Saturday, December 12, 2009

Dixieland Freeze (A Christmas Story)

By Jack Random


The storm hit on Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year. The snow turned to rain and the rain turned to ice, covering the sidewalks and roads, collecting on wires, limbs and branches. From behind an open window in the comfort of a warm living room, the beauty was breathtaking.

It sounded like a war zone that first night. The sudden freeze compressed metal, glass and wood, causing transformers to explode like mortars. Electrical wires and water pipes snapped, branches cracked and whole trees lost their grounding.

The initial aesthetic of a winter wonderland was lost in the grim vision of the morning after. The roads were impassable, power was down and panic was gripping the city. The rush to get supplies, food and water was on. Vehicles of every description were abandoned on the roadside, in bogs and ditches, and the usual criminal element was in action, stealing anything that was left unguarded.

That was six weeks ago, before the ice returned to snow and the snow kept falling and falling and falling. I was in the city when the storm hit, consuming my sorrow in a sea of Christmas spirits, toasting my newfound liberty. My divorce was final. I was officially alone – except for the dogs. All I could think about was getting home.

Nashville was ill equipped for snow, no less an ice storm. There were not enough salt trucks, not enough plows, and not enough experience in emergency management. I had to get home while I still could.

Home was in the country ten miles out of town. Looking back, in my little Mercury without chains, it was a borderline miracle I made it. Now, five feet of snow later, I wondered if I made the right choice. In town, at least there was a relief effort and others to share the burden. Then again, I had the dogs to think about.

The outdoor dogs, one resembling a wolf and the other the lone survivor of a litter of three, might have been able to get by but Sadie, a border collie mix with the spirit of a champion, would have been trapped inside. All had suffered some degree of abandonment. It was a common bond and I was determined it would not happen again.

There was no means of communication – no link to the outside world. It was a time for introspection, a time for contemplating the direction of my life, a time to acknowledge failures and rediscover success. It was not a time for delusions or mindless amusement. It was pointless to muse without someone to be amused.

The neighbors were of little value. They stopped by several times in the early going with the latest reports they gleaned from a battery-powered radio: endless theories on global climate change and dire predictions of a new ice age. Scientists were scrambling for explanations to the suddenness of change and its worldwide scope: A tilt in the planet’s axis, a cosmic radiation storm, solar flares, an interaction of industrial pollutants and extraterrestrial elements. As the days wore on, the explanations grew incomprehensible and all but irrelevant. The reports always seemed to end with: We just don’t know.

A back-to-earth couple a little older than me, the neighbors were making plans. In the beginning, it was all about unity and survival in a frozen wilderness but when the chill of reality set in and the prospect of a made-for-TV movie dimmed, they got out while there was still time. They were heading south but beyond that, they had not decided on a destination.

I might have gone with them but I had the dogs to think about and a vision of being stranded somewhere in a sea of snow with no one to hunker down with but them. They were good people, generous and kind enough, but they brought with them a strange mix of Tennessee country and new age communalism. They perceived themselves as some brand of spiritual leaders and I was not of a mind to follow.

In a gesture of goodwill that seemed melodramatic at the time, they left me a .22 rifle, a box of bullets and a couple boxes of canned goods. I was modestly grateful and as the snow continued to fall with each passing day, my sense of gratitude deepened.

The last word I got came from a sheriff on a snowmobile. He said looters had cleaned out all the stores in the city and marauders were beginning to roam the countryside. He asked if I had a gun and left the impression I might have to use it. He told me the law was breaking down, the officers and soldiers disbanding and heading home. When he departed, I had the distinct feeling he would not be back.

A week passed and all was quiet. The sound of a new ice age, it seemed, was silence. It was broken by the crack and thud of falling tree limbs, the howl and yap of prowling dogs abandoned by their caretakers, the whispering wind, the screaming wind and the occasional burst of gunshots.

Every episode of sound was an event that marked the passing of time. In the spaces between, I became aware of how dependent my sense of life was on the constant presence of sound: the hum of electricity, the drone of a refrigerator, the chatter of television, music on a radio, and the measured rhythm of traffic – even on a country road.

I came to realize what silence meant to me – or at least what it had meant before the freeze: Silence was death.

This was a new breed of silence, however, and it required a new definition. How long would it be before I heard the heartbeat of nature, the song of the forest, the rhythmic balance of heaven and earth? How long would it be before I sensed the force of my own being in a world that had always been indifferent? My whole life had been dependent on the perceptions of others – interpersonal relations, data transference, digital transactions, all the artificial creations of the mind, separate and distinct from the world in which I lived.

This was not just an environmental catastrophe. It was an opportunity for self-discovery. It was a chance to find out who we are and why we exist. The meaning of life had long seemed an adolescent exercise, a ritual of aging, a futile pursuit, but now it seemed the only pursuit worthwhile.

It was a world of constant wonder, perpetually transforming itself from one set of rules to another, spawning revelation after revelation, none outliving the moment.

Survival is a powerful instinct. When it comes to the fore, all else subsides. Art and philosophy, defining forces in a civilized world, are confined to idle thought. Time ceases to function on an even continuum. Past and future recede as the moment is dominated by the need for food and shelter.

Dogs were gathering in packs. People were running short of food and letting their dogs fend for themselves. They roamed the countryside, scavenging for scraps in garbage cans and dumps, fighting off rivals to protect territories, hunting for rabbits, squirrels, possums, raccoons and larger prey. The sound of a big kill filled the cold, silent air with horror for miles around.

Gunfire was becoming more frequent. Occasionally, the sound of shots was coupled with the yelp of a dog, telling a tale of the unspeakable and the unimaginable to come. People were now competing with their former companions on the hunt. How long would it be before the companion became the hunted?

I remembered the story of the Donner Party – a tale of desperation and cannibalism – that sent shivers down my spine as a child. I wondered, gazing at my little dog Sadie, if it would come down to that final, dehumanizing act. Better to die, I thought. Better to die and be eaten than to live as a beast. Even a beast will not consume its own kind.

Nearly everyone in the country had dogs and guns. It was not a comforting thought.

Taking stock of my supplies, it was not time to panic. With careful planning, I had enough canned goods to last the winter. Under a spell of paranoia, I buried half under the snow out back – just in case anyone came calling.

It was inevitable. When people ran out of food, they would come with open hands. They would come with guns. They would come with hungry children and grandparents.

What would I do when they came? How could I turn down a neighbor in need? If I welcomed them, how much would they require? How many more would come? How long before there was nothing left?

I had not shot a gun since I was teenager. I shot a jay with a pellet gun and swore I would never shoot at a living thing again. I had kept that promise but now it seemed the world had changed. I could not have envisioned a time when survival might depend on killing.

I began to obsess on the sheriff’s story of marauders. I made a plan. I buried all but a few cans of food. If intruders came, I would head out the back and up the hill to a spot I had cleared with a good view of the house and the road. They would take the few cans of food and leave – or so I hoped. If they didn’t, I would fire a warning shot. If that didn’t work, I would cover the chimney with a wet cloth and smoke them out.

It was my home and a man has a right to defend his home.

It had been snowing now for nine weeks without relief. Most of my time was spent keeping the fire going in the wood-burning stove. I had to maintain a clear path to the woodpile, find and dry a stock of kindling, select books to sacrifice page by page, keep the chute and chimney clear. It was a constant struggle but, without electricity, fire was critical for warmth, cooking and boiling water.

In my free time, I drew up contingency plans. What if the power never came back? What if the storm never broke? What if someone stole my food supply? What if the rescue teams never came?

I was a city boy most of my life. I was not well suited to survival in the wilderness. I could learn but the learning curve under these conditions was cruel. It always came back to escape. I figured my best shot was to find a sled, harness the dogs and head south. Even if we died trying, it would be better than not trying at all.

I could not believe that this frozen horror gripped all of the south. Somewhere the sun still shined, the snow melted, and life returned to something resembling normal.

I was taking my weekly bath, enjoying the liquid warmth while it lasted, when I heard the dogs bark. I knew the difference between barking at deer or other dogs and barking to announce the arrival of humans.

Something about the best-laid plans raced through my mind as I leapt from the tub, pulled on my jeans and raced for the gun, crouching below the window. There was not enough time to dry myself, dress and climb the hill out back.

The barking intensified and a series of images ran through my mind: the dogs circling, bearing their fangs, snapping, a man raising his gun, shooting, and pools of blood in the white snow. My dogs still panting, grasping for air, blood spilling on the snow, dying.

In one motion, I jumped up, flung the door open, knelt, cocked and fired. The dogs scattered and fled as a man threw up his hands and yelled, “Don’t shoot!”

He was an older man with a full, gray beard. Next to him, a woman huddled over two small children in a makeshift sled, their wide eyes peering out of layers of clothing. They were crying and the woman comforted them.

I stared at them in disbelief, lowering my rifle.

“What has gone wrong with my mind?” I thought. Had I come to this: Firing at unarmed people, at children, without even looking? This was supposed to be a time when people pulled together, when the stronger were supposed to protect the weaker, and when the able were supposed to help the needy.

Who was I? What had I become? An irrational and frightened man so bent on protecting his territory that he would fire on a defenseless family.

They stared back at me, puzzled or pleading or both, until the man finally waved and they started moving down the road. I could hear the children’s cries, muffled beneath their blankets, as the snow continued to fall.

“Wait!” I cried.

They stopped and turned toward me, still cautious and mystified, uncertain of the man who had fired at them only moments before.

“I’m sorry!” I yelled. “Please, come on in!”

The dogs came back yapping and I called them inside, putting them in the study until they calmed down. I welcomed the visitors and excused myself to get dried and dressed. When I emerged, they were huddled around the woodstove, warm and comfortable.

“You gave us quite a fright,” said the man.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Well,” said the woman, “I reckon we’ve all been out of sorts lately.”

These were good country folk, strong, hard working and grim visaged, down to earth stock, unlikely to break even under the pressure of a Dixieland freeze.

They sat on the sofa of the living room of my little house, gathering the children in their arms. It was a space that was comfortable for a man and his dogs but was instantly cramped with the addition of visitors.

I felt the sting of second thoughts. This was my chance at salvation but I felt a knot in my gut. The sad truth was I couldn’t stand to be with these people for more than a short evening in the real world – or rather, the old world, the world before the storm.

I listened to their story and it broke my heart to think that it was the story of thousands just like them. They ran out of food. He ran out of bullets for his rifle and shot for his shotgun. They ran out of dry wood, candles and kerosene for their lantern. Then the chimney caught fire, burning furniture, and the roof caved in.

“One dern thing after another,” he said, shaking his head in sorrow.

“The house next door is empty,” I offered.

“Yes, sir,” he replied. “It’s all cleaned out. Ransacked. Windows and furniture all broke and scattered. We was up there before we come here. Surprised you didn’t hear nothing.”

Maybe I had. It was hard to tell. I heard a million sounds during the night, some real and some imagined.

“The children’s hungry, mister,” said the woman. “They’s half froze.”

She bowed her head, as if she asked too much, and reached for the hands of the children, a boy of five or six and his younger sister.

“They’s our grandchildren,” said the man. “They was visitin’ when it all turned bad.”

For the first time in so long I could hardly remember, I began to see things from the eyes of another and it sobered me. I wondered what I would do in this man’s position. I was worried about my dogs. He was responsible for his grandchildren.

It occurred to me that my rifle was in the far corner of the room. The man and his family were between the gun and me.

I asked them to wait while I went outside to get food, half expecting the rifle to be pointed at me when I returned. It was not. I handed over six cans of soup and vegetables and the woman went to work in the kitchen.

I explained that there was probably enough food to last a few weeks if we were careful. I told them I had a box of bullets for the rifle and enough wood to last out the winter. I let the dogs in and introduced them to the folks they had terrorized not a half hour before, explaining that they were in my care.

“I understand,” said the man. “We had to let ours run,” he said with genuine sorrow.

Just the same, I knew it would become an issue if it ever came down to the children or the dogs. It was a bridge we would cross when we came to it.

They introduced themselves as the Coopers. The man was Perry, his wife Lily and the children were Bobby and Tess. Lily emptied the cans into a large pot, which she placed on the woodstove to warm. Perry spoke of the latest news from the outside world. He had linked a shortwave radio to a car battery and tuned to an emergency broadcast out of Atlanta. The news was all bad.

“Remain calm,” he related. “The storm will break. It’ll be over soon. But it ain’t over. Ain’t never going to be over. The Lord has come down upon the children of earth with a wrath of vengeance. Judgment day is upon us.”

“Now, now, papa,” said Lily, stirring the soup.

She passed out bowls and spoons and the Coopers ate in silence, except for the sound of smacking lips.

When they cleaned out their bowls, I asked how far south the storm went. Perry hung his head, took a deep breath, and left little room for hope.

“Snow in Macon, Birmingham, Montgomery. You got to get pert near the Gulf shore before it clears. But the roads blocked. They’s no way out, mister. No way, no how.”

“Well, now, papa,” Lily replied in a soothing voice that comforted the children, “thanks to this young man, we got us a roof over our heads and a belly full of warm food. Don’t sound like the wrath to me. Sounds like a blessing. Praise Jesus.”

“Praise Jesus,” the others echoed.

She smiled and the warmth of her smile was passed from person to person until it seemed even the dogs were smiling. I’m not much for the Jesus crowd but I decided then and there I would not mind spending my last days on earth, if it came to that, with these gentle, kind-hearted people.

When night descended, I insisted that Perry and Lily take the bed and they reluctantly agreed. I took the couch and the children laid out in sleeping bags on the floor with the dogs. It was cozy and we all slept soundly in the silent night. No dogs barking, no gunshots, no traffic, helicopters or airplanes, no electrical drone – only the soft, smoldering fire of the woodstove and dreams of faraway places where the sun still shined.

In the morning, I awakened to the sound of the children playing with the dogs. I sensed something was different – even beyond the presence of visitors. I opened my eyes and blinked instinctively to shield myself from the bright light of the sun streaking through the window.

Bright, unfiltered sunshine for the first time in all these many weeks of snow, ice and bitter cold. I looked outside and smiled from head to toe. It was not snowing. In fact, the snow was visibly melting.

I was about to wake the Coopers when the lights, the refrigerator, the television and radio, everything came on at once.

We gathered in the living room and watched cheerful news people announce in perpetual cycles that the worst was over. The storm had lifted. Power was being restored.

“God bless,” said Lily.

“God bless,” said the children.

The nightmare of endless winter, of relentless white skies and fluttering snowflakes, was finally losing its icy grip and we were among the fortunate, the chosen, the blessed.

We survived.


Jazz. 12.22.06.

Copyright Ray Miller 2006

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Number Nine: Chapter 1

NUMBER NINE: THE ADVENTURES OF JAKE JONES AND RUBY DAULTON

BY JACK RANDOM


Copyright Ray Miller 2007 All Rights Reserved




Chapter 1: HELTER SKELTER


FADE IN:

EXT. SAN FERNANDO VALLEY – ARIEL VIEW – DAY

Smog and traffic patterns.

The Beatles’ REVOLUTION 9 (White Album) is heard.

INSERT MONTAGE – SOCIAL INSANITY

Charles Manson, Rwanda, OJ Simpson, CNN war footage, demonstrations, traffic jams, crime scenes, sporting events, Enron, Martha Stewart, Bernie Madoff, animal cruelty, mad cow disease, southern California fires.

BACK TO SCENE

ZOOM to a woman in a red convertible speeding down a suburban street. This is RUBY DAULTON, 36, a wild woman, exotic dancer, edgy and sexy.

Fade REVOLUTION 9 to HELTER SKELTER (White Album).

When I get to the bottom I go back to the top of the slide
Where I stop and I turn and I go for a ride…

Ruby is intense, worried, with one eye on the rearview mirror. She turns suddenly as she glimpses a blue BMW rounding a corner in the mirror.



Ruby kept busy – picking up, wiping down, stacking dishes, emptying ashtrays, rearranging books, anything – to keep from sitting with the men in her living room. They were uninvited guests, a couple of boys from the office. The office was what they called Ruby’s place of employment. Customers called it Shotgun Slim’s – a stripper bar in the great San Fernando Valley, where the sun always shines, majestic palms sway in the wind and the air is a toxic mix of internal combustion soup.

It was Ruby’s birthday but the boys brought nothing but trouble. They sat side by side on the sofa in the living room of her small bungalow, laughing, ball adjusting and back slapping over a televised boxing match between an Italian and a black man. She was reminded of the one question that settled in her mind years ago and, like an unwanted relative, never left: What the fuck am I doing here?

It was a long way from the Land of Oz where Ruby first learned to dream. She knew how she had gotten here. What she did not know and could not have understood if she did was why she had chosen to stay. The old cliché: Habits die hard.

The boys were getting too high, too coked up, and too ass kicking buzzed on the combination of televised violence with gin and tonic. A fourth round technical knockout brought them to frenzy and let them down hard. They had little else to do but turn their rabid attentions to the birthday gal. They won their boxing bets but Ruby was the real loser. It gave them a sense of invincibility they had not earned and did not deserve.

As it happened, Ruby had a man. He was the owner of Shotgun Slim’s and these boys were supposed to be his friends and partners – brothers in the vocabulary of their sordid business. She knew what they were about. They would use their highs as an excuse for what they fully intended to do. No excuse would be good enough for Ruby: That she was a woman? That she was not physically strong enough to hold them off? Should she take a beating only to suffer the same consequences – only worse?

The truth is she did not like her boyfriend any more than she liked his friends. They were all scumbags – little piggy punks with drugs, money and guns. Unfortunately, Ruby had a need for what they offered and until now a high tolerance for bullshit.

“What the fuck am I doing here?” she asked aloud as they implored her with outstretched paws and sad sack grins to come to them.

“Get your ass in here, you sexy fucking bitch!”

They were both pawing their groins, laughing and clapping like wild boars circling a wounded ground hog.

Ruby took account and decided to stay cool. She left herself behind in the kitchen, along with the memories of who she once was: a dumb kid from Kansas, pretty and popular enough to finish third in the race for Homecoming Queen. Sexy Sadie. Protected from all harm, she hid herself in the closet of her mind, safe behind walls of mental concrete and layers of darkness. She walked out of herself and, like Norma Jean becoming Marilyn, she became Ruby Daulton, queen of the dance floor, star of the stage where the silver phallus is always front and center. She struck a pose that never failed to pique a man’s interest.

“Tony wouldn’t like this,” she purred. Tony was Antonio Menendez, her sometime man and their sometime boss.

“Tony ain’t gonna hear about it,” replied Little Billy. He was a large man with short hair, ruddy complexion, and bulging biceps. He was known at the office as “the muscle.” Ruby sensed that he hated the boss as much as she did but Tony was as clueless as a turkey in November.

“Alright then,” she said. “What do you boys want?”

Little Billy grabbed his balls. “Hey, babe, you know what I want!”

He used a remote to pick up some music on the television. They had prepared something special: a mix from The Beatles’ White Album, beginning with Birthday.

They say it’s your birthday …

Ruby waited as long as she could before beginning the slow, lingering movements known as the tease. She had decided to play along and as long as she played the boys would be content. They liked to watch. They liked the anticipation almost as much as what followed. Maybe more.

Yes we’re going to a party party …

She removed her shoes and was beginning to remove her shirt when the music shifted to Sexy Sadie. Ruby loved Sexy Sadie. It meant more to her than they could ever imagine. She began to move to the rhythm inside. She closed her eyes and began to dance – not the cheap, over-rehearsed dance of the stripper but the dance of the muses in ancient mythology. She danced and the muses wept. She closed her eyes and thought of Dorothy and Kansas and the wizard who was not a wizard and ruby-red shoes on a yellow brick road. She spun and danced and she imagined fields of golden grass, waves of amber grace, green hills covered with wild flowers and poppies – glistening white poppies from here to the end of time. She closed her eyes, tapped her heels, and flew away on the wings of angelic beings.

Sexy Sadie, how did you know?
The world was waiting just for you …

When she awakened with a jolt, everything had changed. Sexy Sadie had given way to a blaring Happiness is A Warm Gun. The transition was sudden and disturbing. It was an omen as surely as a crow in the morning or crossing the path of a black cat under a full moon.

“This is wrong,” she said.

The boys were not convinced. To them it was written in the stars. It was manifest. It was destiny. As far as they were concerned, happiness was a warm gun and a sexy woman to help it along.

“Dance, baby! Take it off!”

Ruby turned to the windows at the front of her little bungalow and thought she saw the glimpse of a shadow.

“Antonio’s here,” she said.

“Bullshit, baby, he’s tied up.”

I need a fix ‘cause I’m going down …

Ruby danced on but it was not the dance of the swans. It was back to the old routine. It was the familiar dance of a stripper on a long and lonely night when men too tired, too drunk, too high and too excited to think pawed the stage and clamored for more. The smell of sweat and spent ejaculations stifled the air and choked away any beauty and grace in the dancer’s performance. It was nasty and dirty and as phony as the smile on a real estate broker’s face.

The boys were not quite content with the pace of Ruby’s tease. They rushed the improvised stage of her living room, ripped the clothes from her body, and forced her to her knees as Ruby kicked, scratched and fought but refused to scream. She would not give them that satisfaction. She would face the demons as she always had. She would be strong – quietly defiant.

A crash at the door, felt more than heard, interrupted them at the height of their excitement. It was Antonio. He was the picture of a jealous man who was tipped off by someone with a personal interest.

Happiness is a warm gun. Bang-bang, shoot-shoot …

Ruby somehow managed to grab her clothes and move to the back of the room. The boys, holding their pants, were trying to explain how it was all Ruby’s fault. She was a tease. He knew that. She had the power and she used it. She seduced them. They were men like any other men. What could they do?

Little Billy saw the rage in Tony’s eyes and knew their words were a waste. It was the rage of a man betrayed by those he had considered his friends, his partners and his brothers. They rambled on if only to buy time and to let the rage gradually disperse. Maybe they could get out with their lives.

“She’ll get hers,” mumbled Antonio. It was all Ruby needed to hear.

Little Billy went for his gun first. It was a futile gesture and he knew it, the desperate last act of a dead man. Antonio brought the wrath of jealousy and betrayal, the hammer of vengeance down upon their heads. He emptied two handguns, reloaded, and made a point of blowing their faces off.

Ruby escaped. She dashed out the back, ran around the corner, past Antonio’s blue BMW, jumped in her convertible and drove away just as Tony emerged, splattered in blood and looking for his ultimate revenge.

The television survived and played on.

Helter skelter helter skelter …
Will you won’t you want me to make you
I’m coming down fast but don’t let me break you …

Helter skelter helter skelter …
Tell me tell me tell me the answer
You may be a lover but you ain’t no dancer …

Look out, helter skelter helter skelter …
Look out!

Number Nine: Chapter 2

JAKE JONES


FADE IN:

EXT. AGRONOMICAL NOWHERE – ARIEL VIEW – NEARING SUNSET

ZOOM to Ruby in a red convertible, hair died seven shades of green, flying in the wind.

The Beatles’ REVOLUTION 9 fades to WHY DON’T WE DO IT IN THE ROAD? (White Album).

ZOOM out to ARIEL VIEW and back in to a man in khakis and plaid work shirt, reclining on a log under a lonely oak alongside the road, face covered by a straw hat and an open book on his chest.

This is JAKE JONES, early thirties, a mixed breed (Navaho-Irish) with distinctive native features, long hair tied in a single braid. He is reading Leonard Peltier’s Prison Writings.

The Beatles’ YER BLUES (White Album) is heard (“Yes, I’m lonely…”) as flies and gnats buzz around his head.

Yes I’m lonely wanna die
Yes I’m lonely wanna die
If I ain’t dead already
Girl you know the reason why…

Jake stirs, swiping the bugs away with his book, stands, stretches and strikes the hitchhikers pose.

YER BLUES fades as DON’T PASS ME BY (White Album) begins playing.

Don’t pass me by don’t make me cry don’t make me blue
‘Cause you know darling I love only you…

In the distance, a red convertible kicks up dust, speeding toward Jake’s hitching post.

Ruby in a red convertible waves as she passes him by but fishtails to a stop well down the road. Jake remains where he is as Ruby slowly backs up to meet him.



Back on the Rez he was known as Grey Hawk but the rest of the world knew him as Jake Jones. Like many Indians, he had two names: one for the native community and another for the world at large. He considered Grey Hawk his true name, the name that would welcome him to the Overworld, while Jake Jones was a concession to the white European society that killed, tortured and enslaved his people in the name of destiny. It made it easier to walk among them. Not that he held a grudge but he never for a moment forgot who he was and the world was teeming with reminders. The world was changing. As he traveled he met more and more white people who claimed Indian bloodlines – mostly Cherokee. He would endeavor gently to remind these people that if you had not walked the red road you could not claim its heritage.

He left Third Mesa, where he had studied the ways of the ancestors with a gifted medicine man, nine months prior. He was a pilgrim, a seeker in search of destiny and adventure. Like so many of his people – and, as he would learn, so many of all Americans – he was lost in a world dominated by mass media imagery and technology. He felt isolated and disillusioned in the modern world but he was determined not to return to the safe refuge of the Rez, the relative comfort of the ancient rituals, until he had discovered some secret knowledge or wisdom that would illuminate a new path for himself if not for his people.

His journey had taken him on a circular route, beginning at the site of the Sand Creek Massacre in southeastern Colorado, where the spirits of the dead still cried out for justice. He moved on to the sacred Chiricahua Mountains of the Apache, where the face of Cochise, gazing at the heavens, marks his unknown grave. He traveled on to Indian Territory, where he paid tribute at the grave of the Apache spirit guide, warrior and healer, Geronimo. He visited the National Indian Museum in Anadarko and witnessed the success of the modern Cherokee Nation. From Oklahoma, he had gone north to smoke and sweat with the political prisoner of the modern day siege at Wounded Knee, Leonard Peltier. Peltier was strong, steady and hopeful but Jake sensed that he understood: He would remain in prison is a testament to the white man’s unending spirit of revenge even against those he victimized. He laid eyes on the White Buffalo in northern Minnesota, original land of the Lakota nation, and felt the closeness of the spirit world. From Minnesota, he went west to the Little Big Horn, where he felt the spirits of Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, as well as the glorified butcher of the Indian peoples: General George Armstrong Custer.

The final destination of his pilgrimage completing a great circle on the North American continent was the Wounded Knee Memorial. Against a backdrop of corruption, infighting and extreme poverty at Pine Ridge and Rosebud, the memorial itself all but broke his spirit. Only fifty paces from Wounded Knee Hill, where the remains of Big Foot and the Ghost Dancers lay, stood the eternal symbol of the white man’s conquest of native lands: The Sacred Heart Church. He learned that the Holy Rosary Catholic Church was the owner of the most sacred land in Native American history. It stirred a rage in him that was not easily conquered or forgotten but it eventually gave way to a profound sorrow.

He went into the Black Hills as Crazy Horse had to cry for a vision in the Lakota way. He fasted seven days for an understanding of how it had come to be and what could be done to restore the balance of forces. Amidst visions of darkness, massacre and betrayal, the answer came to him in the form of the crow and the coyote, who would become his spirit animals: They told him nothing could be done to correct the great wrongs of the past. It fell to him to seek his own path, to find peace with the many as well as the one that dwelled within his self. He understood their message but it brought him no solace. It rather fed his restless spirit, his since of homelessness and alienation.

Since then, he had wandered through the land as a beggar would with no greater needs or thoughts than his hunger and thirst, his need to survive in a land that was neither caring nor indifferent. He took odd jobs – fixing cars, washing dishes, menial labor – while working his way from town to town, down the coast from the Great Northwest to Southern California, where now he sat by the side of the road, waiting for destiny to play its hand.

He was somewhere near Weed Patch outside of Bakersfield, where he had finished his day’s labor gathering grapes from a corporate vineyard. Having already sold his car for traveling money (a good deal at $250), he was down to his last fifty bucks, hot, tired and hungry. He passed on a ride to town. It somehow felt better being out in the middle of agronomical nowhere where he could breathe. At least, he could eat some grapes and bathe in a nearby irrigation canal. If he had to sleep outdoors, he preferred the open skies to the concrete wasteland of Bakersfield. If ever there was a land the gods forgot the city of Bakersfield was at its center.

Jake looked around and laughed. Was this what the Great Spirit had in mind for Grey Hawk? Was this where he needed to be in order to find the answers he sought? He glared into a bright unforgiving sky and felt his stomach churn. Grapes as a source of sustenance were getting old and his bowels were experiencing an uprising. He needed a cheeseburger so bad he was daydreaming of Dairy Queens with waitresses on roller skates, serving imitation ice cream, root beer floats, banana splits and sundaes thick with fudge, nuts and sprinkles, with a ruby red cherry on top.

He lifted his nose to the air and breathed deeply, sifting through dust and dry heat for a taste of fresh air beyond the sweat that clung to his skin like a coat of dry wax. He had no idea where he was going. All roads seemed to run in the wrong directions. He sat on a log, opened his book and waited, waited, waited.

“It’s time,” he said aloud to no one but the wisp of white clouds drifting high above, “for the world to take a turn.”

A crow cawed in the blue highways of his mind. A dog with the eyes of a coyote stared at him from the back of a pickup. The microcosmic world of gnats and subatomic creatures began to take on third and fourth dimensions. A face emerged from the oak tree under which he sat. The hot, dry air came to life: Patterns and fields of energy and particles of light leaving visible traces in the ectoplasm.

Suddenly, he sensed what Einstein must have seen. Suddenly, he saw what Crazy Horse called the real life beyond this life. Drifting in and out of conscious mind, stolen glimpses of the gods’ eye view, he saw the possibility of a modern day Prometheus bringing fire to the land of darkness.

When he came out of it, it was approaching sunset. He scanned the horizon, ate some grapes and laid back down for a nap. Brushing away some gnats and wiping the layers of greasy sweat from his eyes, a car suddenly appeared in the distance, kicking up dust, blaring music and traveling twice the speed of sound.

He stood to assume the hitchhiker’s pose. It was a classic red convertible driven by a mad woman with wild green hair flowing in the wind. She smiled and waved as she blew past him like a shooting star or a desert mirage.

Jake took it well, shaking his head and sitting back down to his book, as the car abruptly skidded and grinded to a halt well down the road. He watched it edge backward to where he sat, half expecting her to dust him again.

“How long have you been here?” she asked.

He pulled out a pocket watch.

“Nine hours,” he answered.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

“Leonard Peltier’s Prison Writings,” he replied.

“What page?”

He glanced down at the book, open in his hand. “Page 27.”

“Damn,” she replied with an expression between a smile and resigned. “Get the fuck in.”

He did not have to be asked twice.

Number nine, number nine…

Number Nine: Chapter 3

DESTINY


FADE IN:

EXT. SLEEPY TIME MOTEL – NIGHT

The Beatles’ I’M SO TIRED (White Album) plays as a neon sign, featuring a blinking bear with a silly nightcap, flashes on and off.

I’m so tired, I haven’t slept a wink
I’m so tired, my mind is on the blink
I wonder should I get up and fix myself a drink
No, no, no…

REVOLUTION 9 (White Album) plays briefly.

The door of a motel room: number nine.

INT. SMALL MOTEL ROOM – NIGHT

I’M SO TIRED resumes as Jake sleeps in boxer shorts atop the single queen size bed. A bag with a Dairy Queen logo and a soda are on a side table. Candles are lit and light seeps in from the adjoining bathroom along with the sound of a SHOWER.

The shower stops and Jake struggles to awaken from deep sleep. Ruby emerges wrapped in a towel. Her hair is black. I’M SO TIRED fades into I WILL (White Album).

Who knows how long I’ve loved you
You know I love you still
Will I wait a lonely lifetime…

Seen through Jake’s eyes, slowly coming into focus, Ruby speaks as if from a distance.

RUBY
Do you believe in destiny?

Jake nods and the song answers for him.

If you want me to, I will …

Ruby lets the towel drop to the floor.



Somewhere around these parts (maybe on this same desolate road), James Dean took his final drive, sacrificing what remained of a promising career for a place amongst the legends of Hollywood lore. Ruby felt his anguish, his hunger for raw experience, his eagerness to take it to the edge (even if it meant diving into the abyss) and she pressed the pedal to the floor.

It felt good to get out of the city. It felt good to be going nowhere and getting there fast. For the moment, she had no worries except rounding the next corner and negotiating the next curve. She wanted to test the fates. She wanted to walk on the edge and not look back, like James Dean and Marilyn Monroe, like Jim Morrison and Janis Joplin, like Jimi Hendrix and Tupac Shakur, like River Phoenix and Kurt Kobain. After everything that had happened, after the sum total of her miserable life ended up in head on collision, she wanted to fly. She wanted to take the final step off the ledge of Grand Canyon. She wanted to test the fates.

Ruby believed in destiny as an anarchist believes in freedom, as a preacher believes in prayer or as a writer believes in words. She believed that James Dean was meant to die young and free on some desolate road, that a man was meant to set on the moon on July 20, 1969, that the Japanese were preordained to attack Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, and that two planes were destined to crash into the twin towers on September 11, 2001. Ruby believed that it was possible to tap the source of future events. She believed that it was possible to prevent tragedies or to secure greatness by attending to signs and omens. She believed the gods were not unkind; that they provided signs and omens to those who paid attention. She was a student of the oracles: tarot, astrology, tealeaves and the I Ching. Her latest fixation was the study of numbers and to that end she carried the book Numerology for Idiots everywhere. Her working theory was that everything of importance – historically or personally, for good or for evil – was somehow connected to the number nine.

Ruby also believed in free will and found it no philosophical dilemma. What was the purpose of divining the future if you were powerless to alter it? She believed that those who possessed the knowledge and talent to foresee future events had the power to alter those events.

Rounding a curve, she skidded off the side of the road, kicking up dust, reminding herself of her own mortality. She lightened her foot on the pedal and smiled at the sight of a lone hitchhiker alongside the road. It was an enigmatic picture, like a desert coyote in midtown Manhattan. Was it a sign or an omen? She waved as she swept by but continued to watch him in the rearview mirror. When he did not look after her, she slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop. Throwing her into reverse, she eased back for a closer look, careful to maintain enough distance that she could dust him if she decided he was not worth the risk.

The universe had changed in the world of the hitchhiker. They once represented the spirit of freedom and adventure. Now they were mostly outlaws and desperados. Ruby was sympathetic but she was also mindful of the risk. The modern world gave birth to too many deranged individuals bent on sharing their pain. This was a different sort of hitchhiker. His features were distinctly Native American and he looked like the hull of a fishing trawler, coated with dirt and layers of sweat. She noticed that he was holding a book in his left hand and she took it as a positive sign.

“What are you reading?” she asked in a high pitched voice that was considered by some as sweet as cotton candy, by others as charming as a squeaky hinge.

“Peltier’s Prison Writings,” he replied.

She mulled it over. A reference to prison gave her pause but she had heard of Peltier, a Lakota Indian wrong imprisoned – or so they said.

“What page?”

He glanced down at the book, still open in his hand. “Page 27.”

Ruby smiled. She glanced at the dashboard clock. It read 8:01.

“Get in.”

In the world of numerology, the numbers 801 and twenty-seven converted to the number nine. In Ruby’s newfound creed, it was an undeniable sign of destiny. She was meant to be on this road at this particular moment in time and so was he. They were destined to come together in the mystical hour of twilight, at a pivotal time in each of their lives, to share the road ahead – for better or for worse.

“What’s your name, stranger?”

“Jake,” he replied.

“Just get out of prison?”

He laughed. “Sort of.”

Jake was suddenly aware of his appearance. He was dead tired, hungry, and his skin was crawling with microscopic multitudes. He was in no mood for idle conversation yet he recognized the obligation of his good fortune. Here was a strikingly attractive woman – even if she did have green hair – and he for all appearances was a bum.

“Got a last name, pilgrim?”

“Jones.”

Ruby was working the numbers in her mind. In numerology, each letter has an assigned number:

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
A B C D E F G H I
J K L M N O P Q R
S T U V W X Y Z

“Jake is nine,” she said. “Oh, my God, Jones is nine! Jesus,” she said, staring into Jake’s tired eyes, “you’re a triple nine!” She checked the math, scribbling in her book to confirm what she already knew. His first name totaled nine, his last name nine, and all multiples of nine break down to nine. It is one of great mysteries of theoretical-phenomenological mathematics. In numerology, of course, while multiples of eleven are power numbers, multiples of nine are destiny: completion, climax, culmination, epiphany, and rebirth.

Ruby Daulton was also nine and, since all multiples of nine are nine, Jake Jones and Ruby Daulton combined were nine. Nines were everywhere! Nines were wild!

Jake had encountered numerology before but not so much as a religion as a curiosity. There were many ways to see the future and he had had a hand at many of them: crying for a vision, sun dance, sweat lodge, tossing stones, and gazing into the eyes of a crow. He had the gift of prophetic dreams. He had seen much of the future and much of the past but he had never seen what he wanted to see. He had not found the answer to the proverbial question: How do I get back home?

Ruby examined him with new eyes, seeing beyond the filth and grime that disguised his true being. She liked what she saw. Everything was good. Everything was right. Here in the middle of absolute nowhere, the sun setting in a western sky, she may have finally found the first genuinely good man in her life. In the oracle of Ruby’s creed, destiny had cast its stone, the fates had planted their magic seeds, all was right on heaven and earth, and theirs was a meeting of celestial divination.

“Let’s get you a shower,” she said, throwing her in gear and burning down the highway, headed for the next town and the first motel they came across. Her car’s name was Sadie Mae: Sadie = eleven, Mae = eleven, Sadie Mae = 22: pure power.

Jake was speechless. Never had he made such an impression on a woman and never had a woman made such an impression on him. He had an acute need for solid food, sleep and cleansing but, for a while, she was all that occupied his mind. Even at the speed of sound, Ruby was all he could see. All he could hear was: Number nine, number nine, number nine... She went on and on about probability, random chance and the oracles of divination, but all he could hear was: Number nine, number nine, number nine...

“It doesn’t matter what you believe,” she said. “You could chart the stars, have your palms read, consult Tarot, or toss the I Ching sticks, it all leads to the same conclusion: It’s destiny.”

Jake was suddenly overcome with undeniable fatigue and allowed himself to drift until he arrived in that grey area where dream and reality are one. He thought of something a spirit guide once told him:

“In a world soft as butterflies, as violent as the raging sea, there’s no such thing as random chance.”

Sacred spiral, helter-skelter, forces of the ancients, flight through the windows of perception to the world within and beyond, held by slender threads of time and space, at one with the Great Spirit, past and future, all and the void, weightless, senseless and breathless in the infinite chain of matter and mystery. The world was turning at last.

Ruby saw the neon light of a Sleepy Time Motel and knew she had arrived. She checked in under the names Jake and Ruby Jones, insisted on cabin #9 and paid cash. The desk clerk gave her a wink. She shook Jake awake, handed him the key, and explained that she was off to grab some burgers.

“Don’t forget to shower,” she said over her shoulder.

Jake stared after her until he found his bearings and remembered where he was and how he came to be there. The key in his hand read: number nine. He became aware of a foul odor that was emanating from his own body. Entering the motel room, he stumbled into the shower and let the cool water cleanse him, washing away the numerous gritty layers of sweat-solidified waste.

Who was this wild woman who spoke of destiny and challenged his imagination? Where was she headed and what was she running from? Was it destiny or random chance? In a world as soft as butterflies, as violent as a raging sea, was there any difference?

He collapsed on the bed and fell through the vortex back into the world of dreams. He saw Ruby in a red dress on a stage of amber light. Men with eyes wide open gaped as she let the dress slip from her shoulders. Who was she and what was she running from? He heard music and the sound of running water. He saw light from above and struggled to reach it. He saw her face like a diamond in a sea of common stones. He heard music, sweet and soft.

For if I ever saw you
I didn’t catch your name
But it never really mattered
I will always feel the same …

Ruby emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Through the haze of his awakening, he could see that she had dyed her hair black. Who was she? What was she running from? It no longer mattered. In a life of hardship, in a universe full of darkness, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever encountered. She was an enchantress and a saint.

“Do you believe in destiny?” she asked.

He nodded and let the music answer.

If you want me to, I will …

Ruby let the towel drop to the floor.

Love you forever and forever
Love you with all my heart
Love you whenever we’re together
Love you when we’re apart …

Number Nine: Chapter 4

RANDOM CHANCE


FADE IN:

INT. TELEVISION SCREEN – NIGHT

The Beatles’ EVERYBODY’S GOT SOMETHING TO HIDE EXCEPT ME AND MY MONKEY (White Album) plays as we see a boxed photograph of Ruby Daulton displayed alongside a talking head with the CNN logo and scroll bar below. The caption reads: “Person of Interest.”

The deeper you go the higher you fly
The higher you fly the deeper you go
So come on…

EXT. DAIRY QUEEN PAY PHONE – NIGHT

Fade MONKEY as Ruby talks on the phone. We hear bits of her conversation.

RUBY
I can’t do that … Listen, I need some help …

EXT. MOUNTAIN ROAD, RUBY – NIGHT

Jake in the passenger seat, top down beneath a bright moon, Ruby drives up a winding road as the radio blares WHY DON’T WE DO IT IN THE ROAD? (White Album).

INT. CABIN OF AN 18 WHEELER

A trucker, barreling down the same mountain road, steps on the brakes with no effect. We hear REVOLUTION 9 (“Number 9, number 9, number 9…”) as the truck picks up speed and the trucker sounds his HORN.

EXT. MOUNTAIN ROAD, ABOVE

A runaway truck veers into the middle of the road as Ruby’s convertible approaches the same curve ahead. They appear destined to meet.

Ruby sees a white post reading: Mile 9. She pulls off the road at a lookout just as the truck barrels by and smashes into a sandy runaway truck ramp down the road.



In the microcosmic world, entities swim about in a gelatinous muck, moved by their liquid or gaseous surroundings, guided by unseen electrical impulses and unknown encoded tendencies. The patterns are beyond our earthbound grasp, like the courting dance of jellyfish, seemingly random and without intent, but when an entity nears its perfect mate, the two are drawn together like yin and yang, Orion and Sirius, Anthony and Cleopatra, or Tristram and Isolde. Two become one, forever interwoven, joined at the hip in a perpetual dance of destiny.

If not for the cerebral cortex, as it is in the microcosmic world so would it be for human nature. We would all find our perfect mates, dance in flowing harmony and claim eternal bliss.

So it seemed for Jake Jones and Ruby Daulton: If ever a match in heaven was made, at this moment in the cosmos, they were it. Her perfect breasts, nipples erect from leather thoughts, were soft and white. He caressed them in his mind though his thoughts were pure with wonder. He caressed them in the flesh and his spirit left his body, soaring through the ectoplasm of electromagnetic dreams.

She moved to him until their bodies locked like the socket and the plug, an electromagnetic coupling, matter and antimatter, like a Chopin duet or the final chapter of Joyce’s Ulysses.

Jake lived in the moment almost completely. It was not the result of a conscious decision but a birthright and one of many eccentricities that served to accentuate sensual-sexual pleasure. Their bodies tingled with an excitation of a kind Ruby had never before experienced. From the caverns of her mind reemerged the song that spurred the lust of Tony’s boys, sealed their gruesome fate, and turned the wheel of destiny.

When I hold you in my arms
And I feel my finger on your trigger
I know no one can do me no harm
Because happiness is a warm gun …

“Forever!” she cried out from the summit of delight. They were swimming the seven seas, soaring over Grand Canyon, diving into the infinite abyss.

“You and I will live … forever!”

Was it true love? It is a question neither Jake nor Ruby could ever answer but it was a moment of pure bliss and it would pass for love as long as they let it be so. For all they knew – for all any of us know – that is what love is: a willingness to suspend logical belief in favor of the eternal heart.

Exhausted, they lay side by side, basking in the scent of their liquid love, when Ruby turned to him and smiled. She had an epiphany.

“Ruby,” she said. “Ruby Daulton.”

It was only then that Jake realized he did not know her name. He could not recall having heard or seen it written but it was as if he already knew.

“And it’s my birthday.”

Without a second thought, he pulled a turquoise stone on a leather thong from around his neck and handed it to her. It was a gift from a wise woman in Santa Fe. They had helped each understand and accept the mystery of their separate journeys.

“Happy birthday, Ruby Daulton.”

Holding the stone in her hands, it brought tears to her eyes for reasons she could never understand. For the first time since she was a child, she cried without apology or remorse. It was the most precious gift she had ever received.

“Baby,” she said finally, “I’ve got to level with you and after I do, if you want to turn your back and walk away, I swear I won’t say a word.”

Leaving nothing to the imagination, Ruby explained what had happened and why she was on the run. Her boyfriend was a mafia psychopath and she was a common stripper. The boys were scumbags who decided to take advantage. By the grace of god she was still alive. Raped, bruised and wanted by the law but she was still alive. Jake listened quietly before offering the obvious advice.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “Turn yourself in.”

“I’ve got history, baby. They know me at the LAPD. Tony knows that. He was counting on it. He has connections and I’m just a two-bit whore. He’ll set me up.”

Jake fell back on the hitchhiker’s code. It did not matter that they had entered a new and yet to be defined relationship, he was still a hitchhiker, a visitor, a mere guest on a random highway. He could get off the ride any time he wanted and, as long as that was true, he was bound by the code not to interfere. He wanted to know everything but he was bound by the code not to ask any questions beyond: Where are you headed?

Ruby knew the code as well as anyone. All her life she felt as though she had lived in other people’s homes, depending on the generosity of men. Her most recent vocation gave her a sense of freedom but, as it turned out, even that was an illusion. So she was acutely aware of Jake’s dilemma. She believed they were bound together by forces that could not be denied but she wanted him to have free choice. She needed him to make that choice. She wanted him to sign on with his eyes wide open. She was a woman on the run, hunted by criminals and cops alike. The road ahead was uncertain and dangerous. He would have to balance the risks against the rewards – however sweet those rewards might be.

“Have you got a plan?” he asked.

Ruby smiled. It was as close to a commitment as she could reasonably expect.

“I’m working on it,” she replied. “I made some calls. I know some people in Vegas who can fix me up: Fake ID, paint job, license plates, even a credit card. After that, I’ve got to put some miles between me and LA.”

“That’s a pretty good plan,” said Jake.

Ruby wrapped her legs around him. “Thanks,” she replied. “Are you in?”

Jake nodded and welcomed her embrace, dissolving at the scent of a woman in full bloom. It had been far too long since he had felt such divine pleasures.

“You should get some sleep,” she said with a kiss. “We have to leave in a few hours.”

His heart broke and his desire melted like wax in a Mississippi sun but he was an honorable man and he yielded to the need for sleep and the awakening that promised rebirth in a world of promise.

Under a bright, golden moon, they headed out over the southern branch of the Sierras. The path would take them through Death Valley to the city of neon lights where the gods of chance reign supreme. Ruby loved driving by moonlight and it seemed a good idea, under the circumstances, to take the road less traveled. It was a rough road but everything depended on reaching Vegas undetected.

Climbing a mountain road by the silver, moonlit waters of Lake Isabella, she thought of Isabel Allende’s House of the Spirits and felt her passions rise. Her dark skinned hero by her side, she flipped on the radio and found an independent station on the FM band transitioning from jazz to nostalgic rock. Jake was moonstruck until she cranked it up as a Beatles medley came on, beginning with I Want You from Abbey Road. Ascending a steep grade near Walker Pass, she nearly lost control when the first chords of Why don’t we do it in the road? from the White Album came roaring out of her speakers. She looked sideways at Jake and sensed that he was as aroused as she was.

She pulled off at the next lookout but before they could climb into the back seat an 18-wheeler came barreling by with its tires screeching and horns blaring. They watched in dumfounded awe and then listened as it crashed into a runaway truck ramp down the road.

A tall, thin Latino came jogging up the road, looking dazed and confused but otherwise unharmed.

“Are you kids alright?” he stammered.

“We’re fine,” replied Ruby.

“Wow!” he said. “Another second and you’d have been splattered. It’s a miracle there was a turnout here.”

They shared various expressions of relief and acknowledged that what had happened was indeed miraculous. In fact, with the music and the rising passion of the moment, neither Jake nor Ruby had seen or heard the approaching disaster. They didn’t ask why he was driving an 18-wheeler down a narrow mountain road. They assumed it was the same reason Ruby had chosen this route: to avoid contact with the law.

Assured that everything was under control, they made their departure but not before Jake pointed out a marker by the side of the road. The white paint was yellowed and peeling, leading them to believe it was remnant of a former time. It read:

Mile 9.

Number nine, number nine, number nine…

Number Nine: Chapter 5

A LONG AND WINDING ROAD


FADE IN:

EXT. DESERT HIGHWAY – SUNRISE

With Jake sleeping in the passenger seat, Ruby drives through Death Valley as the dark cloud of a sandstorm approaches.

The Beatles’ GLASS ONION from the White Album plays in the foreground.

I told you about Strawberry Fields
You know the place where nothing is real
Well here’s another place you can go
Where everything flows.
Looking through the bent backed tulips
To see how the other half live
Looking through a glass onion…

EXT. SUBURBAN LAS VEGAS – DAY

A detective flashes his badge at the door of SISTER WOMAN, a friend of Ruby. She is small, dark skinned, with green eyes and flowing, Medusa-like hair.

EXT. DEATH VALLEY – DAY

Jake and Ruby struggle against a powerful wind to secure the convertible top.

INT. SISTER WOMAN’S HOUSE – DAY

The detective displays photographs, as he talks unheard: Ruby, Antonio, the boys. Sister Woman shakes her head and, then, shakes her head again.

INT. RUBY’S CAR

As the sandstorm rages all around them, we see images from the tornado scene in The Wizard of Oz. A young girl runs into the arms of her father. Soldiers in a sandstorm fire at random as a chopper flounders above and crashes. A medicine man sits on a desert mountain, gazing at a sunset.

INT. SISTER WOMAN’S HOUSE

Sister Woman follows the detective to the door. He lingers, handing her a card.

EXT. SISTER WOMAN’S HOUSE FROM ABOVE

Ruby’s Dodge pulls in the back of the house as the detective walks to his car.

INT. SISTER WOMAN’S HOUSE

As Sister Woman closes the front door, Ruby knocks on the back. Sister Woman rushes through the house, opens the door, and sees Ruby striking a pose a la Vogue.



Las Vegas is a timeless city born of desperate dreams and raised from a barren wasteland. It is a city that holds forth a promise of wealth and glory and delivers it to one in a million. To 999,999 others it delivers heartbreak. It is a city that calls out in neon: Give me your tired, your poor, your broken spirits yearning to break free. Above all, it is a city of delusions.

Ruby loved Las Vegas. In the diverse experience of her life, it was one of the few places that welcomed her without reservations. Ruby understood Las Vegas like she understood the silver phallus or the spotlight at a piano bar before karaoke. She understood the need and desire to hide dark secrets behind facades of splendor. For every nugget of gold in Vegas, there are a million of fools gold. For every genuine silver dollar, there are a billion wooden nickels. For every fine cut diamond, there are a trillion zirconium fakes. Just as the art of illusions transformed Vegas from a desert dream to a plaster and glitz paradise, Ruby hid her sorrow behind an inviting smile.

The sight and sounds of Las Vegas never failed to remind her of the county fair when she was a child of eight or nine. It was a time when her family maintained an illusion of happiness. It was not real. It was never real. For a time, however, it pleased them to believe that they could be happy. Ruby reflected that her mother had always believed in the miraculous power of a smile. If you pretended you were happy and you believed in the power, you could transform the reality of your miserable life. Ruby’s father – her stepfather really but the only father Ruby had known – never believed in the power but, for a time, he was willing to pretend.

She remembered cotton candy, corn on the cob slathered with creamy butter, and cows so big they seemed like dinosaurs to a little girl with wide eyes. She remembered the smell of barnyards, stale beer and greasy foods. She remembered carnies barking incomprehensible come-ons. She remembered coin tosses, balloons and stuffed pandas, unicorns and clapping monkeys. She remembered feeling proud and special when her father won the Wiley Coyote just for her.

They emerged from the desolate mountains, floated through the hills and were now cruising down a desert highway through Death Valley at sunrise. Jake sensed her deepening mood and felt the weight of her silence but he had no sense of cause or remedy. Despite the emerging sunlight, darkness was pervasive. He was haunted by his own memories of youth when the future was a promise and hope was his companion. He remembered his grandfather taking him on horseback to a high bluff overlooking the desert.

“Nothing in nature happens by accident,” his grandfather said. “Everything has a place and a purpose. When brother hawk flies overhead, pay attention. He has something to tell you. When the snake crosses your path, turn around and walk back the way you came. He is warning you that you are not on the right path.”

Ruby wiped away her silent tears and laughed when she saw that Jake noticed. “It’s nothing, baby. Just memories.”

They drove on in silence until they saw a billowing, dark cloud ahead, winding its way through a desert canyon like a mammoth serpent from ancient and harrowing tale.

“What is that?” asked Ruby.

“Shit,” said Jake. He had seen such sights before but never one so ominous. “Stop the car.” Ruby slowed until they came to a stop. A massive sandstorm was rapidly approaching like the curse of a demon.

“We have two choices,” said Jake. “We can go back the way we came or we can stay put and wait it out.”

“Shit!” said Ruby. Her life was governed by a small set of golden rules, one of which was: Don’t turn back. “Let’s wait it out,” she replied.

“Alright,” said Jake. “Let’s put up the top.”

The wind was howling and the sand stung their skin and eyes as they struggled to secure the top of the convertible. By the time they were safely inside with the windows rolled up they could not see six inches in any direction. Ruby could have sworn she saw the Wicked Witch of the West riding her bicycle in the swirling, writhing storm, little Toto tucked in her wicker basket. She felt them being lifted off the earth and thought they might be swept away to the Land of Oz but feared there would be no Wizard or playful Munchkins. There would only be darkness and gloom. She felt a rush of anxiety, panicked and started to put Sadie in gear. If she was going down, she wanted to go down in motion, blazing a trail like James Dean or Sarah Bernhardt.

Whatever she did, wherever she went, she did not want to die like Billie Holliday or Marilyn, lying in her bed, pumped full of poisons, sinking into the black hole of memories.

Jake gripped her arm and it was only then that she remembered he was there. It was one thing to go out in flames. It was another to take someone else with you. For all the world she would never bring harm to Jake. She moved to him and felt his strength, his quiet courage, and his impregnable calm. He held her until the storm subsided and her sense of balance returned.

“Have you got a Plan B?” asked Jake.

“What do you mean, baby?”

Jake shook his head and looked her dead in the eyes. He was still the hitchhiker and mindful of his limitations but this was a powerful sign and he had to make her understand. It was not a game. It was real. It was happening. Why look to the signs if you are not willing to abide them?

“We’re not supposed to go to Vegas,” he said.

Ruby was stunned. She felt the life force drain from her body. She was suddenly exhausted. She closed her eyes, leaned her head on the steering wheel and waited. When her energy returned it flooded her head with rage. She flew out the door and cursed the storm. She cursed the desert and the blinding sand. She cursed the sun, the sky and the wisp of clouds hovering above. She cursed nine times, kicking up sand and pacing like a mad woman in a fit of rage. Then she came down and climbed back in the car.

“You’re right,” she said. “The trouble is I don’t have another plan. Everything depends on Vegas.”

“Alright,” said Jake. His mind was already racing ahead. He had the makings of a Plan B.

“I have no money,” said Ruby. “I’m driving a car with a red neon sign that says: Arrest me! And I’m the most wanted woman in America! Hey, I’m a star! They’ll make movies about me. Fuck! If I don’t get to Vegas, baby, I don’t have a chance.”

“Alright,” said Jake.

“Look,” Ruby continued, “if you want to go back, I’ll take you back. If you want to get off at the next town, fine. I understand. But I’m going to Vegas. I have no choice.”

“It’s alright,” said Jake. “Just be careful.”

“You’re sticking with me?”

Jake nodded. Ruby gave a rebel yell, grabbed her man and painted his lips with gratitude. Then she popped her in gear and rolled down the road like a woman on a mission, like Sailor and Lula in Wild at Heart, like Jake and Elwood in The Blues Brothers. She burned through Death Valley, streaked over the mountains to the Nevada side and pulled up on a bluff overlooking the neon city.

“There she is,” said Ruby. “Viva Las Vegas!”

She gave Jake a wet kiss and proceeded with caution down the back roads to the home of her best friend in the suburbs. She parked in the alley, popped out of the car, knocked on the back door and struck a pose like the Material Girl in Vogue.

“Sister Woman!” she cried, as her friend grabbed her by the arm, yanked her inside and rushed to the front of her modest home, where she peaked out the window to make sure an unwanted visitor was gone. Only moments before she had been questioned by a Vegas detective who wanted to know where Ruby was and if she had been in contact. Meantime, Jake followed Ruby inside with the silence of a coyote on the prowl.

“Who the fuck is this?” cried Sister Woman. She drew her blinds and closed the back door before settling into her own prowl, a suburban prowl, a distinctly catlike prowl, back and forth in her living room. She was putting the voodoo telescope on him, cat against dog.

“You bring a man to my house?” she demanded.

“Relax,” said Ruby. “This is Jake. I trust him like a brother.”

“Yeah? Since when do you trust brothers?”

“Relax,” Ruby repeated. “I trust him more than I do you.”

Sister Woman had to laugh at that and she let out her air.

“I’m Sister Woman,” she said, extending her hand, which Jake took firmly.

“I’m Jake.”

Everyone in Vegas had two or three names: one for the act, one for the second act, and one they kept to themselves for the family back home. Sister Woman was act two of Shirley Mann from Tupelo, Mississippi. She linked up with Ruby at a Vegas strip club and took refuge from an abusive boyfriend. She owed Ruby more than she knew and more than she wanted to owe anyone.

They sat down to cold beers and Sister Woman explained the layout like the point of an elaborate heist.

“Damn, girl, you’re hotter than Madonna! I hang up the phone, talking to Tony’s boys, and a cop’s at the front door, shooting the breeze and wanting to know what everybody wants to know: Where’s Ruby?”

“You want to know what went down?” asked Ruby.

“I knew what happened when I first heard the news. The boys got frisky, Tony blew them away and pinned the rap on you.”

Sister Woman lit up a cigarette and offered Ruby one.

“I don’t have a lot of time,” said Ruby, springing to her feet. “I need a credit card and twenty four hours.”

“Got you covered,” said Sister Woman.

She went into the bedroom and emerged with a shiny new credit card, bearing the name of Rhonda Whitney, and a fresh tag for her license plates.

“I would have got you the plates,” she said, “but there wasn’t enough time.”

Ruby had tears in her eyes as she gave Sister Woman a warm embrace. It was more than she expected. They were sisters but in the life they were accustomed to living, sisters were one step removed from strangers or worse. Betrayal and payback were the lifeblood of their kind. They held on to each other a little longer than usual, knowing it was probably the last time they would come together.

“We’re even now, girl,” said Sister Woman.

“Twenty four hours,” said Ruby. “Then we’ll be even.”

They left the way they came but Ruby lingered at the back door to look Sister Woman square in the eyes until she saw what she needed to see. Like so many hardened outlaws and criminals, more abused than abusing, there was tenderness beneath a cold exterior. There was true affection, even love, and Ruby was counting on it.

“Twenty four hours, baby.”

“You got it, Ruby,” said Sister Woman, her eyes welling with tears.

“I swear.”

Number Nine: Chapter 6

ORPHEUS


FADE IN:

EXT. SUBURBAN LAS VEGAS – ARIEL VIEW – DAY

Ruby’s baby blue Rambler convertible heading out of town, Ruby driving and Jake in the passenger seat.

The Beatles’ MARTHA, MY DEAR (White Album) plays in the foreground.

Hold your head up you silly girl look what you’ve done
When you find yourself in the thick of it
Help yourself to a bit of what is all around you…

EXT. DESERT HIGHWAY – DAY

Abandoned vehicles alongside the road. Close up of license plate “7FXY721” being removed. Close up of license on Baby Blue. Zoom out as Jake and Ruby kick up dust heading back to town.

EXT. LAS VEGAS – DAY

Close up of ATM cash withdrawal.

EXT. LAS VEGAS – ARIEL VIEW – DAY

Ruby drives.

EXT. CHOP SHOP OUTSKIRTS OF TOWN – DAY

Ruby exchanges cash with tattoo man.

EXT. CHOP SHOP – DAY

Ruby, Jake and tattoo man play poker around a spool for chump change.

EXT. CHOP SHOP – SUNSET

Ruby’s Rambler freshly painted ruby red. CLOSE UP of a tear rolling down Ruby’s face.

INT. CASINO – NIGHT

Slow pan reveals Ruby at a poker table with a good stack of chips, Jake at the bar with a beer, and a couple of goons in cheap suits. They are MINNIE and SLIM, employees of Guido Lazerri.

When you find yourself in the thick of it
Help yourself to a bit of what is all around you…



Ten years ago, a man named Giovanni Minolla, AKA Minnie, as much in reference to the legendary pool player, Minnesota Fats, as to his family surname, was a street vender selling sausages on the streets of Little Italy in Chicago.

Owing to a family recipe, Minnie’s sausages were reputed to be the best in a city that prided itself on old style cuisine. It was his misfortune to be stationed at a street corner just across from Guido’s Pizzeria.

As word spread, Minnie’s sausages began to cut deeply into the pizzeria’s business. Customers took to the habit of buying a sausage on the street and entering the pizzeria for its air conditioning and a cold brew.

The owner of the pizzeria was Guido Lazerri, a made man in a powerful crime syndicate. When Lazerri demanded an explanation for the decline in revenue, his manager, a beer bellied, self-promoting buffoon of a man, stammered and stuttered, afraid to inform the boss that the Lazerri recipe was second rate to that of a street vender. Guido had a reputation for volatility and not without reason.

A short, wiry busboy-dishwasher and general gopher, who went by the name of “Slim” for obvious reasons, whom everyone thought was mentally deficient because of his quiet nature and a spasmodic laugh that seemed to erupt without reason, stepped forward and told the truth.

Everyone in the restaurant froze in a slack-jawed, silent stare until a grim chuckle emerged from Guido’s throat. He fired his manager on the spot and instructed Slim to invite Minnie in for a glass of Chianti and a couple of sausages.

Minnie became the new manager of Guido’s Pizzeria and Slim became his assistant. As Guido moved up the ranks in the organization, he brought Minnie and Slim with him.

They were profoundly grateful. In a business where loyalty is as rare as it is valued, loyalty was their primary asset. Whatever their shortcomings (and they had more than their share, one of which was not being able to recognize them), they could be counted on. They would give up their lives for Guido Lazerri. They would stare down the eyes of a dragon for the honor of their boss. They were groomed from the cradle the perfect lackeys and they were proud of it.

When Guido made the move west to take over a floundering gambling operation in Vegas, Minnie and Slim went with him.

Their current assignment was to track down a murderous, double-crossing bitch by the name of Ruby Daulton and they were hot on her trail. It was not a bad place to be.


Sitting on a barstool, sipping a beer, Jake was a little bored when he heard a sound, a low-pitched humming, that summoned his attention. He looked around at the symphony of flashing lights, clanging and jingling, and tired faces.

Ruby was doing well. She sat down at the poker table less than an hour ago and already she had a sizable stack of multicolored chips, whose meaning escaped him. She was in her element, a radiant jewel in a sea of common stone. He realized that the world would always be divided between life before Ruby and after Ruby. He would have been content to watch her play, to observe her inner joy, for as long as the moment endured but the humming entered his brain and beckoned like the siren song of ancient lore.

He looked around until he zeroed in on a poker machine across the room that seemed to emit an aura in red neon. He rose from the barstool and let the force of destiny pull him in. It was once in a lifetime and he savored the moment, like a mad scientist on the precipice of a universe-altering discovery.

Standing before a red neon machine, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a single silver dollar – the kind you get only at a Vegas casino. He plugged it in, punched the deal button and watched the adventure unfold in cinematic slow motion: Jack of Hearts, King of Hearts, Ace of Hearts, Ten of Hearts, Queen of Hearts.

A ruby red sea of hearts, the colors that turn seasoned gamblers green with envy and make believers of the most devout cynics. It was the ultimate high, an affirmation of all that was good and true, the homecoming of Ulysses, and proof of a divine being.

He smiled and stood in awe at the wonders of random chance. He believed neither in chance nor in the possibility of divine intervention and so his universe was torn asunder. Gravity was deconstructed and the earth beneath his feet became a sea of constant motion. He was no longer Jake Jones. He was above and beyond the man in his moccasins. He was someone else watching Jake Jones from a distance.

He was a little surprised that the machine did not spew a fountain of coins at his feet. Instead, a flashing red light and an alarm alerted all that a miracle had occurred on the casino floor. Another lucky winner. Another confirmation of the existence of god. Elvis lives and Jim Morrison would have had it no other way. Here in the same casino where Tupac Shakur was shot down like a common thug, prayers were answered and dreams really did come true.

He felt a twinge of regret that Ruby was not there to share the moment. This was her turf, her kind of glory, and the dream that centered her existence. He looked in the direction of Ruby’s poker table but his view was blocked, a crowd was pushing in on him, and a casino doll had just arrived speaking too rapidly for comprehension.

She counted out five big ones and chump change as a collective groan emerged from the onlookers. Jake smiled. It did not occur to him that the beauty of the experience could be mediated by the size of the wager. To him it was like a Hopper painting, a good wine, a ball player on a torrid hitting streak or the red rock towers of Monument Valley, but to the dispersing crowd it was a betrayal of the gambling gods, a cruel joke, and a testament to the folly of man.

He accepted their condolences and caught a glimpse of Ruby being hustled off the casino floor by a couple of greasy suits. She looked back and he saw panic etched on her tear-streaked face. Fate took its turn and something was horribly wrong.


Ruby was a good poker player in that she recognized the players and the marks at a glance. A mark could win a hand or two but only the players won in the long haul. It was rare to find a table without at least one player but two could easily share the winnings with a handful of marks.

Ruby was nobody’s fool. She knew that the bogus credit card she got from Sister Woman would not be good for long. She needed hard currency and what better way to get it than at the Orpheus – a casino-hotel with connections to the mobster who placed her in jeopardy.

Having played less than an hour, she had collected over five grand in chips and was looking for a graceful withdrawal. She glanced over to the bar and saw a stranger where Jake should have been. She looked around and her heart stopped, the earth tilted, and the force of gravity pulled her down. The familiar face of a grotesque fat man was staring at her with a crooked smile. An alarm and flashing lights signaled another lucky winner over at the poker machines as Ruby exchanged her chips for larger denominations, left the dealer a generous tip, and calmly rose from the table. If she could only make it to where the mindless swarm was gathering to witness the thrill of victory, maybe she could lose him.

It might have worked but the fat man’s equally disgusting weasel of a partner was immediately at her side, grabbing her waist, pressing a gun to her side and guiding her to where the fat man waited.

“Sweet Ruby!” said the fat man.

“Hiya, boys,” replied Ruby, not bothering to look them in the eyes.

It was not her first encounter with the Minnie and Slim act. She knew them from her drug running days, transferring contraband from LA and San Diego to party town Vegas. There was no point in starting up a conversation. The boys did what they were told. If they had orders to kill her, she was dead. If they had orders to turn her in, she was busted. If the boss wanted a word with her, she was headed up to the penthouse suite. They were moving toward the elevators in the hotel lobby so it looked like a personal interview with the big man.

She looked back once and caught a fleeting glimpse of a Royal Flush in Hearts. She wondered if it was the last hand she would ever see.

Number Nine: Chapter 7

PENTHOUSE PERVERSIONS


FADE IN:

INT. HOTEL ELEVATOR – NIGHT

The Beatles’ BLACKBIRD (White Album) plays in the foreground.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arrive…

CLOSE UP of Ruby, flanked by Minnie and Slim. An elevator operator speaks into an intercom.

INT. HOTEL LOBBY ELEVATOR ENCLAVE – NIGHT

Jake watches the elevator monitor rise to the 54th floor – the penthouse suite.

INT. PENTHOUSE SUITE – NIGHT

A man in a stylish suit looks out over the neon Vegas strip. This is GUIDO LAZERRI, mob boss. The doors open and Ruby is escorted in, Minnie and Slim following.

Fade out BLACKBIRD: “You were only waiting for this moment to arrive…”

Fade in HELTER SKELTER: “When I get to the bottom I go back to the top…”

INSERT MONTAGE – HELTER SKELTER

A whirlwind storm, overturned cars and boats, flying objects, naked dancers on a phallic pole, targeted missiles, explosions, charred bodies, Chernobyl, Exxon-Valdez, Bhopal, dead crows, quarantine bubbles and people in chemical suits. Dark images of masked, leathered bodies and faces intermixed with butchered meat and the pummeled faces of pugilists.

Fade out HELTER SKELTER.

Fade in WHILE MY GUITAR GENTLY WEEPS.

I don’t know how you were diverted
You were perverted too
I don’t know how you were inverted
No one alerted you…



Despite the name, Guido Lazerri was no cliché. He was definitely not Al Pacino in Scarface, Marlon Brando in The Godfather or James Gandolfini in The Sopranos. He more resembled a European businessman with charm, grace and impeccable taste. He was a smooth talker whose powers of persuasion transcended business and pleasure. He was accustomed to getting his way.

As an illegitimate son of a prominent crime family patron, Guido was ideally positioned to advance in the ranks. It was a time of great turmoil when the government, consumed in a war on terror, left criminal enterprise to its own policing. When the wheels of power turned one way, Guido was protected by his bloodline. When they turned the other way, he was shielded by his status as a bastard son.

He was a master strategist, a sound businessman, a smooth operator and a perverted prick. Before the advent of a pharmaceutical solution to the limp dick syndrome, Guido had a problem with his manhood. His Italian wife had a problem with the back of his hand. She never told anyone (and perhaps she considered it her failing as a woman) but when relatives from the old country came to visit, catching a glimpse of her bruises, it was made clear that if he ever laid hand on her again, he would not live to realize his ambitions.

Guido never laid hand on her again.

Thanks to the wonders of modern pharmacology, Guido became the man he always imagined himself to be. He inhabited strip clubs and hired a harem of prostitutes specializing in the dark arts of erotic perversion.

One of his favorite clubs was Shotgun Slim’s and its owner, Antonio Menendez, became like a son to him – the son he could never produce, even with pharmacological assistance. Like nearly everyone who ever set foot in the place, Ruby Daulton was his favorite dancer but, out of respect for Tony, he never pushed it and Tony never offered.

The girls at the club talked about Guido Lazerri: He paid well but it took a week to wash the stench off the skin. No matter how kinky or masochistic a woman was Lazerri found a way to make her squirm.

Ruby knew enough about Guido to be petrified but she had a well-earned reputation in the biz as a tough girl and she would not give it up now. She would hold out for any chance, however slim, that she would survive the night.

When the boys escorted her through the door of his penthouse suite, she broke free and struck a pose like at third-rate actress at a third-rate theatre.

“Guido!” she intoned as she strutted across the room and planted a wet kiss and full body embrace on the man who held her life in his slimy hands.

Guido smiled and slapped her hard with the back of his hand. When she recovered, he slapped her again in the opposite direction. Ruby refused to fall. She took a couple of staggered steps back, wiped the blood from her lip and smiled back in defiance.

“So that’s how you want to play, hey, baby?”

Guido loved everything about her: the way she talked, the way she walked, the way she smiled, the way she took a blow and came back for more. He had never seen her cry and suddenly that is what he desired more than anything else. He wanted to break her defiant spirit. He turned to the boys, dumbfounded, and growled, “Get out!”

“Boss,” said Slim, “she’s got five grand in her pocket.”

“That’s my money,” said Ruby.

“Where you’re headed,” said Lazerri, “you won’t need it.”

Ruby felt the odds slipping as she reached into her pocket, extended her hand and dropped five grand in poker chips to the carpet. The boys scooped them up and headed out, Slim cackling under his labored breath, closing the door behind them.

“You want to know what happened?” asked Ruby.

“I already know what happened.”

“Tony’s little boys decided to give me a birthday party. They had it all planned.”

“I already know…”

“Tony had an appointment. The party was supposed to end with me bending over my own couch, their loads up my...”

“Shut up, bitch!”

“Instead, Tony dropped by for a surprise visit.”

“You liked it, baby!”

“Yeah, I liked it when he blasted their fucking heads off but I got out before he turned the gun on me.”

“All women like it!”

“Fuck you, Guido!”

Guido was coming on to his pharmaceutical hard on. He was panting like a hungry dog at the gate of a bitch in heat. He wanted her so bad he was drooling on his tailored suit.

“You ran. Why didn’t you call the police?”

“You know why.”

“You’re a liar. All women are liars!”

Hope was waning. Ruby could no longer imagine a happy ending. She had been in kinky situations before. She could smell them. Some she walked into, others walked into her. Guido was kinkier than a homeless man’s undershirt.

“Take your clothes off, baby.”

“What?”

“You want something from me? You want me to make it all go away? You’ve got to give me a reason. You’ve got to give me what I need.”

She was out of options. Time was the only one left. Guido loosened his belt and reached into his pants as Ruby began the slow dance of removing her clothing. She was a singer at heart and her heart was singing the blues as if it was the last song she would ever sing. The guitar inside her soul gently wept.

“Turn around, bitch!”

He did not want to see her face just yet, her eyes, the tears running down her cheeks. He did not want to see her passion, her hatred, her pity or the depth of her humanity. He wanted a plaything, a doll, a warm, bleeding piece of flesh into which he could insert his proof of manhood.

Ruby let the last piece of clothing, her black silk panties, drop to the floor and tried not to gag as she felt Guido’s breath on her neck, his hand on her ass, his sweaty fingers sliding up and down. She tried to imagine cotton candy at the County Fair.

There was a loud crash outside the door. Ruby spun and caught Guido off guard. She kicked as hard as she could, as if the life of her child depended on it, connecting square between his legs, and watched him crumble to the plush white carpet.

Jake came crashing through the door, gun in hand, and delivered a blow to Guido’s head that sent him to another universe where pain and suffering would be his loyal attendants, where the abuser became the abused.

Ruby embraced her hero and painted his face with a thousand kisses, tears streaming from her eyes and visions of horror worse than death fading from her mind.

Life was a strange and brutal place and yet there were men like Jake Jones, women like Ruby Dalton, who proved that it was not all bad. There was kindness, courage, dignity and beauty. And there was hope. There was still hope.

Ruby pulled on her clothing as quickly as she could and the two of them rushed out into the hall, past a cursing Minnie and Slim, hogtied on their slimy bellies, past an unconscious and tied elevator attendant, his body obstructing the elevator door.

They exited on the second floor and continued their escape by the stairwell. It was Helter Skelter and they were on the move. As long as they could keep moving, never stopping, never looking back, Ruby felt they would be all right.

They sprang into a warm and glorious Las Vegas night. It was still a magical city, a city where dreams could still come true, a city where hope was alive until the last bet was wagered, and a city where a single silver dollar could reveal the most precious and rare treasure: a royal flush in ruby red hearts. They were alive and kicking and on this particular night, with the neon lights warming the air around them, hustling through swarms of wide-eyed tourists, it was all that mattered.

Number Nine: Chapter 8

NIGHT OF THE WORM


FADE IN:

EXT. DESERT HIGHWAY – NIGHT

Ruby and Jake drive beneath a starlit sky. Pools of car light shine on a two-lane highway, heading east in a sea of sand, tumbleweed and mountains of naked stone.

The Beatles’ BLACKBIRD plays in the foreground.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free…

Fade out BLACKBIRD.

Fade in HELTER SKELTER.

When I get to the bottom I go back to the top…

INT. LAZERRI’S PENTHOUSE SUITE – NIGHT

Minnie, Slim and a security guard stand facing an enraged Guido Lazerri, his shirt undone and his fly open.

Do you don’t you want me to love you…

Guido holds a gun to Minnie’s head and holds it as Minnie breaks down and cries.

Well you may be a lover but you ain’t no dancer…

Guido places the gun on his desk and makes a phone call.

Now Helter Skelter, Helter Skelter…



Their minds flew across the barren wasteland, forgotten lands of no tomorrows, where Mother Nature’s daughter remains unspoiled, unused, untapped, naked in her thirst and virgin in desire. Particles of light danced before their eyes, painting pictures in the heart, transforming all it graces into images of living art.

In another part of the world, men and women, children and newborn babies were living with the constant, pounding drumbeat of war. Bombings, night raids, torture, rape, suffocating gas, electro-shock, burying the dead, nursing the wounded, and the ever present wailing of mothers in mourning.

Here in America, we were only beginning to awaken to the nightmare. Our money wasted, our freedom shackled, our lives of quiet desperation, sifting through the sands of time for something lost or something found to renew the dream.

“How did you do that?” asked Ruby.

Jake had disarmed three grown men without killing or being killed, without harming or being harmed, without even firing a shot. Like a native superman, he answered her hour of need when he could have easily put out his thumb and taken the next ride.

“I’m a ghost,” said Jake. His mind was still soaring on desert winds high above them, breathing in the land of his forbearers. “Kachina magic,” he added.

Ruby laughed but the pain of her swollen face choked her spirit. She was a broken girl on a road to nowhere. She had no future and her past was cut off like a severed limb. Vegas was fading in the rearview mirror, a neon dream turned night horror. Vegas was her town, the only place on earth that breathed life into her tired, broken soul. Now she realized she could never go back. Vegas used to be her town. Now she was homeless.

“Asshole,” she muttered through her tears.

Jake came to attention and Ruby smiled. “Not you, baby. I was just thinking of Tony and that worm Guido. The people we learn to trust because we’re on the same side, we go to the same joints, know the same friends, speak the same lingo. People with power. The rest of us are just peons, chumps, idiots.”

“People with dreams,” replied Jake. “People with stars in their eyes.”

Ruby ran through it a few times before deciding she liked it.

“Thanks, baby,” she said. “People with stars in their eyes.”

She drove on into the endless night, thinking about how strange life could be, how difficult it was to keep believing that everything had a purpose, that somehow everything would turn out for the best. She desperately needed to hold on to that dream no matter how unlikely it seemed, no matter how often life’s twists and turns beat her down like an ill-mannered dog. She needed to believe or she would fade away. Now more than ever she needed to be strong.

She linked up with the asshole because he offered her a life that was just a little better than the one she had – or so she thought at the time. It was a way of life, inching along, clawing and scratching, climbing up the endless stairway one step at a time. A fool’s game never delivered what it promised. She thought she could handle it and she had until fate played its hand.

The life she had lived before Tony was not all that bad: a stripper/dancer/singer, sleeping by day, working by night, consuming drugs for food, trying like hell to find the door to Hollywood success just like a hundred thousand other pretty girls just like her. Well, they were not exactly like her. Ruby could sing like Billie Holliday. She could act like a young and fearless Norma Jean, she could dance like Gwen Verdon in a Bob Fosse dream, but all they saw and all they wanted to see was flesh.

Ruby gave them what they wanted but they always wanted more. All that crap about casting couches: Ruby wished it was that easy. Sleeping with a director or producer was the surest way to put you outside the Hollywood circle. It might work if you were already inside but if you were outside looking in it kept you there. The scumbags didn’t want to be reminded of the scumbags they really were.

She sighed and imagined translucent blue light surrounding her, emanating from the core of her being. She breathed in the cool dry air and found herself floating on a sea of green waves to a paradise of tropical ease. She glanced at the golden bronze face of the man beside her and wondered how long it would be before he asked who was who and what was what. As he floated in his own wonderland of flight, she realized he never would. He was a different kind of man, a kind she had never encountered, the kind that would always be a mystery.

Ruby loved mysteries.

She felt the attraction of a Sleepy Time Motel before it came into view. She pulled off the highway onto the gravel lot and took note of a run down bar across the street.

“I need a drink,” she said.

Jake smiled, stealing a moment of reorientation as she parked in the back. They booked cabin number nine and crossed the street, walking past an old Desoto and a couple of Harley Davidson’s. When their eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, they made out two bikers at the bar, half watching a baseball game on TV, a cowboy bartender, and a couple of Navaho men at a corner table.

All eyes zeroed in on Ruby’s sensual grace. They hardly seemed to notice her bruised and battered face as she excused herself to the restroom with a wink and smile.

“What are we drinking?” she said in parting.

Jake took a quick account of the situation, the circumstance, the alignment of planets and the pull of gravity.

“Dos Gusanos,” he said.

Ruby smiled again and blew a kiss over her shoulder. It was the night of the worm. The last time she ate the worm she woke up on an unmarked grave in a pauper cemetery somewhere outside of Hornitos in the California foothills. She vaguely remembered a couple of Chicanos who went by the names of Joaquin and Three Fingered Jack. That was the last recollection she had. The worm was always good for erasing memories. What could be more perfect?

The first time Jake ate the worm he was riding a peyote vision, trading tales with Don Juan on a private tour of Ixtlan, sharing laughter and an appreciation of the lucidity of life. It was when Jake learned to fly. The last time he ate the worm he almost jumped off the edge of Grand Canyon.

The bartender poured a couple of shots with a couple of beer chasers and Jake made two trips to a table at the front of the bar, next to the door. Worm or no worm, it was the kind of place that called for a quick exit. He returned to the bar, dropped a large denomination and the bartender handed over the bottle – con gusanos.

It was half full or half empty and the evening was filled with possibilities.

When Ruby made a stunning re-entrance, the bikers swiveled on their bar stools and openly drooled as she strutted to their table, grabbed a shot and toasted, “The Worm!”

Jake took note of the bigger of the two bikers, the kind who went by “Tiny” in high school, never graduated from the football field, and later was christened “Bear” or “Moose” in a supreme insult to the animal kingdom. Trouble was brewing in the space behind his yellowed eyes and he made no effort to hide it.

One eye on Ruby and one on Jake, he hitched his jeans and walked to the old jukebox, plopped in a few quarters and pecked out a three-digit number he knew by rote. Everyone in the house had heard this tune before.

I’ve been a fool for every fallen angel…

He stood before them, leather and blue jeans, hands behind the back, like a teen at his first social, shuffling his boots and rattling his chains.

“Wanna dance?”

Ruby examined the back of his skull and went for the bottle.

“Sorry, Cowboy, I’m all danced out. Let’s go, Jake.”

Cowboy shuffled to let Ruby by and planted himself in Jake’s path.

“That’s fine, little lady. Some women like half-breeds who slap them around.”

Jake went for the balls with his knee, followed by a stiff left and pushed him back with a kick to the chest. He motioned Ruby to stand back, placed himself by a solid brick wall, lowered his center of gravity and braced. Cowboy charged him like a rabid bull, snorting and heaving as he pounded across the wooden floor.

Jake grabbed Cowboy’s clenched fists, absorbed the blow against the wall and let his body serve as conduit, channeling his aggressive force into a well-placed knee at the center of the beast’s personality disorder. The monster was dead and all that remained was a groaning mass of flesh on the floor, holding his hands like they were useless appendages.

It happened so fast the biker’s partner was still on his stool.

“Kachina magic!” announced Ruby. “Don’t mess with it.”

The Navahos at the corner table smiled and glared at the cowboys still standing.

Jake and Ruby walked out, arm in arm, like Frankie and Johnny at the height of their madness, an undeniable force, a bullet train to the heart of darkness, invincible and true. Their legend would follow wherever they went and stories would be told to grandchildren.

As they walked across the street to cabin number nine, Ruby took a swig and passed the bottle. It felt like a beginning, a bond consummated in blood, tears and the liquid language of eternal love. Ruby felt alive and Jake had no desire to be anywhere but at Ruby’s side. It did not matter that they came from different worlds. Nothing mattered but the moment and the understanding that all of life on earth was encapsulated in a single particle of time. Divinity or chance, a hand reached out of the great mystery to push two particles together and together they would remain until they broke apart.

Tonight they would drink the worm!

They sat on their king sized double bed, feasting on vending cuisine, smoking and drinking until the worm settled and their souls began to dance.

Sweet serenade of sensual rapture, wet reptilian curls, a dance of moonlight on crystalline waterfalls, the magnetic pull of black hole gravity and the salted sea of earthly desire. Paralytic enchantment, suspension of time, abdication of the laws of physics, giving without will, receiving without wonder, Jake and Ruby danced to the music of life in the swirling, twisting, writhing center of all creation.

If this was not love, then it had no name and love was filled with envy.

Captured by Ruby’s glistening white body, her movement the poetry of truth, admiring Jake’s golden grace, his heaving strength, swimming in each other’s ponds of devotion, Jake believed in love and Ruby believed in destiny.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise…