Jason Among the Nightingales

The wind smote him like the slap of familiar snow in Minnesota, but now he was in Guadalupe, or at least he remembered as much. He had come in search of art, and capital. His brain buzzed with a dozen margaritas, but his Versace was streaked with an incongruous purple. His fingers traced the bricks in the alley street as he staggered up. His contacts had dried to a glint overnight. Equilibrium was never his strong suite.

When his call center relocated to Guadalupe, he followed. For forty cents, he could employ an army. He recalled vaguely hearing, "Muchos trabajo, un poco dinero," and this became his siren call. He was off, in search of art, and capital.

His ring and Rolex were missing. His hand was cut.

His first thought was to call his lawyer, and then he remembered.

Hidalgo had debated him at the bar last night. "Secular humanism is merely the logical extension of abstract empiricism," Hidalgo said. "You gringos are the modern heretics, inheritors of the Gnostic dialectic. You are spirits above the dust, only you are dead."

This was more than Jason could take. His call center was failing. This was not in the framework. He had discovered, ruefully, that their sense of time was off. Even their breakfast was in the evening. And the Nightingales were disappearing, endangering the enterprise.

The Nightingales were the chicas who arrived at 4 a.m., abandoning children and families for twelve hours to don headsets and repeat, "Thank you for calling Westway; how may I help you?" He even employed readers, as in the traditional cigar factories, who read Hemingway to the crew during smoke breaks.

Hidalgo grinned and awaited his reposte. Even in the darkness Jason could discern his Asiatic features, his farmer's hands engulfing the beer mug, and he knew that there would be no synthesis.

Rumors were that the Nightingales were abducted near the tracks and buried in the river. The investigations died, like his last argument, where the water lapped the sagebrush.

Ghosts I Have Been

Once I dreamed that I was to be cast in suspended animation for twenty years. I would be blind; frozen; comatose. I was in an auditorium, and the awareness hit me suddenly. I was watching Fellini's 8 1/2 at the campus theater. It had been mis-billed as a sex comedy, and some drunken fraternity guys had accordingly crashed the room, loudly snorting obscenities in the front row when they realized that they had been misled. The projectionist refused to intervene as the film ticked on, with the rapid tick tick tick of old-time celluloid. The punks were slouched in their seats, dressed in black. No one, in fact, moved. It was there that my paralysis began. Eventually, I was unable to move at all.

I had many nightmares while on that campus. Some attributed it to the proximity of the Stones River battlefield. I never could pinpoint the origin of my dis-ease. Only the ghosts moved. Some were mis-identified with Civil War reenactors, but their appearances were always off-season, like some comedic re-run in syndication.

I thought of the time that my brother and I had gone ghost-hunting. I had carried a camera and a tape recorder, and we drove to a local cemetery. Scared witless, I placed the tape recorder on a grave while I snapped a few frames. The ghosts must have chortled at me and figured that they would make it worth my while. I caught no sounds, but the photos that I subsequently developed showed lights, shadows, and strange apparitions.

When I finally awakened, the world was on fire. And the world's leaders had been replaced by screen guild actors, in comedic re-run, like some stupid sitcom whose script will never die.

Let's Ask Joan Crawford! Psychic attack problem

It's Friday! Which means it's "Ask Joan Crawford" day! Due to extended loafing of our editor last week, who was busy photographing Mexican lizards, we have a bag full of questions for our favorite deceased Marxist movie star. Here is the best:

From Affleckted in Winsor, Ontario, comes the following:

Dear Joan Crawford,

I am a victim of psychic attack. It's a long story, but the gist is that I discovered that someone was secretly living in my house for five years, without my knowledge. Now, I know, you are probably wondering, "How can someone live in your house for five years without your knowledge?" He did it by communicating with me telepathically the entire time. At first, I thought it was the dog catcher, but then I began to detect a criminal aura. Just to clarify, we never had sex. This would be contrary to my moral beliefs. He finally left at my insistence, but he has since been reading my mind during random hours of the day. Is there any way for me to prevent this? I am seeking to live a righteous life, and I fear that he is trying to find out what lottery numbers I plan to play.

Affleckted in Winsor


Dear Affleckted,

Surprisingly, your question is quite common, and I have often asked it myself, when I have noticed fewer drinks in my bar than I recall purchasing the week before. One night I went for my decanter of Crown Royal and discovered that the contents had been replaced with unsweetened tea. What's up with that?

In any case, my first recommendation is to have a shamanistic cleansing ritual, particularly if you have not participated in a dream quest and identified your totem. The ritual should be performed by a medicine man or shaman who has been properly initiated. A second medicine man should probably be present, in case the first becomes incompacitated.

The second solution is to divest yourself of all your possessions. Property is theft--not just an invitation to theft, but an *incitement* to the liberation of your capital. It is this sort of economic disparity that is the root of criminal behavior. In an ideal socialist state, there is no greed, no theft--because all possesions are communal.

Third, and this is very important--Take a good look at this supposed criminal. Ask yourself--Is he real? Or is he a projection of my worst fears? If he is real, youthful, attractive, strong--send him to me.

Joan Crawford