher is very high quality. However, most mattress companies (and sales people) will use "high quality" to mean just about anything, so make sure you ask for the true specifications. An inch or so of low quality foam is generally permissible (and typically found in the quilt layer), but anything more than that and it's a riskier proposition and prone to premature "flattening" or loss of comfort. If you're looking at polyfoam as a support system then you'll want at least a 1.8lb/pcf foam, or 2.0lb/pcf foam or greater if you're a heavier individual.
Memory foam: Or viscoelastic foam. This is quite comfortable, but can have issues with heat retention. Like with polyfoam, lower density layers are typically lower quality. However, with memory foam a lower density foam can also mean that it's slightly cooler, as less dense materials have more air and thereby airflow. Further, there are some new lower density memory foam variants on the market (HyPURgel, Serene Foam, CopperFlex) that are reportedly durable despite low densities. But generally, 3.0lb/pcf or less is low quality; 4.0lb/pcf is a medium quality; and 5.0lb/pcf or higher is high quality. Tempurpedic formerly used 5.0lb/pcf (or even 5.3lb/pcf) foams exclusively, but now they're experimenting with some less dense foams. I should also state that with many (though not all) memory foams, a higher density can also mean a firmer feel.
Latex foam: Pretty much durable across the board regardless of density, with the proviso that very very soft latex (about 18 ILD or less) can be less durable for persons with heavier body weights. There are also reported issues with synthetic vs organic latex, but I don't have firsthand experience there. I've never seen latex wear out to any significant degree. There are even posts online about folks using latex beds for 40 years!

And what are quality spring systems? This is slightly more complicated. There are a lot of spring systems and it's difficult to predict how they will interact with the comfort layers and your body type. Unlike foam layers, almost all of these are considered very durable as most use steel or titanium components. However, low coil count units can still provide inadequate support despite the quality of their material components. As a rule of thumb, check the manufacturer's website (typically Leggett and Platt) for that particular coil unit and ensure that the count is on the medium to high end for said unit.

Bonnell Coils: The most basic coil system used today and has been around for 100 years. Simple, hourglass-shaped springs tied together. These provide low conformability but solid support. Often used in cheaper mattresses, although can be used in very high end ones as well. Coil counts are typically in the 300-500 range for a queen size. Example: https://beddingcomponents.com/everflex-bonnell
Alternating Coils: The middle ground. These are tied spring systems with modifications made to provide a moderate amount of conformability. There are many different names for variations of this style of system (Verticoil, Luraflex, Hingeflex, Knotted Offset), but these all work on similar principles. Coil counts range from 300's-800's depending on the system used. Example: https://beddingcomponents.com/verticoil-edge
Pocketed Coils: Patented by Beautyrest, but now available broadly for all mattress companies. These are individually pocketed coils that work almost independently of one another (I say almost, because most are still connected by joined fabric). These can provide low or high conformability depending on their individual gauge (or coil thickness) and the firmness of the foam materials above them. Softer foam materials allow for more independent conformation, while stiff foam materials "link" the coils similar to helical coils in a tied system and can provide firm support. I generally like pocketed coils, but many of the S-brand models that use pocketed coils aren't using quality foams above the coils and can quickly lose comfort and support. Coil counts range from 500's-1000's for a queen, although this varies depending on coil gauge and the possible inclusion of narrower "Quantum" coils. Examples: https://beddingcomponents.com/combi-zone
A word on coil gauge: The coil gauge of a particular unit is a measure of its thickness (and thereby firmness). Lower numbers mean a thicker coil. Generally, a 13 gauge coil (read: thicker) is a very stiff coil and best suited to larger body types while a 15 gauge coil (read: thinner) is softer and better suited to smaller body types. Still, the way these coils are arranged in the mattress means a lot. For instance, a 13 gauge alternating coil can still be made to provide soft support if combined with soft comfort materials, and a 15 gauge pocketed coil system can still be made to provide firm support if combined with firm comfort materials.

So it's as easy as finding an adequate support unit and high quality foams, right? Well, no. And this is the maddening thing about finding a mattress, but... quality does not always mean comfort. Quality certainly suggests comfort, but it doesn't guarantee it. Many online mattresses are built from quality, durable materials (it's how they convince you to make that purchase sight unseen), but that doesn't mean they will be comfortable for you. Quality is easy and comfort is complicated. What you want to do is find something that's comfortable for you AND has quality materials. Which is harder than it sounds...

What if I buy a mattress made of lower quality materials? Or, in other words, what if I buy an "S-brand" mattress? This is a riskier proposition, but one that I totally understand. I've lived in places where my only options were buying sight unseen from the internet or buying an "S -brand" bed of potentially unknown materials.* While S-brand's spring systems are generally solid, most of their comfort materials are on the lower range (1.0-1.5lb/pcf polyfoams; or < 4.0lb/pcf memory foams) and will quickly develop a "thinner and flatter" feel within a few months. If the mattress you're buying is a pillowtop, then this breaking in process can feel like a rapid loss of support and lead to an uncomfortable "sink" in the middle of the bed. Conversely, rapid softening of the comfort materials can also allow you to engage with the support system more easily and thus increase the support of the mattress. So it's complicated. I would generally avoid S-brands if you can.
*And if you want to peek at the S-brand materials, try this website: https://www.jordans.com/content/sleep-lab/about-our-brands/jordans-mattress-factory. For some reason, they disclose the rather sub-optimal foam densities of the major manufacturers. Also the sub-optimal foam densities of their own beds...

Why do the big brands use lower quality materials? I don't really know. I suspect this is due to cost-cutting and an attempt to maximize profits with repeat mattress purchases. It could also be due to market testing and the fact that denser, higher quality foams have a longer "break-in" and feel stiffer in a showroom? Or possibly due to the increased "tackiness" and friction of higher quality foams impeding the body's push through the comfort materials (something you'll notice if you order a little foam yourself and play around with it)? I just don't know. I want to say it's just greed, but it could be due to nuanced engineering that I don't completely understand.

What about cooling technologies? Should I pay for somnigel with cloudburst technology? Ugh. This is mostly marketing. Cooling technologies can provide some benefit, but this is typically short-lived and lasts only a few hours (although a significant amount of phase-change material is possibly the one exception here and stands on firm physical/chemical principles). You're better off keeping your bedroom cool with air-conditioning or looking at a mattress with a spring system for increased airflow. Otherwise, diamond-dust? High molecular weight yarn? Gel? Whatever, it doesn't really do much.

Okay but seriously what's the coolest mattress? I mean, the coolest mattress is probably the one you're on because you're a cool person. Okay sorry. What matters here is airflow. The coolest mattress will be the one that maximizes airflow through the base and comfort materials. Latex and polyfoam both have relatively large open-celled structures and do a reasonable job of allowing airflow for comfort materials. Memory foam is a mixed bag. Older, denser memory foams were notoriously bad with airflow due to the cell structure and the overall enveloping feel of the bed. People would sink deeply into this old style memory foam and create a sort of petrochemical cocoon of poorly breathable material and then wake up covered in sweat. Some newer memory foams do have larger cell structures and do a better job with airflow, but this isn't well advertised and it can be tough to know if the memory foam you're looking at will breathe or not. So there is a trade-off. As for base materials... springs will generally be the best for airflow. I mean, they are 99% air by volume.

Do I need a boxspring? Maybe. Although I would point out that there are few true boxsprings nowadays. Most are instead wood or wire grid foundations with no actual springs in them. Neither are truly necessary as most mattress do well on a totally flat foundation (like plywood or the floor), but these wood or wire grid foundations can actually soften the feel of a bed just a touch in my experience. Particularly so on a pocketed coil mattress. Whether this is good or bad is up to you. Generally, most wire grid foundations provide sufficient support, although there's so much variance in these frames that it's possible there are some lower quality systems out there. If you're considering a wooden slatted foundation, then I'd recommend looking at slats at least two inches wide and not more than three inches apart. Some mattresses can still do well if these slats are further apart, but most foam mattresses need the consistent support of closely spaced slats. Finally, you can also place 3/4" plywood or a bunkie board to convert a bedframe into a flat foundation. You should also know that placing your mattress on a flat foundation like plywood (or even the floor) can diminish airflow and lead to the development of mold, although I have never had this problem personally.

My mattress is bowing in the middle. What should I do? This isn't ideal. I would suspect that this is due to softening of low quality comfort materials. My first bit of advice would be to place it on a firmer surface (either a flat foundation or the floor) and see if that helps. If not, then you might try to place a small cardboard "shim" under the middle of the bed. A durable cardboard sheet will be about a 1/4 inch in thickness and can provide a surprising amount of zoned support to that area. Still doesn't help? Well, you can always deconstruct the mattress and replace the comfort materials. Chances are the support materials are still good, so if you strip the existing comfort materials and replace those, you might have a brand new mattress. If not... well, then at least you've tried.

What about this new bed in a box online? I don't even know. I'm very very tired of the online mattress game. They all promise the best sleep ever and... I just don't think that most deliver on that. Further, if the bed doesn't work for you then there's a good chance it could wind up in a landfill. And many online reviewers are little more than online salespeople with almost every mattress getting a 4 or 5 star review. I'm sick of the whole thing to be honest. If you find one you're interested in, then great! Evaluate it like any other bed, but be aware if it doesn't work it may not get "recycled" like the company promises. Again, it's entirely possible an online mattress could be a great fit for you, but it's a shot in the dark unless you can try it first. And if you want us to take a look and help you make a decision, please provide the relevant specs via the foam densities and coil unit/gauge.

So how do I put this all together? Good question. Let's take a look at a few examples.

First, an S-brand mattress via the Sealy Nashua Plush: https://www.jordans.com/product/mattresses/sealy--nashua-plush-mattress-seal-70086. Let's look at the relevant specs starting with the comfort materials. Here we have 4.5 inches of low to very low quality polyfoam (1.1-1.2lb/pcf) with a half inch layer of a low quality memory foam (2.5b/pcf) for zoned support. And the support system? 911 pocketed coils without zoned support. If you can't tell, I'm not very impressed with this mattress. I'd rate this as a very risky proposition with a high likelihood or premature failure due to the excessive amount of low quality comfort materials. The one plus in my opinion would be the zoned support provided by the memory foam, but that's just personal taste on my part.
Now let's look at a similar product from Beautyrest in the new Silver Plush: https://www.jordans.com/product/mattresses/beautyrest--drifton-plush-mattress-simm-80166. Here, we have similar foam densities (1.0-1.2lb/pcf), but less overall foam at only 2.75 inches. And we also have a similar zoned support system with a memory foam band (at 3.4lb/pcf) and a similar number of overall coils. While I'd still rate this a risky proposition, this has less overall low quality foam and might be a better candidate to augment with a topper of your choice. Still, I'd much prefer higher quality foams for a bed like this. My folks have a 10 year old entry level Beautyrest that's way more comfortable than anything in recent years, and I can't help but wonder if that's just due to the changes in foam quality.
And now let's take a look at a random mattress maker I found years ago via Capitol Bedding: https://capitolbedding.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/04/Classic-Tradition-Comfort-Plush.pdf. I have zero affiliation with this company, I just like how they disclose the specifications and densities of almost all of their materials (with the exception of the gel foam, oddly). And as you can see... it's better across the board. The polyfoams are 1.5-1.8lb/pcf density and the spring system is on the high end for that particular coil unit at 805 coils. This is a much higher quality mattress, but keep in mind that quality does not always mean comfort!
Finally, here's a retailer of foam mattresses that I quite like: https://www.comfortoption.com/mattress-engineering. The link above is their explanation of foam/density and quality, which I think is informative and well-written. Their Custom Mattress options use very high quality foams with a base foam that's greater than 2lbs/pcf, and they also have the additional option of customization down the line. The only caveat is likely that the CopperFlex memory foam is likely not as durable as the other materials due to it's relatively low density, but I've also seen this debated amongst manufacturers. And it is also easily replaceable should it fail down the line.

Do mattresses have a break-in period? Yes. But this is poorly understood by most salespeople and may not have been well explained to you. Both polyfoam and memory foam are a bit stiff starting out. This "false firmness" (a term I believe coined by Phoenix on the Mattress Underground) can take a week or two to relax, after which you'll get the true foam feel of the bed. However, a mattress break in isn't just in the foam layers. Over a few weeks, the fabric and stitching of the mattress will also start to relax. The combination of these two processes typically leads to a softer feel within a 30 day period, although with some mattresses (particularly those with very very firm support systems) a softening of the upper comfort materials can actually make the mattress feel harder as you contact the support system sooner. Sound complicated? It is, unfortunately. I should also mention that, in my experience, most coil systems will relax very very slightly after a few months of use, although this is debated within the industry.

Do I have a break-in period? You do. This is the period in which your body loses it's "learned alignment" (again, a term I believe coined by Phoenix on the Mattress Underground) and adjusts to a new mattress. This learned alignment is probably the learned resting muscle tone of the muscles in your back and spine. Over time, these muscles learn to relax on a new sleep surface and you begin to sleep more deeply. There's no way that I know of to speed this process up, although heavy exercise or yoga could certainly help. You could also just try a new mattress that's very similar to your old mattress.

Should I purchase an all latex bed? This is complicated. Latex is supremely durable (and for some, supremely comfortable), but it is a *very* distinct feel and not for everyone. As such, it's difficult for me to make an off the cuff recommendation for latex because of its unique properties. For a bit of education, there are two large categories of latex: that created with the Talalay process and that created with the Dunlop process. Each type also has a unique feel. I personally prefer Dunlop latex, but I think I'm in the minority here. Others have also claimed that Talalay is generally superior and more durable, but I've not seen evidence for this. If you're interested in latex try to find a store wherein you can lay down and try it first. That said, if you like it then bam! You've got a mattress that could last 20 years.

How do I make a mattress softer? This is easy. You can soften a mattress by making sure it's broken in, adding a topper, or by placing it on a proper foundation. Gently walking on a mattress can speed the break-in process, but I'd take care not to jump or be too aggressive if you're a heavier person. Adding a topper is the tried and true method, but be aware that certain intangible factors related to your topper can make a big difference in how it feels on your mattress. A too thick topper can throw your body out of alignment, and sometimes high quality toppers can "drag" on the quilt of your mattress creating an odd "firmer" feel due to the friction of these materials working together. Lastly, adding a semiflex foundation (the typical wire grid) or an actual working boxspring can actually soften your mattress slightly. All of these are worth a shot if your bed is too firm.

How do I make a mattress firmer? This is difficult. The method I recommend most is to take the mattress off of your current foundation and put it on the floor. The flat, firm surface of the floor can make a bed slightly firmer. You might also try a firm topper, but in my experience layering a firm topper over soft materials creates an odd feeling that I don't like. Still, some people have success with this method.

What about a mattress for heavier people? Great question. A heavier person is going to increase the stress they put on a mattress, so the best way to find a mattress that will last is to find one made with the highest quality materials. Again, this means high density foams and relatively high coil count units (depending on the coil system used). Let's take a look at a few examples:

The Therapedic Medicoil Line is a great place to start: https://www.matt-to-go.com/HD_Karolyn.html. I have zero affiliation with this company, but I've chatted with the owner many times and he's one of the kindest in the business. This particular mattress is also built from exceptional materials and has what is supposedly the most durable coil system in the business.
STLBeds has the same lineup from Therapedic (and I think built from the same factory): https://www.stlbeds.com/product/medicoil-hd-2000-mattress/. There are subtle variations between these models, but again we have high density comfort materials and the same rock solid support system.
And... Saatva just released their own Medicoil style bed in the Saatva HD. Same Hinge-Flex coil unit as above and very similar construction. Chattam and Wells has one as well on US-Mattress. I say this not to advertise for these companies (or any), but to show you that this style of construction is incredibly durable.
Big Fig is an online mattress company that delivers a high quality product: https://www.bigfigmattress.com/the-big-fig. It's similar in construction to the Medicoil line with latex and high-density polyfoam, but the Big Fig uses a pocketed coil support system. Still, it has an exceptionally high coil count for a given size. However! I'd still strongly recommend that someone try local stores before buying from an online company as a mattress "return" for many of these companies just means a spot in the landfill.
There's also the Titan by Brooklyn Bedding, although details here are a little scarce: https://titanmattress.com/products/mattresses/titan/. Their Titanflex foam is a very high density polyfoam, but I can't find the details for the other foams used in the mattress. Still, Brooklyn has brick and mortar stores that would allow you to try the mattress before you purchase it. I'd rank this below the other listed examples, although I typically like Brooklyn better than most other online retailers.
WinkBed also has an HD option which uses high-density polyfoam and latex over a zoned coil system: https://www.winkbeds.com/pages/shop-winkbed.
You could also consider an all latex mattress. Latex is a supremely durable material, although it has a distinct feel that doesn't work for all sleepers. An all latex bed would also allow you to customize one side of the mattress versus the other.

Hey wait what about us skinny/light/small people?! I hear you. If you're very light or very thin, you're going to run into your own set of problems with beds. Namely, that medium or firm mattresses might feel firm to very firm, but plush mattresses designed for heavy people can feel "floaty" and lack support due to excessive comfort materials. I can commiserate. And while I can't tell you exactly what mattress will feel best to you, I can tell you that you'll probably want a softer coil (either an alternating coil system or a pocketed coil with a gauge around 15) with 3-5 inches of quality comfort material. High quality foams are still important here, although you'll probably get slightly more life out of low quality foams than a heavier person. Still, if you ignore quality entirely and buy a pillowtop pile of sink from Sealy you're probably gonna have a bad time. Too much foam won't allow you to contact the support layer correctly, and poor quality foam will soften in the middle resulting in... a hammock. No bueno.

Ooof, I've got upper back/shoulder pain... what should I do? This is usually a sign that you are side sleeping on a too firm mattress. Luckily for you, it's fairly easy to soften a bed. You can try a soft topper (update: I now recommend soft Serene Foam almost exclusively) and see if that helps. Although as I've said previously, sometimes toppers can have unanticipated effects on a mattress and you may need to play around with different toppers to get the right comfort and support. You could also try switching to a semiflex foundation (i.e. a wire grid). This will allow the slightest amount of "flex" (hence the name) between the wire grid and can soften the "hard end point" feeling on your shoulder. Finally, you can actually try placing another layer of foam underneath the mattress. If there's no base foam on your coil unit, then placing a layer of firm-ish foam underneath the mattress can also soften the mattress slightly by providing more transition between the springs and the ultimate unyielding surface in your foundation/ground/whatever.

Ooof, I meant I've got low back pain... what should I do? Ah okay. This is usually a sign that your mattress is too soft and is sinking underneath your hips. I discussed this in the "my mattress is bowing in the middle" section of the FAQ, but I'll give you quick recap here. You can try placing the mattress on a firm, flat surface (like the ground) to see if that helps. Beyond that, you might try a custom "zoning" of your mattress by placing 1/2" firm foam or a 1/4' cardboard shim underneath the middle third of the mattress. This will provide slightly more support to that area and accomplish a similar thing to the "belly bands" used for zoning by some manufacturers. If these don't work? You might be out of luck. There are other means of custom zoning (like placing foam rods within the spring section of a mattress), but I'm not experienced enough with this methods to make a serious recommendation here. You might just need a different mattress or a more supportive spring system.

Darn it, I just can't find a mattress that works! What should I do? If this is the case, then you might consider a modular mattress design. I think highly of this general approach, as it allows the user to open the cover and customize the mattress materials to find a configuration that works for them. This is commonly done with latex mattresses, but is growing more common with other materials as well. Below are a few examples that are built with high quality materials. Like with any recommendation, I have zero affiliation with these companies, but I've talked to them on the phone and think highly of their business and approach to mattresses.

https://www.tochta.com/product/divini-mattress/. This is a custom poly/memory foam mattress made with a 4lb memory foam comfort layer and variable slabs of high density polyfoam in different firmnesses underneath. I find that polyfoam allows for more "passage through" the comfort materials and allows for better alignment for side sleepers than latex. Of course, this is only my opinion. Different people feel differently about different mattresses.
https://www.comfortoption.com/. I mentioned Comfort Option above and don't want to belabor the point here. But their Custom Mattress options use durable materials and are spec'd to last many years.
https://www.sleepez.com/. SleepEZ offers a custom latex product with variable firmnesses to choose from. Truly easy to assemble, but be aware that latex is a distinct feel and I'd advise you to try it first.
https://www.bedgear.com/m3-mattress.html. BedGear just released this mattress, which I think is quite interesting. It uses a Foam/Microcoil/Latex comfort layer that's individually encased over spring systems that can be removed and switched depending on your desired firmness. Really interesting here, although I can't get many details on the specifics of the components, so I can't recommend it outright.
And then there's the classic https://diymattress.net/. They offer two high quality spring systems, as well as latex and polyfoam support layers. However, they only offer latex as comfort layers. I do wish they'd diversify their options somewhat and offer some polyfoam comfort layers, but that would make the overall build process more complex.

How do I get the best price on a mattress? There's an art to this, but it generally comes down to comparison shopping. Ignore the name of the mattress and learn the specifics in terms of foam layers and mattress height. Then check online retailers for the same model and the same specs. If it's a big brand, then this will be the same mattress. I would add that using Google Shopping can sometimes reveal smaller stores that will carry a mattress at very very low prices, so that might be a useful place to search as well. Then approach your preferred retailer with an educated understanding of what the price of the mattress should be and ask if they will price match other stores. Most will do so. Still, I'd ask that you remember that brick and mortar stores have their own overhead to pay, so their prices may be slightly higher than an online retailer selling from a warehouse. I'll leave the ethics of purchasing locally vs purchasing on the internet to you.

And... I'm exhausted. That's a start at least. Let me know if you agree, disagree, or have data to back up specific points. I've been meaning to check a few foam suppliers websites for material sheets regarding durability and density, but likely won't have time for that today!
Edit: Added a few examples, cleaned up a few typos, and clarified a few points. And if you're interested in peaking at some material data sheets on various foams (as well as a seller's estimate of their lifespan and durability) take a look here: https://www.foambymail.com/poly-foam-sheet.html.

[Part - 40] Large college ebooks/eTextbooks thread for cheap rates [$4 to $25]

First of all you can check my reviews from the past customers here
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The Story of Edward Howard and the First American Watch by George Lewis Dyer
"The Tower Clock and How to Make it - A Practical and Theoretical Treatise on the Construction of a Chiming Tower Clock by with Full Working Drawings Photographed to Scale" by E. B. Ferson
A Practical Course in Horology by Harold C. Kelly
Watch and Clock Escapements by Anon
Clocks and Watches by George L. Overton
"The Watchmakers' Lathe - Its use and Abuse - A Study of the Lathe in its Various Forms by Past and Present by its construction and Proper Uses. For the Student and Apprentice" by Ward L. Goodrich
The Art Of Shell Cameo Cutting by J. B. Marsh
Vintage Toy Making and Toy Games for Children by Various
Good Sport seen with some Famous Packs 1885-1910 by Cuthbert Bradley
Fox-Hunting as Recorded by Raed by C. A. Stephens
"Jeweled Bearings for Watches - A Full and Complete Description of the Manufacture by Gauging and Setting of Jeweled Bearings in Timekeeping Instruments" by Charles T. Higginbotham
Time Telling Through the Ages by Harry C. Brearley
Cross Country Reminiscences by Fox Russell
The American Watchmaker and Jeweler - A Full and Comprehensive Exposition of all the Latest and most Approved Secrets of the Trade Embracing Watch and Clock Cleaning and Repairing by J. Parish Stelle
The Ladies' Book of Etiquette by Florence Hartley
Eva Zeisel by Pat Kirkham
Spider Speculations by Jo Carson
Colt by James L. Mitchell
A Book of Marionettes by Helen Haiman Joseph
50 Famous Firearms You've Got to Own by Rick Hacker
Picker's Pocket Guide - Comic Books by David Tosh
Duesenberg by Dennis Adler
Vintage Wristwatches by Reyne Haines
Watches by Dean Judy
Winchester Pocket Guide by Ned Schwing
Merlin's Mistake by Robert Newman
Hunting Rutting Bucks by John Trout
Magic - The Gathering Cards by Ben Bleiweiss
Miller's Arts & Crafts by Judith Miller
Gun Digest Book of Modern Gun Values by Richard Allen Mann; Jerry Lee
Hot Wheels Variations by Michael Zarnock
The Cartiers by Francesca Cartier Brickell
The Ultimate Guide to G.I. Joe 1982-1994 by Mark Bellomo
Just 30s by Angelo Van Boggart
Warman's U.S. Stamps Field Guide by Maurice D. Wozniak
Hunting Whitetails East & West by J. Wayne Fears; Larry Weishuhn
Revolutionary Weapons | Children's Military & War History Books by Baby Professor
The Tracker's Handbook by Len McDougall
Good Hunting by Theodore Roosevelt
Conservation of Marine Archaeological Objects by Colin Pearson
A Picture Book of Bookbindings - Part I: Before 1550 - Victoria & Albert Museum by Anon
"Goulash by Garage Sales and God" by Bernadette McCarver Snyder
The History of Money - Money Book for Children | Children's Growing Up & Facts of Life Books by Baby Professor
The Gold Rush: The Uses and Importance of Gold - Chemistry Book for Kids 9-12 | Children's Chemistry Books by Baby Professor
"HTML5 and CSS3 by Illustrated Complete" by Sasha Vodnik
"Alaska and Yukon Tokens: Private Coins of the Territories by 3d ed." by Ronald J. Benice
The Metal Bible for Kids : Chemistry Book for Kids | Children's Chemistry Books by Baby Professor
Wristwatch Annual 2017 by Peter Braun
Money Lessons and Practicums -Children's Money & Saving Reference by Baby Professor
The Woodcut Artist's Handbook by George A. Walker
"The Phoenician Origin of Britons Scots and Anglo-Saxons - Discovered by Phoenician and Sumerian Inscriptions in Britain by by Preroman Briton Coins and" by L. A. Waddell
The Stamp Finder - Tells at a Glance the Country to Which Any Stamp Belongs and Where to Place It in Your Album - The Collector's Dictionary by Anon
The Gentlemen's Book of Etiquette by Cecil B. Hartley
The Book of Luck by Whitman Publishing Co.
Family Photographs and How to Date Them by Jayne Shrimpton
The Monetary Imagination of Edgar Allan Poe by Heinz Tschachler
2012 U.S. Coin Digest by David C. Harper
Manuscript Miscellanies in Early Modern England by "Starza Smith by Daniel by Dr"
Vroom! How Does A Car Engine Work for Kids by Baby Professor
Gun Digest 2016 by Jerry Lee
Gun Digest Book of Classic American Combat Rifles by Terry Wieland
2011 North American Coins and Prices by David C. Harper
2012 U.S. Coin Digest: Dollars by David C. Harper
Building Art Knife Bolsters by Joe Kertzman
Inventing a Better Mousetrap by Alan Rothschild; Ann Rothschild
2016 Standard Catalog of World Coins 1901-2000 by George S. Cuhaj
Standard Catalog of Vintage Baseball Cards by Sports Collector's Digest
2012 U.S. Coin Digest: Colonial America by David C. Harper
Warman's 101 Greatest Baby Boomer Toys by Mark Rich
Roaring Back by Curt Sampson
Midget Ninja and Tactical Laxatives by Philip Sidnell
Napoleon's Imperial Guard Uniforms and Equipment. Volume 2 by Paul L Dawson
The Battle of the Berezina by Alexander Mikaberidze
Montbrug by Gitte Tarnow Ingvardson
The Coca-Cola Art of Jim Harrison by Jim Harrison
Fancy Dresses Described by Ardern Holt
Shooter's Bible Guide to Deer Hunting by Peter J. Fiduccia
Deer Rifles and Cartridges by Wayne van Zwoll
"Shooter's Bible by 108th Edition" by Jay Cassell
"Standard Catalog of World Coins by 1801-1900" by George S. Cuhaj
Spiffy Kitchen Collectibles by Brian Alexander
Warman's Dolls Field Guide by Dawn Herlocher
Warman's Comic Book Field Guide by KP Staff
Standard Catalog of United States Paper Money by George S. Cuhaj
2012 Standard Catalog of World Coins - 1901-2000 by George S. Cuhaj
Antique Trader Guide To Fakes & Reproductions by Mark Chervenka
Encyclopedia of World Political Systems by Derbyshire
European Civil and Military Clothing by Sir Frederic Stibbert
"A Decade of French Fashion by 1929-1938" by Mary Carolyn Waldrep
Shaker Furniture by Edward D. and Faith Andrews
"Medieval Costume by Armour and Weapons" by Eduard Wagner
Driving Horse-Drawn Carriages for Pleasure by Francis T. Underhill
The Story Without an End by Sarah Austin
Neo-Classical Furniture Designs by Thomas King
The Adhesive Postage Stamp by Patrick Chalmers
"American Military Shoulder Arms by Volume II" by George D. Moller
Masterpieces of Women's Costume of the 18th and 19th Centuries by Aline Bernstein
The Gun Digest Book of Sig-Sauer by Massad Ayoob
Lost Arts of the Sportsman by Francis Henry Buzzacott
Handgun Buyer's Guide by Brad Fitzpatrick
Game Birds and Gun Dogs by Vin T. Sparano
Smith & Wesson Hand Guns by Roy C. McHenry; Walter F. Roper
The Ultimate Guide to Black Bear Hunting by Douglas Boze
Classic Hunting Tales by Vin T. Sparano
Guns of the Old West by Charles Edward Chapel
The Greatest Hunting Stories Ever Told by Vin T. Sparano
The Pipe Book by Alfred Dunhill
Whitetail Tactics by Peter J. Fiduccia
Sure-Fire Whitetail Tactics by John Weiss
The Escape From Elba by Norman MacKenzie
Successful Turkey Hunting by John Higley
The Care of Fine Books by Jane Greenfield
Brick Fairy Tales by John McCann; Monica Sweeney; Becky Thomas
German Fighter Aircraft in World War I by Mark Wilkins
Antiques Roadshow Behind the Scenes by Marsha Bemko
Time Tamed by Nicholas Foulkes
Civil War Legacies IV by Carol Hopkins
Standard Catalog of Ferrari 1947-2003 by Mike Covelllo; Mike Covello
Warman's Vintage Jewelry by Leigh Lesher
Essential Winetasting by Michael Schuster
Crazy Quilts by Betty Fikes Pillsbury
Artifacts of a '90s Kid by Alana Hitchell
Etiquette by Emily Post
Mickey Mantle - Memories and Memorabilia by Larry Canale
Warman's Roseville Pottery by Mark Moran
A Man & His Watch by Matt Hranek
Profitable Coin Collecting by David L Ganz
Modern Commemorative Coins by Eric Jordan
Collecting Art Plastic Jewelry by Leigh Leshner
Warman's Coca-Cola Collectibles by Allen Petretti
Third Reich Collectibles by Chris William
Classic Hunting Collectibles by Hal Boggess
Warman's U.S. Stamps Field Guide by Maurice Wozniak
Baby Boomer Comics by Craig Shutt
Creepy-Ass Dolls by Stacey Brooks
Comic Book Price Guide by Brent Frankenhoff
Standard Catalog of Handguns by Jerry Lee
"Collecting Rocks by Gems and Minerals" by Patti Polk
Duesenberg by Dennis Adler
Vintage Wristwatches by Reyne Haines
The Cartiers by Francesca Cartier Brickell
Miller's Arts & Crafts by Judith Miller
Magic - The Gathering Cards by Ben Bleiweiss
Merlin's Mistake by Robert Newman
Warman's Tools Field Guide by Clarence Blanchard
The Ultimate Guide to G.I. Joe 1982-1994 by Mark Bellomo
Hugh Johnson on Wine by Hugh Johnson
Pakistan: In-Between Extremism and Peace by Mohammad Ali Babakhel
Hunting Rutting Bucks by John Trout
Standard Catalog of U.S. Military Vehicles - 2nd Edition by David Doyle
Fantastic Finds by Eric Bradley
Viva la Pizza! by Scott Wiener
Finding Wounded Deer by John Trout
Stacked Decks by The Rotenberg Collection
Hunting Rutting Bucks by John Trout
Pokemon Cards by Ryan Majeske
Carriage Terminology by Don H. Berkebile
Every Stamp Tells a Story by Cheryl Ganz
The Ultimate Cigar Book by Richard Carleton Hacker
The Little Guide to Vintage Shopping by Melody Fortier
The GH Kaestlin Collection of Imperial Russian and Zemstvo Stamps by Thomas Lera; Leon Finik
Finders Keepers by Craig Childs
Vintage Fashion Accessories by Stacy Loalbo
Harry Potter Collector's Handbook by William Silvester
Standard Catalog of World Paper Money - Modern Issues by George S. Cuhaj
To Have and to Hold by Philipp Blom
Coin Clinic 2 by Alan Herbert
Collecting Victorian Jewelry by Jeanenne Bell
Totally Tubular '80s Toys by Mark Bellomo
Standard Guide to Small-Size U.S. Paper Money by John Schwartz; Scott Lindquist
Warman's John Deere Collectibles by David Doyle
One Coin is Never Enough by Michael S. Shutty
Antique Trader Antiques & Collectibles 2012 Price Guide by Eric Bradley
Antique Trader Oriental Antiques & Art by Mark Moran
Warman's Fiesta Ware by Mark Moran
French Tanks of the Great War by Tim Gale
Funny Face! by Rich
Vintage House Book: 100 Years of Classic American Homes 1880-1980 by Tad Burness
The Gun Digest Book of the Tactical Shotgun by Scott W. Wagner
Just Chevys by Brian Earnest
A Parent's Guide to the Best Kids' Comics by Scott Robins; Snow Wildsmith
Warman's PEZ Field Guide by Shawn Peterson
Only Originals by Brian Earnest
Route 66 Lost & Found by Russell A Olsen
Answers To Questions About Old Jewelry by C. Jeanenne Bell
Standard Catalog of United States Paper Money by George S. Cuhaj
The Essential Guide to Investing in Precious Metals by David L Ganz
Paul Martin: My World Of Antiques by Paul Martin
"Shooter's Bible by 110th Edition" by Jay Cassell
Warman's Depression Glass by Ellen Schroy
"U.S. Coins & Currency by Warman's Companion" by Allen G. Berman
Picker's Pocket Guide - Signs by Eric Bradley
CO2 Pistols & Rifles by James House
The Instant Coin Collector by Arlyn Sieber
Picker's Pocket Guide - Star Wars Toys by Mark Bellomo
Antique Trader Perfume Bottles Price Guide by Kyle Husfloen; Penny Dolnick
Marilyn Monroe: Cover to Cover by Kidder
Gunsmithing: Shotguns by Patrick Sweeney
Lost and Found by the Publisher of Old Cars Weekly
Collectible '70s by Goldberg
Warman's Vintage Jewelry by Leigh Lesher
Horror Movie Freak by Don Sumner
Warman's Red Wing Pottery by Mark Moran
Comics Shop by Maggie Thompson
"Hitlers Heavy Panzers by 1943â€“1945" by Ian Baxter
Redlegs by John P. Langellier
What We Keep by Bill Shapiro; Naomi Wax
Through the Brazilian Wilderness by Theodore Roosevelt
Book of Glock by Robert A. Sadowski
Modern Commemorative Coins by Eric Jordan
Collecting Art Plastic Jewelry by Leigh Leshner
"Standard Catalog of Ford by 1903-2002" by John Gunnell
Warman's Coca-Cola Collectibles by Allen Petretti
Petersen's Hunting Guide to Big Game by Petersen's Hunting
"Panic Scrip of 1893 by 1907 and 1914" by Neil Shafer; Tom Sheehan
"Standard Catalog of Chevrolet by 1912-2003" by John Gunnell
Warman's Buttons Field Guide by Jill Gorski
The Ultimate Guide to Collectible LEGO Sets by Ed Maciorowski; Jeff Maciorowski
Warman's Vintage Quilts by Maggi Mccormick Gordon
Warman's Barbie Doll Field Guide by Sharon Verbeten
Classic Hunting Collectibles by Hal Boggess
Standard Catalog of Handguns by Jerry Lee
"Collecting Rocks by Gems and Minerals" by Patti Polk
Creepy-Ass Dolls by Stacey Brooks
Comic Book Price Guide by Brent Frankenhoff
Picker's Pocket Guide - Toys by Eric Bradley
A Prepper's Guide to Shotguns by Robert K. Campbell
The Edgemaster's Handbook by Len McDougall
U.S. Coins Close Up by Robert R. VanRyzin
Warman's Coins & Paper Money by Arlyn G. Sieber
Just '50s by Brian Earnest
Hot Wheels Spectraflame by Edward Wershbale
Transformers by Mark Bellomo
Gun Digest Winchester 69 Assembly/Disassembly Instructions by Kevin Muramatsu
"1 by 000 Comic Books You Must Read" by Tony Isabella
Gun Digestâ€™s Double Action Trigger Concealed Carry eShort by Grant Cunningham
Gun Digest 2014 by Jerry Lee
Cars We Love by Brian Earnest
Unlocking the Prehistory of America by Frank Joseph
Creepy-Ass Dolls by Stacey Brooks
Jewels on Queen by Anne Schofield
Crime and the Art Market by Riah Pryor
Collecting China: The Memoirs of a Hong Kong Art Addict by Brian McElney
"Using Natural Finishes: Lime and Earth Based Plasters by Renders & Paints" by Adam Weismann
Crime and the Art Market by Riah Pryor
Art Crime and its Prevention by Arthur Tompkins; Noah Charney
Warman's Vintage Guitars Field Guide by Dave Rogers
Universe of Star Wars Collectibles by Stuart W. Wells III
Warman's Farm Toys Field Guide by Karen O'Brien
Warman's Majolica by Mark F. Moran
2012 U.S. Coin Digest: Dimes by David C. Harper
Warman's Depression Glass Field Guide by Ellen T. Schroy
Warman's Cookie Jars Identification and Price Guide by Mark Moran
Warman's Companion Collectible Dolls by Dawn Herlocher
2016 Standard Catalog of Firearms by Jerry Lee
2012 North American Coins & Prices by David C. Harper
Warman's Collectible Dolls: Antique to Modern by Mark Moran
Bolt Action Rifles by Wayne Zwoll
Liquidating an Estate by Martin Codina
Warman's World War II Collectibles by John Adams-Graf
"Dames by Dolls and Delinquents" by Gary Lovisi
Postcard Collector by Barbara Andrews
Answers To Questions About Old Jewelry by C. Jeanenne Bell
Gunsmithing: Shotguns by Patrick Sweeney
The Business of Antiques by Wayne Jordan
Old Car Auction Bible by Brian Earnest
Modern Commemorative Coins by Eric Jordan
Collecting Art Plastic Jewelry by Leigh Leshner
"Standard Catalog of Ford by 1903-2002" by John Gunnell
Profitable Coin Collecting by David L Ganz
Uncovered by Ian Birch
Unusual World Coins by George S. Cuhaj
Picker's Bible by Joe Willard
Dangerous Curves by Brent Frankenhoff
The Gun Digest Book of the Tactical Shotgun by Scott W. Wagner
Warman's PEZ Field Guide by Shawn Peterson
"Answers to Questions About Old Jewelry by 1840-1950" by C. Jeanenne Bell
Picker's Pocket Guide - Baseball Memorabilia by Jeff Figler
Vino Italiano by Joseph Bastianich; David Lynch
On Paper by Nicholas A. Basbanes
Vino Italiano Buying Guide - Revised and Updated by Joseph Bastianich; David Lynch
How to Love Wine by Eric Asimov
Within Overlooked by Al Amin
Global Clay by John A. Burrison
Modern Cast Iron by Ashley L. Jones
Toy Time! by Christopher Byrne
A Slepyng Hound to Wake by Vincent McCaffrey
Hound by Vincent McCaffrey
Shooter's Bible Guide to Deer Hunting by Peter J. Fiduccia
Deer Rifles and Cartridges by Wayne van Zwoll
"Shooter's Bible by 108th Edition" by Jay Cassell
Long May She Wave by Kit Hinrichs; Delphine Hirasuna
Thinking Small by Andrea Hiott
"Old Books by Rare Friends" by Madeline B. Stern; Leona Rostenberg
"The Insider's Guide to U.S. Coin Values by 21st Edition" by Scott A. Travers
Spiffy Kitchen Collectibles by Brian Alexander
Warman's Arts & Crafts Furniture Price Guide by Mark Moran; Mark Moran
Standard Catalog of Vintage Baseball Cards by Bob Lemke
Collecting Antique Marbles by Paul Baumann
Third Reich Collectibles by Chris William
Baby Boomer Comics by Craig Shutt
The Everything Coin Collecting Book by Richard Giedroyc
An Illustrated Guide To Gas Pumps by Jack Sim
Warman's U.S. Stamps Field Guide by Maurice Wozniak
The Everything Wine Book by Barbara Nowak; Beverly Wichman
The Essential Guide to Investing in Precious Metals by David L Ganz
"The Ultimate Guide to Bowhunting Skills by Tactics by and Techniques" by Jay Cassell
Through the Brazilian Wilderness by Theodore Roosevelt
Baxter the Retriever by John Troy
Hope Diamond by Richard Kurin
"Hitlers Heavy Panzers by 1943â€“1945" by Ian Baxter
19th-Century Patchwork Divas' Treasury of Quilts by Betsy Chutchian; Carol Staehle
Hunting Dangerous Game by Vin T. Sparano
Petersen's Hunting Guide to Big Game by Petersen's Hunting
"Collecting Rocks by Gems & Minerals" by Patti Polk
The Man-Eaters of Tsavo by John Henry Patterson
Baseball Hall of Fame Autographs by Ron Keurajian
Just Fords by Brian Earnest
Italian Renaissance Frames at the V&A by Christine Powell; Zoe Allen
Conservation of Ruins by John Ashurst
Risk Assessment for Object Conservation by Jonathan Ashley-Smith
The History of Gauged Brickwork by Gerard Lynch
Architectural Tiles: Conservation and Restoration by Lesley Durbin; Lesley Durbin
"X-Radiography of Textiles by Dress and Related Objects" by Sonia O'Connor; Mary Brooks
Upholstery Conservation: Principles and Practice by Dinah Eastop; Kathryn Gill
"Semi-Precious Stones - A Historical Article on Agate by Amber by Amethyst and Many Other Varieties of Gemstones" by Edwin W. Streeter
Radiography of Cultural Material by Julia Tum; Andrew Middleton
CO2 Pistols & Rifles by James House
Chicago Flashback by N/A
Antique Firearms Assembly/Disassembly by David Chicoine
Famous Firearms of the Old West by Hal Herring
A Guide Book of United States Coins 2016 by R.S. Yeoman
The Old Outboard Book by Peter Hunn
The NES Encyclopedia by Chris Scullion
Have Yourself a Very Vintage Christmas by Susan Waggoner
Blitzkrieg Russia by Jon Sutherland; Diane Canwell
Forbidden Rites by Richard Kieckhefer
Hidden Treasures by Harriet Baskas
Forbidden Rites by Richard Kieckhefer
The Adhesive Postage Stamp by Patrick Chalmers
Wellington's Spies by Mary McGrigor
British Concentration Camps by Simon Webb
Standard Catalog of Ruger Firearms by Jerry Lee
Have Yourself a Very Vintage Christmas by Susan Waggoner
Roadkill Abc by Adair McPherson
Gun Digest 2013 by Jerry Lee
Forty Years of Airfix Toys by Jeremy Brook
Gun Digest's Revolver Maintenance Concealed Carry eShort by Grant Cunningham
Gun Digest Book of Exploded Gun Drawings by Kevin Muramatsu
Winchester Repeating Arms Company by Herb Houze
Gun Digest Browning T-Bolt Assembly/Disassembly Instructions by Kevin Muramatsu
Gunsmithing - Rifles by Patrick Sweeney
Standard Catalog of Colt Firearms by James Tarr
Gun Digestâ€™s Why Revolvers for Concealed Carry? eShort by Grant Cunningham
Custom Rifles - Mastery of Wood & Metal by Tom Turpin
Gun Digestâ€™s Choosing Concealed Carry Revolvers eShort by Grant Cunningham
Gun Digest Book of Modern Gun Values by Phillip Peterson
The Year's Work in the Oddball Archive by Charles M. Tung; Aaron Jaffe; Grant Farred; Seth Morton; Joseph Campana; Theodore Bale; Atia Sattar;
Inventing a Better Mousetrap by Alan Rothschild; Ann Rothschild
Ghost Towns of Montana by Shari Miller
Clock Cases by Nigel Barnes; Karoliina Ilmonen
Advertising Management by Donald W Jugenheimer; Larry D Kelley; Fogarty Klein Monroe
Fragments of the World: Uses of Museum Collections by Suzanne Keene
"HTML5 and CSS3 by Illustrated Introductory" by Sasha Vodnik
Rag Darlings: Dolls From the Feedsack Era by Gloria Nixon
"How To Make Doll Clothes - A Book For Daughters by Mothers And Grandmothers" by Emily Dow
How Do They Do It? Paper Bills Edition - Money Learning for Kids | Children's Growing Up & Facts of Life Books by Baby Professor
Dynastic Rule by Geraldine Norman
I'd Rather Be Reading by Guinevere De La Mare
Celebrating Canada by Peter E. Baker
Millionaire Legacy by Thomas P. Curran
"Standard Catalog of World Paper Money by General Issues by 1368-1960" by George S. Cuhaj
Antique Trader Black American Price Guide by Kyle Husfloen
Collecting Lladro by Peggy Whiteneck
Old English Chintzes - Chintz in Relation to Antique Furniture by Hugh Phillipe
An Introduction to American Antique Glassware by Alice Van Leer Carrick
Building Art Knife Bolsters by Joe Kertzman
The Brick Bible by Brendan Powell Smith
"Gun Trader's Guide by Thirty-Fourth Edition" by Stephen D. Carpenteri
Abbott's American Watchmaker by Henry G. Abbott
Hunting Whitetails East & West by J. Wayne Fears; Larry Weishuhn
The Tracker's Handbook by Len McDougall
Good Hunting by Theodore Roosevelt
Emily Gets Her Gun by Emily Miller
Tales of Woods and Waters by Vin T. Sparano
Wellington's Worst Scrape by Carole Divall
36 Bottles of Wine by Paul Zitarelli
Shotgunning by Bob Brister
Brick Fairy Tales by John McCann; Monica Sweeney; Becky Thomas
Successful Turkey Hunting by John Higley
The Care of Fine Books by Jane Greenfield
The Ultimate Hunting Dog Reference Book by Vickie Lamb
Christmas Remembered by Ben Logan
Gun Trader's Guide to Shotguns by Robert A. Sadowski
Watch Repair for Beginners by Harold C. Kelly
The NRA Step-by-Step Guide to Gun Safety by Rick Sapp; National Rifle Association
Time Tamed by Nicholas Foulkes
Geometric Dimensioning and Tolerancing by David A. Madsen
World Architecture by Richard Ingersoll
Fundamentals of Building Construction by Edward Allen; Joseph Iano 1.

Magnum Opus, and How I got back my Jessie

“Shit, man. You headin’ outta town, or something?”
“No.”
“You sharin,’ then? Your buddies better be liftin’ part of the cost.”
“Nope. Not sharing.”
“Okay… you ain’t skippin’ town an’ you ain’t sharin.’ So what’s the deal with you buyin’ in bulk all’ve sudden?”
“Don’t worry about it, Ed.”
He handed me the bag with the Opus but he kept his hand on it.
“You ain’t tryin’ ta use this all at once, are ya?”
“I said don’t worry about it.”
“Look, man, I gots like, an obligation to make sure you ain’t gonna try an’ do that. So make me a promise. You know this stuff. You know what it does.”
“Yeah, its the deadliest drug in the world, Ed, and you sell it for a living. Since when do you care about responsibility?”
“I dunno, man. I just… don’t wanna lose a good customer, is all, you know? That’s $600.”
I handed him all the money I had left in the world - not like it mattered - and then I took the bag and walked the three blocks past the bakery and the bent lamp post and up to my apartment, one last time. There was another eviction notice on the door - not like it mattered - but rather than tear it down I pushed past it, threw the haul onto the old table by the chair, took out the baggie of Opus, crushed the brick with a knife and set up the rig. Its a bit like heroin in how you fix up a dose for shot. You melt it, and then you tie off and stick the needle into whatever vein there was left to be found, and then you push it down, and you watch the drug swirl with your blood for a bit, which is beautiful in its own, sick way - and then you push it in.
And that’s where it differentiates from heroin. With heroin you feel a rush of warmth. But with Opus you don't; you just feel cold, unnaturally so - so if you ever see a scrawny sonofabitch curled up and shivering on a park bench on a summer afternoon, you can bet with an appreciable degree of confidence that he’s either got the shakes or he’s gotten his hands on a bit of Opus. And then after that passes? That's when you feel really, really good. Words can't describe it, to be thoroughly honest, although ‘euphoria’ is the one word people like to pick off the low hanging branch. All that can be said is that when it hits you in all its force and all it's momentum and all it's breathtaking might, you can't speak or move or even think. You just lay there and bathe in the majesty of it all, even as your organs scream, and then you pass out. It's a basal pleasure that needs to be experienced to be believed. But stay the hell away from it, and all that. Blah blah blah.
Not like it matters. It's what comes after the euphoria that counts, anyway.
So I did my business. And I felt the rush, and I felt that old euphoria, and then I felt the black clouds swirl in, and my vision tunneled, and soon I was floating away on a dead river, clinging to the last bit of flotsam adrift from a monumental shipwreck. And then I was gone.
Hang on, Jess. I'm coming.
You know what’s a funny expression? Being ‘beside yourself.’ I’ve always understood what it means, of course: you’re ‘beside yourself’ when you’re heartbroken, or you’re traumatized, or you’re angry beyond what words can articulate, and you haven’t learned yet how to cope with spectacular pain. But until you’re actually ‘beside yourself,’ hearing the expression doesn’t make sense, even if you don’t ruminate on its implications. Is there supposed to be another one of me who shares in pain that’s too intense for either one of us to bear? Is that what it means to be beside yourself? I didn’t know.
But I found out.
It turns out, interestingly, that being ‘beside yourself’ is what happens when your world comes crashing down, but you react not with rage or sorrow but with numbness, and its like you’re watching yourself go through the motions of grieving but you can’t actually feel anything because of this emotional firewall that your brain in its finite wisdom erected. You’re in shock; like its someone else whose life was just turned upside-down and not yours, an out-of-body experience, and you’re just along for the ride. Nothing feels real. The police telling you she’s gone? Fake. It has to be, and therefore it is. Phone calls flooding in? Loved ones saying how sorry they are for your loss? Lies. But you go through the motions anyway. And you say ‘thanks. Yeah, I’m doing okay. No, I don’t need anything. I don’t know when the funeral is. I’ll let you know.’ And all the affairs and the proceedings and the weeping and the disbelief that follow that are just part of a weird, twisted dream.
Its not real. It can’t be.
But deep down, of course, you know it’s real. Deep down you know there's an avalanche of pain and anguish and hurt - more of it all than the human spirit was ever built to catalogue - that’s waiting like a dragon on the other side of that firewall. And eventually, maybe on the first night you crawl into bed alone, or when her favorite movie comes on and she's not there to share it with you, or when you hear that old song ‘Firelight’ on the radio that played when you first kissed her and you thought to yourself how did a guy like me get a girl like her? - that dragon will find its way in. And there's no going back from that. You're a new man now. And a lesser one than once you were.
That's when you truly learn what it means to be beside yourself; when the real you and the you that was just going through the motions of grief collide into one gigantic, shattered, sobbing mess. You don’t care what you look like when it happens. You don’t care where you are, or who’s watching, or what they’ll think, and that’s because you can’t. One minute you’re doing okay, and the next all the power of your spirit and all your strength of arms are being spent on weathering a storm that can’t be weathered. Enduring the unendurable. Accepting the unacceptable.
She’s gone. And she’s not coming back.
For me it happened at Jessie’s funeral. Before that I’d been a robot, but as soon as everyone left - even her parents - and I was the only one standing there on the grass? I lost it. The finality of it all hit me like a storm of fists, and the firewall broke down. The dragon swept in. And I just collapsed at the headstone and cried until it hurt, and then I cried some more. My best friend. My partner in crime. My girl. Gone, along with a piece of me. Its an impossible and surreal experience to describe; its mutilating and its unfair, and yet it is what it is. Life goes on without you, no matter how hard you scream at it, ‘I’M HURTING HERE, GIVE ME A FUCKING SECOND, WILL YOU?!’ And you’re sinking, and you’re drowning, and you’re throwing your arms out for a life-line, and all bets are off - when that life-line comes, if it ever does, you take it. It doesn’t matter what it is.
“Its called Magnum Opus.” Ronnie said, in the middle of the bar as if he were selling me car insurance and not a Schedule 1.
“Magnum Opus?”
“Yeah. Got me through my break-up with Ash. Stuff is fucking phenomenal, Mark, I swear to God.” I should’ve noted his emaciated physique and his scraggly beard and his unemployment and thought Well it sure doesn't look like you got through it in one piece, Buddy. But I didn’t; the logical part of me had been on hiatus for twenty nine days at that point - yes, I counted - and I didn’t know when it was coming back. If it ever was.
“What’s it like?”
“You get this cold rush when you inject it. Then you just feel fuckin’ awesome. Can’t even really describe it to you, bro - you just gotta try it.”
“Sounds kind of like heroin, except for the cold rush.”
“Nah, man. Heroin’s great, don’t get me wrong, but its just physical. Opus was made for stuff like this.”
“Stuff like what?”
“Loss.”
I blinked.
“Yeah. Some hallucinogenic property, or somethin’ or other. Its real attached to your emotions, so if you’re going through some shit it plays on that and you get these like, visions.”
“Visions, huh?’”
“Yeah. For me, I saw Ash every time I hit it, and it was all healing and stuff. And I know a guy who lost his dad and when he took it, dude, he was like havin’ catches and going to baseball games with his old man. I mean it was all in his head, but its so real you can’t tell the difference.”
I should’ve said ‘Not interested, thanks,’ and left right then and there. But I didn’t.
“How much is it?”
“It ain’t cheap, bro. But I know a guy who slings it for fuckin’ pennies on the dollar. C’mon, I'll take you there.”
Eddie is a weird looking sonofabitch, to say the least. I think he has maybe twelve teeth left - all yellow - and he weighs a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, and he’s covered ankle to jawline in tribal tattoos. Also, he’s at least fifty - he’s balding on top and yet still sporting a silver-streak pony tail with a roadmap of wrinkles, and as far as I can tell, the dude lives in the alley he sells from, despite easily pulling in upper five figures doing the actual selling. Ronnie spoke up first.
“Yo, Ed! You got anything for me?”
Eddie looked me over and took mental note of how out of place I was - no tattoos, no piercings, short haircut - and then said, “Who’s you’re friend? I ain’t lookin’ to git busted.”
“Nah, Mark's cool, bro. Just lost his girl so he’s all like, in pain an’ stuff. Think you can hook him up?”
“Sure, man. Newbie special; one bag for $125. More where that came from.”
I snorted. “Shit, $125?”
“Yeah, man! Told you Ed could hook you up. That’s a fuckin’ steal.”
“I wouldn’t pay that much for a used phone, Ronnie. I’m not paying it for this shit.” I turned around and started walking away, but then Ronnie said, “You wanna see Jess again, right?”
So I stopped. God dammit. I would pay $125 for that. I think I’d pay all the money in the world, in fact. I turned around.
“You promise me this’ll work? Eddie?”
“Yeah, it works, brother. Believe it; I’d be a fuckin’ dead man if it didn’t.”
Ronnie took me back up to his place and got me a rig - a spoon and a syringe and a tourniquet and a lighter - and then he cooked up a shot and tied me off. I was fresh meat, and my heart was pounding, so finding a vein to hit was as easy as it’d ever be.
“Its ready? Just like that?”
“Just like that, man.”
“And its all melted, and everything?”
“Will you just trust me, bro? I got you. Been doin’ this for a year now, and change. Make a fist.”
“Okay, okay. Just nervous, is all.”
“Make a fist, I said. Good.”
He found the vein and cleaned the spot with a swab.
“What will it feel like?”
“Guess you’re about to find out, ain’tcha?”
I didn’t get a chance to respond before he stuck the needle in. And then the rush hit me in a tidal wave - frigid cold at first, and then a euphoric sensation the likes of which, like I said above, can not adequately be described. I said and thought and knew nothing anymore; I just curled up into a ball and rode the wave right into the emptiness.
“Firelight’s on again, Markie.”
“You know I hate it when you call me that.”
“That’s why I do it. To get a rise out of you. Markie.”
I punched Jess lightly on the arm.
“Hey! You’re gonna knock me off the hood.”
“Better stop calling me ‘Markie,’ then, Big Red, or else you’ll fall right off the cliffside.”
“Scrawny little bitch like you? I’m pretty sure I could take you down.”
“Oh, yeah? Hundred bucks says I pin you in a minute flat.”
She didn’t even say ‘you’re on’ - she just pounced on me and grabbed my wrists and tried to put me in a hold. It was adorably ineffective; I wriggled out with ease and got her by the waist and crawled on top of her.
“Say uncle!”
“Aunt.”
“Alright! You asked for it - ladies and gentlemen - the Crippler!” I made fake cheering noises and patted my elbow and pretended to bring it down on her chest.
“Hahaha, the ‘Crippler?!’ That’s the wrestler name you came up with?”
“You’re just jealous I thought of it first. ‘Crippler’ is the shit and you know it.”
“All I know is that you probably kiss like a girl, too, Mr. Crippler.”
I leaned down and took the bet, and I kissed her. It only lasted a second, but the first kiss sticks with you the longest, after all, and when I pulled back we just stared at each other: her up at me in front of the whole night sky, with the band of the Milky Way reaching across it, and the cliffsides hit back by starlight, and me back down at her, lying there on the banged up, red-rusted hood of my car. I had the better view, by far, and I thought, ‘how did a guy like me get a girl like her?’
I woke up on Ronnie’s hardwood floor the next morning, amidst an ocean of empty bottles and pizza boxes and vomit. It took me a second to piece back where I was, and all that’d happened, and it utterly broke my heart when I remembered it wasn’t more than a narcotic dream. But what a dream it was! So in spite of the heartache and the headache, and the dizziness and the thirst, I crawled over to Ronnie and shook him awake and I said, “Holy shit, man. Get me more of that stuff. Now.”
“Mmmmphwhat?”
“The Opus, man! I need more of it.”
“Mmmmmphyou know where Ed is.” His head fell back to the floor and he dozed off again. He was right, though. I knew exactly where Ed was, and after I called in sick to work I headed straight down to his alley, aching and groaning the whole time and telling my own broken heart she’s real enough; she’s back - in the dream. Just need another dose to get to her. I got to the alley fifteen minutes later, and I don’t think Eddie had moved an inch.
“Back for more?”
“Yeah, that stuff was incredible, man. Give me another bag.” I handed him $125 fresh from the ATM on 7th, but instead of taking it, he scoffed.
“Heh - like I said, brother. $125 a bag was the newbie special. Returnin’ customers ain’t eligible for that discount. $200.”
“Two hundred dollars?! For a bag?! Are you fuckin’ crazy?”
“Nope. An’ it don’t matter how mad y’are, either. You’ll buy it anyway. Just you watch; this shit don’t let go so easy.”
He was right, dammit. Of course he was right. I sighed and shook my head, but I gave him the cash and I don’t think there was even a fleeting second where I wasn’t going to. There were very few things I wouldn’t do, in fact, for another trip back into that dream. So I got the little baggie and went the three blocks back to my apartment this time, past the bakery and the bent lamp-post, and when I got inside I cooked up the shot. I was in love all over again, and it was every bit as wonderful and every bit as terrible as love is supposed to be.
“So why do you love these old movies, again?”
“Because they’re classics, Mark.” Jessie said. “Show some respect when Jack Lemmon is on screen, will you? At least for me?”
“Okay, okay. Its not like I don’t appreciate the stuff; its just not for me, is all.”
“How do you appreciate something that’s not for you? That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Sure it does. I respect it. I admire it for its influence, and all that.”
“Ugh. People say that all the time, and its bullshit. Do you know what influence means? It means people looked at something and they said, ‘hey, that’s new and weird and beautiful, I think I’ll try that next.’ Nothing sets out to be that way. It just sets out to be the best version of itself, and every once in awhile its best is enough to break down walls and barriers, sometimes completely by accident, and everyone else will try to get even a small piece of it so they can be great, too. But there’s only ever one original. So all those movies you like, and all those TV shows and all the music, it can all be traced back to one moment in one person’s head where a little bit of color first stood out amongst all the dull gray and they said, ‘hey, that’s new and weird and beautiful. I think I’ll see where it goes.’”
“Oh, my God. Okay - we’ll watch your stupid, ‘new and weird and beautiful’ Jack Lemmon movie.”
“So I win?”
“You win.”
She reached up and gave me a peck and then said, for the first time, “I love you.”
And all of a sudden I was willing to watch whatever stupid, new and weird and beautiful movie she wanted.
I woke up in my bed. And when the reality hit back - It was just a dream. Fuck. - my heart broke all over again. And she felt further away than ever. As she always did.
It’d been seven weeks of this - and every morning after when I woke up and I realized that the adventure the night before was all in my head, it ripped me a fresh wound right in the heart of my spirit. Every day was like finding out she was gone all over again. But the solution to it all was, of course, another hit. Another dose. Another four hundred dollars a day (that bastard ‘tolerance’ necessitated a doubling down of the dose for the same effect). Anything and everything that I could do to spend as much time in my fantasy world as possible, I would do, and I would do it gladly and willingly. So I paid what I had to. I hadn’t been to work at all since Ronnie took me to Ed that night, and since then my savings had flown the coop, my credit card had maxed, and I’d ignored a combined sixty one missed calls from worried-sick friends and family. And yes, I counted.
But I didn’t care about any of it. All I cared about was my Jessie, and our brief but precious moments together in a world that wasn’t real but in which everything was okay, if only for a bit. I told myself, over and over until I truly believed it, that pain and suffering and poverty in one world was more than an acceptable enough price to pay for true joy in another one. So on and on I went.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
The sound of a rap on the door gave me a splitting headache, but I got up and opened it anyway and let the blinding sunlight hit me and my flat for the first time in days. The man on the other side, a mid-twentysomething from the looks of it - gasped audibly when he saw my emaciated physique and my scraggly beard and my obvious unemployment, as evidenced by the eviction notice on the door, and the tracks on my arms. So I spoke first.
“Yeah?”
“H-hey, uhm - hey. I saw the ad online about the flatscreen. That still for sale?”
“ Yeah, its here. Three hundred.”
“Would you take two?”
“I'll take three. If I was willing to haggle I would've put ‘OBO’ in the ad. Take it or leave it.”
I desperately hoped he'd take it and go. I needed the cash. But I needed three hundred, not two, since I’d only gotten a hundred when I pawned the phone.
“Okay, okay. I'll take it.” He handed me a wad of bills and I helped him carry it out to his car. When he peeled off, I didn't even head back upstairs; I just pocketed the money and went straight past the bent lamp post and the bakery and down to you-know-where, to get my next hit.
My head was spinning. But I didn’t feel a damn thing. I just felt empty. And confused. And it was dark in my room, too, and hot. Dark and hot. Rarely a good combination. Jessie was nowhere to be found, either, but then again that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Fuck. I collapsed right down on the bed - a queen sized with a dip on the left that wouldn’t ever be filled up again, unless I rolled into it in my sleep, expecting to get stopped by Jessie. But I didn’t sleep. Not tonight. I stayed up and tried to reconcile the fact that those officers were wrong, ten minutes ago, that my girl wasn’t dead, with the fact that Jessie was now three hours late coming home. They’d told me why. But they were wrong. They had to be. My girl isn’t dead. She isn’t. She couldn’t be, and therefore she isn’t. She was just late getting home. She’d be here, right? Any second now, she’d walk through that door and everything would be okay. Everything would go back to normal. And I’d be waiting for her, right here on the bed.
Its gonna be okay. She’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna be okay.
The door indeed opened a few minutes later, but instead of Jessie swirled in the darkness of the hallway. In an instant my heart rose and fell, and then the old familiar chill set in. There were a pair of eyes in there, too. Red ones. Scowling ones. Ones I recognized; ones that visited me all too often and that got a little closer each time. I pulled the covers up over me and shut my eyes and tried to ignore the voices, but they didn't carry over distance and they weren't constrained by a quilt.
“You haven’t called,” said my mother, right into my ear. “Why haven’t you called? Your father and I are worried sick.”
“Look at you,” dad said. “Pathetic. Jobless. Emaciated. Unkempt. Penniless. Futureless; you’ve sold or abandoned everything of value. You should be fucking ashamed of yourself. Why can’t you be more like your brother? He’d never do that to your mother and I.”
Ronnie then said, “Dude, you’re losin’ yourself to this drug. You gotta be careful when you hit the needle; I don’t care what it is. But you’re not bein’ careful. Not even I got down as deep as you.”
I shuddered and cried and begged and prayed for it to stop. For it to go away. But of course it couldn’t - not yet - because that’s when Jessie showed up; three hours late, like she always was, and when I heard her voice I burst into fresh tears and shuddered and squeezed my eyes shut so hard I thought they’d bleed.
”Look what you’re becoming, Mark. I fell in love with a man with ambition. Intelligence. Humor. He loved life. But he died tonight, too.”
I threw the covers off and screamed into the darkness, “FUCK YOU! GET OUT. GET OUT. GET OUT. GET OUT.”
But the voice didn’t stop, and soon the dragon stepped into my room - a step of confidence; then one of boldness, hot and snarling, and stood at the foot of my bed and said, in Jessie’s voice, “Him I loved, Mark. But I don’t love you. This is your fault. You could’ve saved me. This is your fault. This is your fault. This is your fault. This is your fault. This is-”
I bolted upright. It was morning, of course, and spread around me were liquor bottles and the rig. Of course. It was another dream, Just a vision. It wasn’t real. Dragons aren’t real, either, but words are, regardless of where you hear them.
You should be fucking ashamed of yourself. Why can’t you be more like your brother?
Him I loved, Mark. But I don’t love you.
Pathetic. Jobless. Emaciated. Unkempt. Penniless. Futureless.
But I don’t love you.
I don’t love you.
The words played on a loop in my head. I took a swig, but they only got louder. I grabbed the baggie to see if even a little more of Opus was in there that I could at least snort if not shoot - but it was gone. Of course it was gone; why wouldn’t it be gone? I was good at one thing and one thing only, and that was getting every last molecule of this venom in my veins where it belonged. Why would I leave anything behind?
I don’t love you.
I curled up again into a ball and cried a bit.
Futureless. Futureless. Futureless. Futureless.
They were right.
I don’t love you.
Nobody did. I’d ruined everything. I’d burned every bridge. Fuck, I’d sold every bridge and etched them into tracks on my forearm. That’s what I’d done. Fuck me. Fuck me.
Futureless.
I know.
I don’t love you.
I know. I don’t either.
I never did.
I guess I knew that, too.
Pathetic.
I stood up. Everything hurt. Everything ached. My head swam. My lips were so dry they cracked and bled. Not like it mattered. I looked down at the needle.*
You’re never gonna win, Mark. I’ve got you. Palm of my hand.
I know.
You’re a dead man, Mark.
I know.
Do it. I know what you’re thinking. Do it. Today. Just get it done. Do one right thing, just one, if you can manage it.
I will. I grabbed my jacket.
“Shit, man. You headin’ outta town, or something?”
“No.”
“You sharin,’ then? Your buddies better be liftin’ part of the cost.”
“Nope. Not sharing.”
“Okay… you ain’t skippin’ town an’ you ain’t sharin.’ So what’s the deal with you buyin’ in bulk all’ve sudden?”
“Don’t worry about it, Ed.”
He handed me the bag with the Opus but he kept his hand on it.
“You ain’t tryin’ ta use this all at once, are ya?”
“I said don’t worry about it.”
“Look, man, I gots like, an obligation to make sure you ain’t gonna try an’ do that. So make me a promise. You know this stuff. You know what it does.”
“Yeah, its the deadliest drug in the world, Ed, and you sell it for a living. Since when do you care about responsibility?”
“I dunno, man. I just… don’t wanna lose a good customer, is all, you know? That’s $600.”
I went home and pushed past the eviction notice and threw the baggie on the old table by the chair. Then I cooked up my shot - a massive, lethal motherfucker of a dose - and I tied off and I found a vein after a good few minutes of hide-and-seek. And I stopped.
Am I really doing this?
I am. I was. So I did. I pushed the needle in, and watched my blood swirl with it before being consumed by the blackness, and then I pushed it down. Freezing, aching cold. A rush of quantified, atomized pleasure, and then the black clouds swirled in, and my vision tunneled, and soon I was floating away on a dead river, clinging to the last bit of flotsam adrift from a monumental shipwreck. And then I was gone.
Hang on, Jess. I’m coming.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Funny seeing you here so soon.”
I blinked. I didn’t remember this conversation.
“I don’t remember this.”
“Well it hasn’t happened before.”
“Huh. Big enough dose’ll do that, I guess.”
“Yeah. You can say that again.” She looked around the swirling, endless clouds in which we stood, as if she, too, were new to this place, and then she looked back at me and said, “What are you doing here, Mark?”
“I don’t know where here is, Jess. So how could I possibly answer that?”
“I think you do.”
Maybe I did.
“So I’ll ask again. What are you doing here? What led you here?”
“You did.”
“I did? You wanna explain that one to me?”
“I don’t know. You were gone. So I followed you here, like I always do.”
“You didn’t always do that. You had a life of your own, once, Mark. It was good. It was rich. You had a future. Why are you here?”
“I wanted to see you again. Is that such a crime?”
“Well. Here I am. Was it worth it?”
“Its always worth it.”
“Not even you believe that.”
She walked up a bit closer and looked at me with those big, ocean blue eyes that made my knees buckle, even now, and she took my hand in hers and held it. It felt real. It felt warm. I wasn’t used to that - warmth - so I pulled back a bit. But she tightened her grip and then rolled my sleeve up to the elbow, exposing my forearm and all the cuts on it, and all the bruises, and all the tracks. Fuck. She stared at the mess for a second.
“I didn’t want you to find out about that, Jess.”
“Well its a little late for that. This isn’t you, Mark. Why didn’t you just say no?”
“Because I didn’t, okay? It was offered to me, and I was still reeling from losing you, and I made an impulse decision. But this stuff is different! Its not just a physical high, Jess. It brought you back. It brought back everything I loved about you. One hit and fuck - we were right back on the road again, with the windows down and the music blasting and the sunset coming up over the hilltops, and we didn’t know where we were going, and we didn’t care, as long as we were going there together. For a few hours every day everything was okay again. How could I say no to that?”
“It brought me back, did it?”
“Yes.”
“Did it bring back the first fight?”
“What?”
“Our first fight. Remember that one? Do you remember me throwing your Econ textbook at the fridge and knocking down the magnet with the little dog on it? Or you just storming out while I sat on the couch and cried? Did it bring that back?”
“N-no. I don’t think it did. Maybe.”
“Did it bring back the time you hinted that you didn’t like my new haircut, and how I gave you the cold shoulder for like, three days straight?”
“No.”
“Did it bring back the time we had that stupid fucking fight about Jack Lemmon?”
“Yes! Yes. It did, and it wasn’t a fight. That was the day you said you loved me, Jess. I remember. And I was so happy you said it that I allowed us to watch that movie even though I wanted to watch Mulholland.”
“You said it first.”
“What?”
“‘I love you.’ You said that first, not me, at the bakery by your apartment. You said it, and I was so nervous that I didn’t say it back until the next day. I texted it to you. I said ‘hey, I love you too,’ and you wrote out this little novel about how scared you were that you’d said it too soon and that you almost wanted to take it back so you wouldn’t scare me away. Remember?”
“...Yeah.”
“And we watched Mulholland that night.”
Shit. She was right. We did.
“...Yeah, we did, didn’t we?”
“Yep. But your little drug didn’t bring that up.”
“I guess not.”
“Did it bring back, say, my loud chewing? You always made a point to mention it. I never had a meal after that without being self conscious about how loud I chewed. Did it bring that back from the dead, too?”
“No.”
“Or how fidgety I was? I could never get comfortable, remember? ‘Jessie, go to sleep. Stop moving so much.’ If I had a fucking nickel.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point? Mark- I’m a human. A fully fleshed out actual person, not just an idea. Me - with all my flaws and all my imperfections and my quirks and hopes and dreams. You want me to believe a fucking drug fleshed me out like that? Its a drug, Mark, its not magic.”
“Well whatever it did, it was enough.”
“Well It shouldn’t have been! Don’t you get it? You shouldn’t be able to just bring someone back like that. I’m more than memories, Mark. You of all people should know the difference between loving me and loving the idea of me. I mean, fuck - what does it say about me, about us - that you could just conjure up one good rose-tinted memory and be satisfied? You said yourself ‘it brought back everything I loved about you.’ Not ‘and everything I didn’t.’”
“I said ‘it brought you back.’”
“You said both, and then we found out it didn’t even do that right.”
“Don’t do that, Jess.”
“Do what?”
“That. Don’t you fucking dare insult me by implying that I didn’t love you the right way. I’m a sick, wrecked bastard, but if there’s one thing I did right in all the time I knew you it was love you so much that it spilled over and I loved everything and everyone else more because of it. And when you died? When you died, Jessie, I destroyed myself just to catch a fleeting glimpse of a shade of you, and I didn’t run away from the pain. I owed it to you to stay; to learn that pain inside and out, to let it roll over me in waves and fucking ruin me as a man until I couldn’t recognize myself anymore. I owed you that much. And if that’s not love then I don’t know what is.”
We sat down on the edge of a cloud and looked out over infinity together. She put her head on my shoulder, and then she said, “I loved you, too.”
“...You loved me?”
“Yeah. I loved the man you were.”
“The man I was?! I’m the one who’s still here!”
“No, you’re not. This isn’t you, Mark. Its not. And you know that. I think a part of you died that night, with me, out there on the road.”
I looked at the tracks on my arm. She was right. I hated it when she was right.
“I know you hate it when I’m right, but I’m right, all the same, aren’t I? Do you recognize yourself?”
“No.”
“Do you recognize your own thoughts anymore?”
You’re a dead man, Mark. Palm of my hand.
“No.”
“Do you think that’s what I wanted for you when I was gone?”
“No.”
“Is it what you’d want for me? To be tortured over your death? To think ‘fuck, if I’d only done this or that, I could’ve saved him!’”
“No.”
She took my hand, for real this time. I felt life again. It’d been so long since I’d felt alive.
Thump.
“How did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“That. After everything I did, it was you who brought me back to life. How did you do that?”
Thump.
“I don’t know. It only ever worked with you.”
“And that says something, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe it means I’m still down there somewhere.”
“I hope so, Mark, Because I haven’t fallen out of love either.”
Thump.
“Really?”
“Really.” We sat there for a while before she said, “Can you do something for me, Mark?”
“I’d do anything for you. You know that.”
“Can you let me go?”
Thump.
“I thought you said-”
“I did. That’s why I’m asking this of you. There might not be a happily ever after for us, Mark, but there’s still one out there for you. And as your best friend, as your partner in crime, as your girl, I want more than anything for you to find it.”
“I… I don’t know if I can.”
“Do it for me.”
Thump.
She leaned in and kissed me, and it seemed like all the clouds and all the stars were falling into line, one last time. I felt a rush, I felt a heartbeat, and then I was gone.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Hey, hey! We got a pulse!”
I bolted upright and gasped so loud the EMTs stumbled back.
“Welcome back to life, Mr. King,” one of them said. “You overdosed on Opus.”
“H-how long was I out?”
“Out? You were dead. Blue in the face, no pulse, dead. For at least fifteen minutes. You’re lucky your buddy Ed gave us a call to check up on you.”
I fell back to the bed. I felt terrible. Headache. Iron taste in the mouth, parched and bleeding. But I was alive. For the first time in as long as I could remember.
I signed the paperwork and checked out of the hospital when I could, and I took the long way home. I had no car. I had no money. No job. No savings. Nothing. And when I got back to my apartment, it was an absolute wreck. An empty one, too. Everything was gone. The furniture. The bed. The TV. All sold or pawned for drug money. But I was alive; I had a future, and maybe - just maybe - Jessie was right. Maybe there was a happily ever after waiting for me out there somewhere, after all, and all I needed was to run up and seize it. The idea was new and weird and beautiful, and I thought, you know? I think I’ll see where that goes..
And I threw the needle in the trash.

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M.A.C. Farrant - Eighteen Stories

The Bright Gymnasium of Fun

Kristmas Kraft

On Holiday with Giants

Vacation Time

Refusal

All Chickens are Sucks: Notes from the Litshow

The Compassionate Side of Nature

Because of Russell Edson

A Little Something

Breakdown of the Month Calendar

The Gnats That Blur Our Vision

The God of Banality

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What We Need

Jesus Loves me but he Can’t Stand you

Pulse

Author Interview

To Be Continued

Am I being controlling?

An attempt at a Mattress FAQ

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Magnum Opus, and How I got back my Jessie

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Top 10 Queen Size Quilts [2018]: NEWLAKE Striped Jacquard ...