The old man walked up and down the street a couple of times each day. And each day he looked more and more haggard and ragged.

It was obvious to Hutch that he was homeless and probably living out among the sage brush with the jack rabbits and coyotes. On what he figured to be the tenth day, Hutch took a cartoon of eggs, a short slab of bacon and the fixing to make biscuits out to the old man as he walked by.

“George Whitehouse,’ the old man called himself.

“Hutch Fitzgerald.”

“Thank you, Hutch,” the old man said as he headed back from wherever he’s come from.

Three days later, Hutch, enjoying a cup of coffee, saw him coming from up the street and quickly went inside his home and grabbed the small bag of groceries and some hand-me-down clothes he’d set aside for George. Again, the old man appeared thankful and for the next three summer months, Hutch continued to supply George with a few necessities.

It was late September when George failed to appear. At first, Hutch wasn’t concerned, thinking that perhaps the old man had returned to town, where the living might be easier as the coming cold months had begun to set in.

On the twelfth day of no George, curious to see where the old man had established his camp and thinking that maybe a little clean up might be in order, Hutch wandered out into the desert, a wide space on the map,  that separated two large area neighborhoods. It didn’t take him very long to find the well-tracked path leading to the homeless man’s secreted encampment.

The young man was lead to a small cell with a door marked “pull” in red lettering on its interior. He stood in the middle of the room, listening to the jangling of the keys as the attendant locked the heavy metal door.

Above the door frame, in a simple cursive font: “A man will be imprisoned in a room with a door that’s unlocked and opens inwards; as long as it does not occur to him to pull rather than push.” – Ludwig Wittgenstein, Culture and Value, 1977

Within minutes the bored young man had seated himself against the far wall and watched the gray door expectantly with its bright lettering and the quote above it. After an hour, a calm female voice spoke through the small speaker in the CCTV camera in the corner of the room, “Thank you for your assistance in this experiment. You can leave the room at anytime.”

Convinced the experiment was fixed, because try as he might, the door would not swing open. Frustrated, the young man grew angry, finally demanding to be released.

Soon an older man, in a knee-length white medical coat entered his cell, saying, “You’ve been able to leave this room anytime you wanted.”

“No I couldn’t,” the young man argued. “The door’s been locked.”

“No — it’s never been locked,” the examiner stated, stepping to the door and pushing it open.

Staring at the starry sky
It occurs to me that I am
Looking at a box lid with
Holes punch through it so
We can continue to breath.

Invent yourself
Then reinvent yourself
Work hard — play harder
Dirty hands and filthy sweat
Filthy mind and dirty laughter
Frequent the neighborhood watering hole
The local dive
Drink cheap whiskey
Drink expensive beer
Stay away from mini-umbrellas
And learn to ride a horse
Rope a cow
Ride a bull — bareback — and
Drive a stick-shift
Own a crappy truck
Walk
Keep a nice home
Mow your own lawn
Mow the neighbors lawn
No grass — get some
Shower daily or
Take a bath
Preferably with a Redhead
No Redhead —
A Blond
A Brunette
Preferably all at the same time
Only once
Keep the Brunette
And get a dog

He awoke alone in his very familiar room, yet there was a subtle difference, which he picked up on immediately. It was a minor stab of guilt from the night before, after having done something he had never dreamed of normally doing.

Attempting to put the memory aside, he tried desperately to return to sleep. When that didn’t work, he buried his head in his pillow, but to no avail.

That guilt eventually turned to paranoia as he stared at the double set of eyeballs that return his stare from over his bathroom sink. He blinked first, and knew at that moment that if he didn’t turn himself in to the cops, those same unblinking, unapologetic eyes that stared at him would never let him rest.

They bore into him, creating a certain kind of madness. He needed to take action and quickly, before insanity became his norm.

The opening sentence to his statement, his written confession, began: “Because the bulbs in the vanity above my bathroom sink refuse to blink, and because they are all knowing of my guilt, I am giving this freely and without coercion…”

How the practical joke had taken a turn for the worst for him. He was now locked in the refrigeration unit with a dozen dead bodies and no one knew it, save for himself and the man he’d scared half-to-death.

“I never thought he’d run like that and lock me in here,” the would-be-prankster said as he groped for the heavy parka left on a nail behind the door for such an unfortunate event.

Slumping to the floor, he listened to the gentle hum of the power-plant as it fed chilled air into the dark chamber. He never realized, until now, how absolutely pitch-black the make-shift morgue was with the lights turned off outside and the door latched closed.

“What was that?” he said as he held his breath to listen, “Nothing…jus’ my mind playing tricks on me.”

A couple of minutes later, he heard that same odd sound. This time though, it seemed to be closer and he felt the small hairs on his neck and arms begin to stand on end.

“Hello?” he asked, trying to sound calm. Again, nothing and as expected, no answer.

For a few minutes all was quiet, even the hum of the refrigeration unit had ceased. He listened for any sound coming from outside and the possibility rescue.

He physically jumped at the sudden and unexpected restarting of the refrigeration unit as it kicked on, beginning another cooling cycle. His reaction caused as few seconds of nervous laughter as he realized the stupidity of his predicament.

But then, there was that noise again, as if something were inside the unit, moving. In his mind, he knew that nothing, save for himself, was alive in the former shipping container – but still he couldn’t help clinging to what he believed were ‘silly human notions’ and further, he couldn’t help letting them slip into and out of his mind.

Again, that sound came – and this time he was certain it was closer and more over, he felt whatever movement made through a vibration in the metallic flooring. He stood up, back pressed against the wall.

“Who the hell’s there?” he demanded.

Refusing to be played for a fool, he slid into the nearby corner to his left and stepped forward, certain that the pathway across the narrow room was clear. However he found it wasn’t as he bumped into a gurney holding a bagged and stiffened corpse.

Putting his hands out in surprise, the fingers of his right hand brushed against something slick, clammy and repulsive, like loose skin. He shrieked in uncontrolled terror and fell back, striking his head violently on the floor as he dropped from fright.

When next the temporary morgue was again opened, the would-be prankster was found dead where he’d fallen. In his hand was a single latex glove, slick and clammy to the touch of one groping in the dark, and loathsome like the touch of loose skin – and death.

no money, no faith
begging for work is a skill
tears are like daily bread

Two-hundred and forty-six people went to bed anticipating the following mornings rush to catch flights. Another 2,606 people crawled between the sheets, ready for the next morning’s routine hustle of office work .

Three-hundred and forty-three firefighters and eight paramedics laid down, resting up for a hectic morning shift. And finally, 60 police officers turned in, each braced for a morning filled with stress.

By 10 o’clock that coming morning, each person had breathed their last and a stunned nation was left momentarily heartbroken.

when the day is slow
i find myself running
with pointed scissors
and sharpened pencil