Meet Mark -- Part 4 -- "Do-Over"

A little aside:

At the tender age of three, Mark Arthur -- the almost/kinda/sorta hero of our story -- attended the 1967 World Series with his dad, with his Uncle Bob, and with Bob's thirteen-year-old son.

We can safely assume two things here. The first is that Bob is Mark's uncle by virtue of his being Mark's dad's brother. The second is that Mark's cousin is "Bob, Junior," which would explain why Mark, referring later to that cousin, said "we always called him 'B'." (Families do weird things like that. Both Bobs are actually Roberts, but "Bob, Junior" gets shortened to "B," etc.)

If those two assumptions end up being true -- and I'm the writer, so I say that they are -- the upshot of all this is that Mark Arthur's cousin is actually...

"B" Arthur.

I wasn't sure if anybody caught that.

Anyway, gang...

Previously: Our story has dwelt on the budding friendship between Mark Arthur, a self-proclaimed psychic, and John MacArthur (a/k/a "Jack Mac"), a lifelong fan of comic books. After being brought home to meet Jack's family, Mark has just explained his claim that he was once -- almost -- a real-life superhero.

Almost twenty-five years ago, after a vivid premonition showed Mark that he would literally die if he followed through with his plans to join the Navy, Mark decided on a whim to try to use his psychic powers as a comic book character would. He planned to become a costumed hero called Golden Mask! While doing research of a sort in a local comic store called That's Entertainment, Mark actually ended up foiling a haphazardly-constructed robbery.

* * * * *

Jack was incredulous. "Lemme get this straight: You caught up with this junkie who tried to rip off the comic shop, and the police arrested both of you?"

"Well, I suppose I can't blame the arresting officers. Upon their arrival, they saw two guys sitting on a lawn. One was a barely-winded golden boy -- me -- and the other was a disheveled, dope-sick disaster covered with egg! And I was the one holding an almost-empty carton of eggs."

"Almost-empty?"

"Yup," Mark answered, nodding. "I'd only had to use eleven to stop the guy in his gooey tracks."

"But once they got your statements, plus the one David at T.E. must've given 'em, didn't they just let you go?"

"That's where it got... complicated. Seems there is -- or at least, was -- a law on the books about the hurling of 'projectiles,' with an attendant five-hundred-dollar fine... per offense..."

"And a dozen eggs..."

"Eleven..."

"Would be 5,500 smackers! But what about self-defense?"

"Technically, it wasn't self-defense, because at that point, I'd followed the junkie out of the store. Evidently the Worcester police frowned on vigilante justice, so someone decided to make an example of me."

"Geez. I can only imagine how much opposition you woulda got from the cops if you'd actually gone ahead with the whole Golden Mask idea," Jack said, shaking his head. "So, what happened with the court case?"

"Well, once Paul Howley, the owner of That's Entertainment, got involved, and hired a high-priced lawyer for me, out of gratitude... the whole matter quietly went away."

"Well, I can still see how it woulda soured you on the whole deal. No wonder the Golden Mask thing never happened."

"Oh, that had nothing to do with it. I never did become Golden Mask for real, but that's not the reason."

"No? Why not, then? Did you find out there was a comic character named Golden Mask? Cuz you coulda come up with another name."

"I know. But think, Jack."

Jack did so. "Ohhh, another vision?"

Mark nodded. "You got it. One day, I was preparing my outfit..."

"Costume."

"What?"

"Costume. Or even uniform. But... not outfit."

"What earthly difference does...?"

"Guys don't wear 'outfits,' is all."

"Oh, really. More words of wisdom from some comic book seller?"

"Now that you mention it..."

"Whatever. Anyway, I was preparing my uniform, and wondering how I was going to announce Golden Mask to the world... if at all. I was also considering operating as secretly as possible, especially at first. I was getting my suit ready. I'd gotten ahold of a William Shatner mask and painted it a metallic gold, and..."

"A William Shatner mask?"

"Yeah, he played..."

"Don't you dare insult me by finishin' that sentence."

"Right. Of course. Anyway, I thought it would be funny to use one of him, because I'd read somewhere that..."

"Halloween."

"How'd you...?"

"Please. How could I be a stereotypical comic'n'fantasy geek if I didn't know they used a Shatner mask for the movie Halloween?"

"I guess you're right. Anyway, I had the mask, I had the outfit... I mean, the costume... and was admiring it where it was hanging in my closet, and all of a sudden I got this vivid image of myself chasing two guys into a corner at the end of a dark alley."

"As Golden Mask, you mean?"

"Yup. And man, did it seem real! I could feel my own sweat building up between my skin and the inside of the mask. My heart was pounding. I was practically on top of them; they both turned around to face me. One looked panicked. The other pulled an automatic out of his jacket, shoved the barrel of the thing right up against my chest... and pulled the trigger."

"Ouch," said Jack.

"Ouch? Ouch? In real life, I screamed! I dropped to my knees, as if someone had belted me in the stomach. But it wasn't my stomach that hurt, obviously. I felt like I was having a heart attack, or... " Mark paused, then took a couple of deep breaths to regain his composure. "It was ten times worse than seeing myself drown. I don't curse much, but I just looked up at that costume hanging there in that closet and said 'fuck it' under my breath. I closed the closet door before even getting up, and although I wore the other clothes in that closet for years afterward, in terms of that costume... I closed the door forever right then and there."

"When you say you 'wore those clothes for years afterward,' do you...?"

"Well, I don't still live there. It's been twenty-five years."

"Right, I get that. But what did you do with the costume?"

"I kept it. Not sure why. I almost wore it to a Halloween party once, but decided against it at the last minute."

"Why?"

"I thought back to the feeling of being shot, and figured that with my luck, I might be wearing it to go to a party, and get shot for real by the same guy from my vision."

"That's dumb. You said the visions that you let come true always happen like you saw them happen in your premonitions. All you'd have to do is just go to your stupid party, and not chase any crooks into alleys. Geez."

"Whatever. I've still got it. But I'll never wear it, Jack."

"That's dumb."

"It isn't 'dumb.' "

"It's dumb! Look, Mark, you said yourself, you're still in pretty good shape..."

"Did I say that?"

"And you've been whinin' about a wasted life..."

"When did I...?"

"So you need to pull that thing out o'mothballs, and air it out, and put it on, and make a freakin' difference in the world while you're still young enough to do it!"

"And you need to...!" Mark caught himself before saying something he knew he'd regret later. He stood up and started walking to the door. "This conversation's over."

Jack got up and started following Mark. Mark was halfway down the hallway before Jack reached the door. "It's not over!" Jack yelled at Mark's back.

When Mark reached the kitchen, he almost turned right. That would have aimed him toward the kitchen door, which connected to a breezeway which opened in turn onto a driveway shared by the occupants of the building's two first-floor apartments.

Instead, Mark turned left, exiting the kitchen's back door. He was now standing in the small back yard which was also shared by the tenants of the two first-floor apartments. Several feet away from the house was a swing set with three swings. Jack's daughter Shari was pushing her two-year-old daughter on the middle swing.

Nodding and smiling a mute greeting at Shari, Mark sat down on the little girl's right. "Want some company, kiddo?" The girl smiled and nodded.

All the while Shari pushed her daughter, the girl stared at Mark. Finally, she raised her head to look up at Shari. "Mommy, stop?" Shari stopped the swing.

The girl looked at Mark. "You want Mommy push you?" Mark laughed, as did Shari. He shook his head, and kicked off, swinging like he hadn't done in thirty-five years, at least. Shari resumed pushing her daughter, keeping up with Mark's relaxed pace.

"She's a pretty child," Mark said to Shari. He'd forgotten the two-year-old's name from their shared supper a couple of hours ago. "What was her name again?"

"Sierra."

Mark recalled an incident from about twelve years earlier, when the label on a bottle of "7 Up" briefly morphed -- in Mark's mind alone, of course -- into a label reading "Sierra Mist." This was a good three years or so before the latter product was introduced. Mark thought it was a strange, off-putting name for a soft drink.

But he thought that Sierra was just fine as a name for an adorable little girl.

"Now, you see there?" called Jack's voice from where he was standing, just outside the kitchen doorway, "I just knew you had it in you to be a swinger!"

Without turning to face him, Mark spoke to Jack. "That's a pretty lame joke, even coming from you."

"Mm."

"How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to come up with a question."

"Which is?"

"How old were you when you got... I mean, when you chased those guys into the alley?"

"I didn't really..."

"I know that!" Jack snapped. His voice was getting closer. "You said it was 'vivid,' wasn't that the word?" Mark nodded. Jack was now standing on Mark's right, next to the swing set. Mark's peripheral vision couldn't help but spot Jack as Mark's body drifted back and forth on the swing. "You said you could feel your sweat, and the poundin' in your chest... So how old were you, in that... scenario?"

Mark finally understood. He answered Jack in a way that he hoped wouldn't tip Shari off as to what they were really talking about. "Not much older than I was when I envisioned it. Twenty-three, twenty-four maybe... no more than that. Why?"

"Cuz you're a lot older than that now. It didn't happen. You prevented it just by waitin' two or three years. That's all it woulda taken. But you waited an extra... what? Twenty years?"

Mark lowered his feet and brought himself to a stop. He stared at Jack, open-mouthed.

Jack was staring back, shaking his head with an odd mix of disappointment and anger. "But it wasn't just a matter of waitin' twenty years, was it? No! It was more like wastin' twenty years. But it's still not too late! Not if you get off your... swing."

* * * *

Several weeks later, Jack and Mark were together in Jack's library. Jack stared briefly at his cell phone, before closing it and shoving it unceremoniously into his right hip pocket. "Well, that was a waste of time."

"What did your Mr. Lynch have to say, then?" asked Mark.

"All sorts of things. He's just as wordy as ever. Bottom line was, he says that if I'm literate enough to read comics, I oughtta be your 'Dr. Watson,' cuz he don't have the time... unless we're gonna pay him."

"Which isn't too likely, because I need a job... you need a job... "

"All God's chillen need jobs!"

"Cute. Do you really think we can make any money at this?"

"You're askin' me?"

"Jack, I keep telling you, I can't just conjure up visions of whatever I want to see."

"And I keep tellin' you that we're gonna try to work on that!"

"Great. So you're going to be Professor X, and I'll be one of your students?"

"Sorta. Heyyy... I thought you didn't follow comics."

Mark grinned in spite of himself. "I saw the movie." He looked away from Jack, almost guiltily. "Okay, I saw all of the movies." Mark reached into a backpack and pulled out a plastic bag containing a brightly-painted mask.

"So, Jack, what do you think? Will anybody be able to figure out that this was originally supposed to be William Shatner?"

* * * * *

Ahhh, done! And I hope it was not too obvious that I had absolutely no idea where this story was going when I began it. I only knew that I was determined to include everything my readers voted for in the comments section of "I Dunno... Whatta YOU Wanna Do?" and even some stuff that they didn't vote for... but mentioned!

I hope you like(d) Mark and Jack. We'll see them again, sooner or later.

And here's some good news for those "Theme Thursday" bloggers/followers who may have resented last Thursday's EGG theme being shoe-horned into a larger storyline... That was only a one-time thing, necessitated by Theme Thursday's being suggested in that wacky "voting" I keep mentioning! And I will do more Theme Thursday entries in the future, as the whim strikes me.

S'awright? S'awright!

Thanks for riding shotgun with me on this one, buckaroos (and... buckarettes? buckarines?)!

Meet Mark -- Part 3 -- "Golden Mask" -- A THEME THURSDAY Entry!

This introductory segment is for my regular readers who are about to encounter Meet Mark in media res, as well as those "Theme Thursday" followers who've never seen my blog before.

As author of this blog, I recently decided to ignore not one, but two of this site's unfinished projects and take some time off. Then, before I officially "returned," as it were, I threw an informal challenge at my readers and asked them to help me choose my next topic. Should I resume by finishing one -- or the other -- of the two unfinished stories? Should I come up with something entirely new, on my own? Or should I do something that would not only be entirely new, but also based on a reader's suggestion?

The response was somewhat... lackluster, shall we say? But as a line from an old joke goes (more or less), "if I take a load of hay out to the field and only one cow comes to be fed, I feed her."

(Umm... I really wasn't trying to call my faithful readers "cows" just then, I truly wasn't! I only meant that I was going to cater to those few who did bother to vote.)

Unfortunately, there were approximately as many suggestions as there were voters -- not including a couple of "suspicious" votes toward the end of this not-so-serious process -- so rather than play tie-breaker myself, I decided instead to make everyone a winner... and Meet Mark is the result!

One last thing: A single voter had suggested that I get involved with the "Theme Thursday" Blogger-bloggers, so I was faced with the additional fun task of making Part 3 -- and only Part 3 -- an egg-related post!

Let's see how I do!

Previously: We began our tale in the waiting room of a temporary employment agency, where we met Mark Arthur (a self-proclaimed psychic) and John MacArthur ("Jack Mac" to his friends, or so he insists). Jack is a lifelong fan of comic books, and as for Mark? Well, in addition to being a psychic, Mark claims that he was once -- almost -- a real-life superhero.

* * * * *

Mark and Jack now stood in the parking lot of the temp agency they'd left somewhat sheepishly. They made an odd-looking pair. Jack was a bit beefy, with a dark VanDyke beard and a shaved head, while Mark was almost too good-looking for a man, with his clean-shaven face and his short, straight, blonde hair.

"Okay, now what?" asked Jack. "You're the fortune-teller."

"Don't be a wiseguy. I told you, I can't turn it on and off like a faucet."

"Maybe you could have learned to control it if you'd taken the time to train yourself."

"Oh, really? What makes you think I never did try, Jack?"

"Maybe I'm psychic!" Mark didn't reply. "So, am I right or wrong? I mean, did you ever try to control it?"

"Not really." Mark admitted. "I... I didn't think I could."

"What a waste. And you're how old? Forty-five?"

Mark decided to change this uncomfortable subject. "Where are we going to go? I'm not going to stand around in this parking lot all day."

"Well, then, can I buy you a drink, sailor?" Jack asked, teasingly. Mark's eyes narrowed. "Hey, hey! Don't get like that. That was a joke. You know, the old cliché, plus you did say you almost went into the Navy... "

"Yeah, yeah! I got the joke. Geez!"

"Besides, I don't drink, anyway."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. Why, somethin' wrong with that?"

Mark shook his head. "No! In fact... neither do I."

"Well, okay then. Why don't we both get in our cars, and you can follow me home so I can introduce you to my lovely wife and my five-year-old son."

Mark recalled what he'd said earlier when telling Jack about how his psychic abilities worked; Mark had idly mentioned Jack's having a wife... and a five-year-old son. "Oh, my... You really have a five-year-old son? I wasn't... "

"Calm down, Mark, I'm just messin' with you."

"Jerk," Mark said under his breath, purposely loud enough for Jack to hear it.

Jack grinned. "I do have a son, but he's fourteen. And his older sister -- the mother of my granddaughter -- is nineteen."

The conversation seemed exhausted at this point, so the two men got into their respective cars and made the twelve-mile journey to Jack's spacious apartment.

It wasn't until nearly two hours later that Jack and Mark were able to resume their discussion. By then, Mark had met Jack's wife, children, and granddaughter, had shared supper with them, and had watched with amusement as the teenagers had argued over whose turn it was to get "stuck with the dishes." Mark's amusement was caused by the fact that the argument in question was merely to settle which one of the two had to load the automatic dishwasher.

Mark followed Jack to a room at the end of a short hallway. Opening the door, Jack cheerfully announced, "And here's where the menfolk retire to the library for brandy and cigars! Only you and me don't drink brandy, and neither of us smokes... "

Mark felt a slight chill. This room's thermostat seemed to be set a bit lower than those in the rest of the large apartment. "Not that I'd let anyone smoke in here, anyway... " Jack continued.

As he entered the room, Mark spun around very slowly. It was indeed a library of sorts, but one that consisted of wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-ceiling, glassed-in bookshelves filled mostly with comic books and magazines, each in their own protective bags. There were some "real" books as well, mostly paperbacks, and some ancient-looking, leather-bound hardcover volumes.

"Wow," said Mark softly. And he meant it. Jack smiled to acknowledge the oh-so-brief but heart-felt compliment.

Although Mark couldn't put his finger on exactly how Jack seemed different suddenly, there definitely was a difference in Jack, possibly because now, and only now, he was truly in his element.

Mark surveyed the room visually. There were several free-standing lamps in the room, and a small desk with a high-backed wooden chair. There were only two other chairs in the library. These were lushly-upholstered chairs positioned relatively close together in the center of the room. Jack sat in one, and motioned for Mark to be seated in the other.

"Now," began Jack, "Finish your story. And I won't interrupt... much."

That's Entertainment, in the 1980s!

Mark inhaled, then exhaled, trying to recall where he'd left off in his narrative.

"After having bought the ingredients for a hearty breakfast, I spotted the 'We buy comics' sign in the window of That's Entertainment. I was actually kind of surprised that a hobby shop like this -- I mean, what else would you call it? -- was open on a Sunday. This was the mid-eighties, after all, and there were still a lot of problems with the so-called 'blue laws... ' "

"Mark, you're doin' it again... "

"Sorry! Anyway, the door was unlocked, and in I went.

"It was fairly crowded, I thought, not that I would have known what an average-sized crowd would actually be for that kind of store, and on a Sunday morning. There were shelves lining the walls with new comics, and several banquet tables holding dozens of boxes of back-issue comics... But then again, I don't suppose I need to describe the place to you."

Jack shook his head. "No. You don't."

"There was only one guy working there, in his late twenties, I guessed. Chubby guy, with brown hair and a beard."

"Hm. Mid-1980s... Kinda tall, with a long beard? Named Steve?"

"No. Medium height, close-cropped beard."

Jack nodded. "David."

"Yeah, that's it! Dave."

"No, David." Mark looked at Jack strangely. "Sorry. Go on."

"This guy Dave -- or David, whatever -- was talking to the people as he rang them up, and talking to a couple of guys who were checking out the record albums, and talking to... Actually, he talked a lot. To everybody. But he was funny. Even after some of the people had made their purchases, they hung around for a while, like they were enjoying the show.

"He even talked to me, just to ask if he could help me with anything. He good-naturedly told me that I looked lost, and I had to laugh at that, and say that I was, in a way. He told me that if I could figure out whatever I did want, to ask him.

"Then he turned to this other guy -- David had come out from behind the register by now -- and said basically the same thing to him. The other guy didn't even acknowledge him. He was in his own little world. I thought he looked kind of strung out, actually. His forehead was sweating.

"Then it hit me. I got a clear image of the strung-out freak waving a knife in David's face. I couldn't very well say anything, not really, but I promised myself I wasn't going to leave that store while Freaky Guy was still there."

Jack leaned forward in his chair. "You could have said somethin', couldn't you?"

"Like what? 'I think this guy's going to try to rob you?' How would you have replied?" Jack shrugged, and sat back. "I thought so.

"The crowd was thinning out somewhat. By this point it was only myself, David, Freaky Guy, and three other people. Two of the three left, and I finally spoke up.

"I'd gone in there with a crazy idea: What if I tried to become a superhero like Batman or Superman? It could actually work! I figured I'd combine my mental abilities with my own athleticism. I mean, I work out, even to this day, and I lift weights, you know...

"Anyway, I was standing in That's Entertainment, envisioning the costume of this unnamed superhero that I could actually become. I'm no fashion designer, certainly, so I figured something loose-fitting in a basic black from head to toe, with matching boots, and gloves... It would give me almost a camouflage effect at night. So no big brass buttons, nor any bright chest insignia. And I wanted nothing impractical like a cape, or anything else that would stick out and be easy to grab... Just one flashy quality about it: a mask that would look like it was made from solid gold. It would look... I don't know... pure somehow?

"But I had to make sure that there wasn't already a hero with whatever name I came up with. I'd feel pretty stupid if I started my crime-fighting career by getting sued by some comic company. So I started telling this guy David that I was looking for any comics featuring a hero named... and I paused. He looked at me in anticipation, with kind of a smirk on his face, and the name 'Golden Mask' just popped into my head.

"When I asked if they had any comics featuring a character named Golden Mask, I thought he was going to be sick. I mean really, physically ill. He looked me right in the eye and said 'Is this some kind of joke? Where the hell did you get that name? No one knows about Golden Mask!'

"I realized it had just come to me, not unlike my little premonitions, but this was evidently more like telepathy... or maybe more like something else I can't even put a name to... because, as David told me, he had come up with that name first.

"He started rattling off a bunch of little facts. He said that a couple of years earlier, he'd been talking with the owner of this place... "

"Paul Howley," interjected Jack.

"Yeah. They'd been talking about publishing a 'real' comic book, based in Worcester. David went home and came up with a character -- a so-called 'costumed athlete,' no one with real powers -- named Golden Mask. A guy based right there in Worcester. A simple uniform, all black, except for a gold-colored mask -- I think he made a remark about a 'shining example' or a 'shining inspiration' -- which gave the character his name.

"Not long after, David showed up at the store again and started telling Paul Howley about the character he was developing. He didn't even get to say the name before Paul said something to the effect of, 'Oh, I already have a character. Insect Man!' "

Jack burst out laughing. "Worcester's own superhero," he said, rolling up his left sleeve. There was another tattoo.

Mark smiled. "I assume that that is Insect Man?"

"Uh-huh. Traced from a sketch by Gene Colan. You prob'ly don't know who he is either, huh?"

"Sorry, no." Mark continued.

"Did David tell you he wrote an amateur comic featuring Paul's Insect Man?"

"No. We didn't get that far in the conversation."

"He blew up the space shuttle."

"What?"

"Months before the Challenger exploded, David wrote an Insect Man story where some villain blew up a space shuttle. Who knows? Maybe David was the psychic! Maybe he read your mind, and came up with Golden Mask!"

Mark was almost irritated. "You're 'messing' with me again, aren't you?"

"Mm-hmm."

"If I may continue... ! After Paul had said that the so-called 'Worcester comic' was going to be The Adventures of Insect Man, or whatever... nobody ever got to hear about David's Golden Mask character. Not until I came along, and... and now, David rightfully wanted to know how I knew about it."

"You didn't tell him, didja? I mean, about you bein' psychic?"

"Never had the chance, Jack! There were only three people left in the store by that point: David, myself, and the all-but-forgotten Freaky Guy! And Freaky Guy, who was standing at the register, decided that he wanted immediate service. He yelled something about wanting to cash out, so David excused himself and walked to the register...

"And that's when Freaky Guy pulled out the knife I'd already 'seen' ten or twenty minutes earlier. He actually yelled 'This is a stick-up!' like something out of a bad movie.

"David just looked at him and said, 'This is a joke, right?' kind of like he'd said to me a few minutes earlier.

"Freaky Guy screamed that it was not a joke, and that David had better hand over all the money in the cash register.

"I was only a few feet away from the two of them, but I didn't dare try to get closer. Not yet, anyway."

Jack was literally on the edge of his seat. "This is great! But didn't you get any visions about how this all might end?"

"Oh, hell, no!" said Mark, cheerfully. "That would have been far too convenient! Anyway, by this time, David had taken a few steps back from the counter, and had picked up a closed umbrella from somewhere. The freak yelled something about David being too stupid to be scared. David looked at him and very calmly said something to the effect of how he wasn't scared because the guy only had a knife, and not a gun, and although an umbrella wasn't much of a weapon, it gave David a longer reach than the freak had. Then David pointed at me and said that Freaky Guy was already out-numbered by one person, unless someone else came in to increase the odds against Freaky Guy!

"I was kind of impressed, really. If David was scared, he wasn't showing it. And the freak was getting rattled. He was either high, or more likely, dope-sick. He looked at me, then back at David. 'What if I go for him?' he said. 'You gonna take a chance with the life of one of your customers?'

"David burst out laughing at that one. 'You're kidding, right? You see the size of his arms, dude? He'll kick your ass!' Without looking away from the would-be robber, David reached under the counter, for the telephone. 'Okay, this is over now. I'm calling the police, so you need to leave.' "

"Neat," said Jack. "Then what?"

"Still waving the knife around, this Looney-Tunes... "

"Looney-Tunes?" echoed Jack.

Mark shrugged. "I got tired of calling him Freaky Guy... Anyway, he kept waving the knife around, but he took a few steps away from me and pulled a cigarette lighter out of his pocket with his other hand. He flicked it to light it, and held it a few inches above a box of expensive back issue comics. He said if he didn't get the money, he'd set the whole place on fire. Plastic bags, old paper... Big threat, right?

"David didn't seem to think so. 'Maybe if those books were soaked with frigging gasoline... ' Then David looked directly at me. 'And maybe if that lighter wasn't a Bic... '

"A Bic disposable, I thought. Of course. I moved several steps forward and punched the sweaty idiot right in the face. He dropped the lighter; as soon as he let it go, naturally, it went out! So much for torching the comics."

"What a dork!" exclaimed Jack.

Mark nodded. "Lamest robbery attempt I've ever seen."

"So then what happened?"

"The freak bolted for the door. I wasn't expecting him to do that -- don't say it! -- and he got by me. I heard David swear, and I told him, 'Call the cops! I'll either stop him or slow him down!' "

"Did you really think you'd be fast enough to catch him?"

"I didn't have to be! I grabbed my bag of breakfast goodies and charged out of the comic shop. I yelled at the top of my lungs for the junkie to stop. He didn't, of course, but he was stupid enough to twist around so he could see me, running several feet behind him. And that's when the first egg hit him. Hard."

"The first... egg?"

"You bet. An egg. And I had a whole dozen to throw at him. That first one caught him right in the side of the face, and he let out one hell of a scream."

"A scream? What a candy-ass!"

"Hey, have you ever been hit with a high-velocity egg? Or a high-velocity anything, for that matter?"

"Well... "

"Look, Jack, I was in my prime. And I'd been a ball-player for almost my entire life. If you got hit with something I pitched at you, you'd know it!" Jack shook his head, half from disbelief, and yet, half with admiration, as well. "I kept after him, running a few steps, then stopping completely to wind up and throw another... I caught him in the back of the head with one or two, and two or three times in the face because he was dumb enough to keep looking back -- first time I've ever seen anyone do that outside of a movie or a TV show -- and I landed a few real stingers on the back of his neck... He finally collapsed in a gooey heap on the over-grown lawn in front of a closed-up restaurant. "

"Wow. Did the cops ever show up?"

"Yeah. Heh. They sure did... " Mark shook his head, ruefully. "And they arrested both of us."

* * * * *

Next: The wrap-up... and a hint of things to come. See you on -- or before -- Monday!

Meet Mark -- Part 2 -- "What's So Funny About Funnybooks?"

Hey, folks! This is not the "Theme Thursday" post! That will be posted at 11 AM today (Thursday, April 9th). This part -- Part 2 -- was posted at 11:15 PM on Wednesday, April 8th!

Last time: We began our tale in the waiting room of a temporary employment agency, where we met Mark Arthur (a self-proclaimed psychic) and John MacArthur ("Jack Mac" to his friends, or so he insists). While Mark politely answered questions about his psychic abilities from skeptical Jack, Jack casually mentioned having enjoyed comic books (and superheroes) as a boy. Mark then told Jack that "when I was a much younger man... I almost became one."

* * * * *

"You almost became a superhero?" said Jack, eyes and mouth agape. "What woulda been your super power?" he asked, mentally answering his own question even as it escaped his lips. "D'oh!" (And yes, Jack actually said "D'oh!") "The psychic thing. Of course."

"Of course."

"So, why didn't ya?"

"Slow down, slow down. Don't you want to hear anything about my childhood, and about how I became aware of my powers, and my... ?"

"Actually, Mark, I'm mostly interested in the superhero thing. But if you insist on givin' me the whole 'secret origin' bit, I... "

"My what?"

"Your secret origin. All the comic book superheroes got 'em. It's how and why Bruce Wayne became Batman, and Hal Jordan became Green Lantern, and Barry Allen became the Flash... "

"Wow, Jack, you must have read a lot of funnybooks when you were a kid."

"You mean comic books, and... uhhh... yeah. I guess so. Anyway, when did these 'powers' of yours hit? When you reached puberty?"

"Puberty? That's a strange question. Why on earth did you ask that?"

"I dunno. That's usually when mutants like the X-Men discover theirs." Another comic book reference. Mark just stared at Jack. "Okay, I'll shut up now."

"I was incredibly young when I first started getting these visions. So young, I can't recall exactly when they began. But the first one I remember clearly happened when I was only three."

"Three?"

"Yup. My Dad was a big-time Red Sox fan. He placed a ball and glove in my hand while I was still in my crib. He put in a lot of overtime hours at work, and pulled every string he could pull to insure that he and I got to attend all four home games of that year's World Series, along with my cousin and uncle."

"Lemme guess: The '67 World Series? Wow!"

"Of course. My thirteen-year-old cousin held up a sign that said 'YAZ for Mayor' during one of the early games. We had a great time, right up until sometime during the seventh game, the tie-breaker. It was during the second inning, before either team had scored, and I started crying, uncontrollably."

"Aww, no. Cuz of a vision?"

"Yup," Mark said, nodding. "I started screaming, 'They're gonna lose, Daddy, they're gonna lose!' Over and over again, until my Uncle Bob finally yelled, 'Hey, will you shut up, you little jinx?' Man, it was awful! But as young as I was, I knew what the outcome would be after 'watching' that grounder roll through Buckner's legs!"

"Buckner? Buckner? That wasn't the '67 series, that was... Oh. My. God." Mark just nodded again, grimly. Jack literally got chills.

Neither man spoke for almost a minute.

Finally, Mark broke the silence by saying, "When you said my abilities aren't very useful, you didn't know the half of it. If anything, they've set up a series of stumbling blocks for me, all my life."

"How's that?"

"There've been a lot of times when I was about to do something, or go somewhere, or otherwise try something that a vision told me wasn't going to work out in one way or another. So I ended up not bothering to finish the job, or whatever it was I was doing. A lot of people thought I'd just chickened out. I mean, it's not like I could possibly know something was going to screw up, right?"

Jack laughed sympathetically.

"Then, when I was around twenty, I was this close to joining the Navy" -- Mark was holding his right hand in the air, thumb and index finger almost touching -- "and I got an intense, horrible image of myself, drowning. I broke into a cold sweat and left the recruiter's office before he could put the paperwork in front of me to sign."

"Boy, that was close!" said Jack. "I mean, if you'd actually signed up, you might never have had the chance to prevent... " Jack's voice trailed off, as he and Mark suddenly realized the same thing.

"You're really starting to believe me, aren't you, Jack?"

Jack sighed. "Maybe I am."

"Well, try to imagine how I felt after running out of there like that. I'd wanted to join the service to do something productive while I could still direct my life in a positive way. Maybe that sounds corny and old-fashioned... "

"Maybe to some people. Not to me."

"...but my Dad was very 'gung-ho America,' the type who backed the man in the White House regardless of his party, a fan of John Wayne movies, and a lover of baseball, the All-American sport... The hippie '60s and the Watergate years weren't good to him, or my family in general. My Uncle Bob's son, Bob Junior -- we always called him 'B' -- ran off to Canada during the 'Nam years. And now my dad's only son wasn't turning out to be anything special. It bothered him; I could see it. And it bothered me. And with powers like mine, I figured I shouldn't be such a loser. If anything, I should be better than other people! Well, not 'better,' exactly, but... "

"It's okay, Mark, I know what you mean. 'With great power comes great responsibility,' and all that."

"Huh? Yeah... I guess so. Whatever. Anyway, to make a long story short... Did you ever hear of a comic book shop called That's Entertainment, on Chandler Street?"

"You're kiddin', right? Of course I have! But they haven't been on Chandler for... I dunno... fifteen, twenty years." Jack suddenly realized that Mark was staring at him. And smiling. Jack shook his head and chuckled. "Okay, okay, I'm busted. I didn't just read comics when I was a kid. I still do. Ah, hell, lemme show you somethin'," Jack added, rolling up his right sleeve. On his bicep was an absolutely beautiful tattoo of Spider-Man.

"Wow, that's... pretty impressive."

"The guy who did it traced it from an old Romita illustration. I wanted Ditko, of course, but he didn't have any in his shop, and I wasn't about to let him trace any of my original comics. It was either Romita or McFarlane. Of course, I thought of some of the Marvel Tales Ditko reprints later, but... " Mark was staring again, this time blankly. "You don't have the slightest idea what I'm talkin' about, right?"

"Riiiight."

"Fine. Then you tell me about That's Entertainment."

"Okay. I was about twenty, twenty-one. It was a Sunday morning. I'd stopped at a little convenience store to pick up a few things so I could make a late breakfast. Walking home, I saw a sign made up of individual letters, saying something to the effect of, 'We buy comic books, records, baseball cards... ' Like I said, something like that. And I thought of the comic books I'd read when I was a kid. Mighty Samson, Magnus, Dr. Solar, Turok, Tarzan, Space Family Robinson... "

"Holy... ! Those are all Gold Keys!"

"If you say so. Who cares? I just liked their covers better than the other ones."

"Where the hell did you shop?"

"Can we please stay on the subject?"

"Fine. Sorry. Geez!"

"So I started thinking about superheroes. And super powers. And I figured, what have I got, if not a super power? But what kind of superhero would use nothing but his mind?"

Jack was almost bouncing up and down in his chair. "Ah-hah! See? If you'd read DCs or Marvels, you wouldn't even have to ask that!"

"Oh, for... ! Will you calm down, Jack?"

Between Jack's enthusiasm, and Mark's exasperation, neither of them had noticed that the dividing door between the agency's waiting room and the main office had opened. Several members of the agency's staff were standing there, staring at the two men who were having such an animated conversation.

Mark looked pointedly at Jack. "Umm... Maybe we should finish this discussion elsewhere?"

"You read my mind," said Jack. Mark just shook his head.

* * * * *

Next time -- in only a few hours! -- a "Theme Thursday" entry, the "secret origin" of Golden Mask... and I get to appear in my own story!

Meet Mark -- Part 1 -- "Nothing But Time"

Welcome to Part 1 of Meet Mark. This is what I've come up with after the very strange "voting" that recently went on in this blog's comments section!

This first segment -- a very sedate beginning, admittedly, just laying some groundwork -- will be relatively brief, because I wanted to have something up for today, Monday. I'll post the second installment when it's ready. And as far as how many parts there will be... I have no idea, nor am I overly concerned about it, frankly. Maybe two, maybe three... maybe twenty-eight, plus an epilogue. (It wouldn't be the first time, right?) I'm going to relax and let this story unfold at its own pace, and if it starts getting too jumbled, or boring, or whatever... Feel free to tell me, and maybe I'll just chuck the whole thing at some point.

But... probably not. We all -- and "all" includes me, too -- need to have a little faith in me as I get back in the swing of things!

* * * * *

During the last few weeks, Mark had learned more than a little about the various temporary employment agencies in the Worcester, Massachusetts, area. They all had basic similarities, of course, but each had its own unique points as well. He liked to bounce from one to another, just for the freshness of the experiences.

(Well, there was that, and at least one other reason he chose different agencies on different days... but we're getting ahead of ourselves.)

Today Mark sat in the sparsely-decorated waiting room of an agency he'd utilized only once before. The waiting room was a windowless room at the end of a dark corridor. The agency's main office consisted of an uncertain number of cubicles beyond a solid door that connected to the waiting room.

The door to the main office remained shut, except for when one of the agency's employees magically appeared to hand a newly-arrived job applicant a form to fill out, or whenever an applicant was summoned into -- or returned from -- the inner sanctum, as it were. And for some strange reason, the agency's staff always escorted applicants out through a door in the rear of the main office once said applicants were done for the day.

The waiting room's decor consisted of a dozen or so metal folding chairs, most of which were positioned around either of two round tables. Each of the tables had a plastic cup filled with tiny pencils. A television which showed a mix of daytime talk shows and afternoon infomercials sat on a high shelf in a corner of the waiting room. The television's volume had been set at a slightly uncomfortable level, a bit too high.

There was only one person in the waiting room other than Mark, and that was a bald man with a dark brown VanDyke beard who looked to be in his mid-forties. Mark's age, more or less.

The door to the main office opened, and a short, average-looking young woman with light brown hair emerged, softly calling out what sounded to Mark like his name. He stood; so did the bald man.

The bearded man and Mark looked at each other quickly, then at the woman. She glanced at the sheet of paper in her hand quizzically, muttered "Ahhh," and said, much more loudly, "Which one of you is John?"

The bald man said "That'd be me," as the woman giggled. "Mind lettin' me in on the joke?"

She pointed at John. "When I came out, I only called your last name, MacArthur," she began.

Mark finished her thought, extending his hand to John. "And my name just happens to be Mark. Mark... Arthur."

John shook the proffered hand, nodding. "Got it. I don't need no houses to fall on me."

Mark sat back down, positioning his chair to face the television, as John followed the woman into the main office.

An infomercial for an unusual dating service began. Mark broke into a broad grin as the program's angle became clear. The dating service was run by a small group of self-proclaimed psychics, who promised to work together for their clients in order to steer them toward those who were sure -- destined, even -- to become their most successful matches.

Mark shook his head at one point, thinking, What a racket! I must have missed my calling.

After ten minutes or so, John returned to the waiting room, accompanied by a different, older, and somewhat prettier woman. She wordlessly motioned for Mark to join her as she returned to the main office.

Mark's interview only took about five minutes because they had his information on file from his last visit. After the interview, he exited the main office the same way he'd come in, instead of using the rear door.

John MacArthur was watching the psychic dating service infomercial, laughing softly. He looked over his shoulder at Mark.

"This is such a crock," he said, meaning the program.

Mark sat down at the same table as John, nodding. "It sure is. It gives a bad name to real psychics."

John looked at Mark as if he were unsure whether Mark was joking. "Isn't that like sayin' real ghosts, or vampires, or maybe leprechauns? I don't suppose you believe in the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny too, do ya?"

Mark smiled amiably, but asked "So... umm... John, was it?"

"Nahhh, call me Jack. Everybody does. It's my nickname since high school, 'Jack Mac!' "

"Okay. So, Jack," Mark continued, "I take it you don't think there are any real psychics?"

"Course not. Load o'crap."

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure, yeah. I mean, as much as you can be about anything, y'know." Mark nodded again. "I mean, what's that old expression? You can only be sure of death and taxes?"

"Something like that."

"Especially in this state," John -- that is, Jack -- added, referring to the certainty of taxes in Massachusetts.

"And if I were to tell you that I'm a psychic... ?"

"I'd say you're either full of it, or just pullin' my leg," Jack said good-naturedly. He looked Mark in the eye. "Are you sayin' that?"

"Yes," answered Mark.

"No kiddin'. Okay, tell me what I'm thinking right now."

"I can't. I'm not telepathic; I don't read minds."

"I know what 'telepathic' means. But anyway, how about you tell me what's gonna happen in the news tomorrow. Or are you one o'those guys that bends spoons an' stuff?"

"No, you were right the second time. I'm precognitive. A fortune-teller, you might say."

"Stop definin' stuff for me, willya?"

"Sorry."

"Just cuz I don't really believe in it doesn't mean I don't know nothin' about it. I usedta like comic books when I was a kid, but I never hadda believe in Spider-Man to know he could stick to walls, and shoot webs, and all that other stuff."

Mark apologized again, and made a mental note not to judge Jack solely by his speech patterns.

"So if you can tell the future," Jack began, resuming his good-natured grilling, "how come you're unemployed? Get hit with a lay-off you didn't see coming? Or maybe... " He paused.

"Or maybe," Mark said, smiling, "I'm one of those psychics who had his own shop, but didn't see that it was going to fail?"

Jack teasingly acted shocked. "Oh my God! How'd you know I was gonna say that? Are you psychic, or somethin'?" Both men laughed.

"No," admitted Mark, "My abilities had nothing to do with my saying that. I just get asked that a lot."

"I'm not surprised, if you go around tellin' perfect strangers that you can see the future."

"Actually, I don't tell too many people. But I knew you'd be willing to have an open-minded discussion about it."

Jack's eyebrows raised. "I assume that when you say you knew... "

Mark nodded. "Yes, this time I am talking about my... I hate to call them powers, but... " Jack shrugged. "As it happened, right about the time you made your comment about death and taxes, I was seeing a very strong image of you saying 'How did you know I'd say that?' followed by another image of the two of us laughing about it."

"Image? Like, a vision?"

Mark nodded again. "That's generally how it works for me. Let's say you and I hit it off so well that you take me home to meet your family."

Jack grinned. "Okay, let's say that."

"Five or ten minutes before arriving at your home, I might get a vision of your wife, standing in the middle of your living room. Or maybe I'll see an image of your five-year-old son, playing in his room upstairs. It's usually short-term, inconsequential things. Sometimes it's long-term. I might see your son at his high school graduation, instead." He thought for a moment. "Once, I got a really strange image, totally out of the blue, of the guy who played Gopher on The Love Boat standing around with a bunch of congressmen. This was years before he actually ran for office and got elected."

"Why'd you get that picture? Were you watchin' the show?"

"No, that's just it. I was actually in the middle of a baseball game. Playing in one, that is, not watching one."

"This so-called power of yours doesn't sound very useful."

"It usually isn't," Mark agreed. "It's often just plain distracting. But sometimes it comes in handy. I'm occasionally shown something that might happen, but that I can prevent. Usually small things. Someone's walking toward me, and I get an image showing them stumbling and falling because of a cracked piece of sidewalk. I yell, 'Hey, watch your step, there!' and he or she avoids tripping."

"Huh."

"And it's not something I can channel in any useful direction, ordinarily. So if I'm buying lottery tickets... " Jack started laughing. "You're thinking of the old line about how we never see a headline reading 'Psychic wins lottery,' right?"

Jack nodded vigorously, still laughing. "Yeah! Who said that, anyway? George Carlin?"

"Jay Leno. Carlin gets credit for everything, somewhere along the line. But actually, there have been headlines like that. Google the term sometime."

"I will, I will," Jack agreed, composing himself. "So, you ever get to prevent somethin' really important? Save a life, or somethin' like that?"

"Oh, I've made a difference, a few times... " Mark paused for a moment, and looked at Jack very seriously. "You mentioned comic books a few minutes ago. I don't suppose you believe in superheroes, do you?"

Jack smiled, "Yeah, about as much as I do vampires and leprechauns." Mark laughed. "And psychics," he added, playfully. "Why?"

"Well... When I was a much younger man... I almost became one."

* * * * *

Next time -- maybe -- another one of those oh-so-subtle plugs for my comic retailing alma mater, That's Entertainment! Or maybe that will come in Part 3. Or Part 4. Or Part 6. Or Part 14. Or Part 23. Or Part...Join me here soon for "Meet Mark -- Part 2 -- "What's So Funny about Funnybooks?"

Introduction to the "Dover Street" Stories, CONCLUSION

What follows are random afterthoughts from a true story. However, names and other identifying details have been changed, because of that fact.

* * * * *

And saving the best for last... Whatever happened to Bella?

She and I didn't see each other for several months after I stopped visiting the other streetwalkers in Worcester, as it turned out. I did cruise up and down Main Street once in a while, usually after work, just to search for her, but... nothing. Not for a while, anyway.

Bad timing, I guess.

When I did finally find her, I couldn't help but notice that she was now walking with a pronounced limp. Her right calf now had a slight bow shape to it.

When I picked Bella up, she matter-of-factly told me that not long after she and I had last been in touch, she'd ripped off a vic to the tune of close to $200. A few weeks later, he was in Worcester again, spotted Bella, and purposely rammed his car into her.

She almost died.

"Every one of those guys is potentially dangerous, and every one of those guys only has to remember one face. Yours," I'd told her. And for once, I hated the fact that I'd been so right.

In spite of how close we'd been the last time I'd seen her, I almost felt like she'd forgotten who I really was. Bella talked to me like I was one of the many customers she'd stolen from in the past. She told me, almost cheerfully, that because of her deformed leg -- she called it her "Frankenstein leg" -- she wasn't able to run from vics like she did before, so if I actually wanted to do something for the money...

It was at about this time that I reminded her of what we were to each other, or at least, what we had begun to be...

And the friendship -- the real friendship -- resumed.

As it did so, I was struck by the contradictions in Bella.

Here was a young woman who'd steal a man's money, if she could, and if she couldn't, would passively -- as opposed to willingly -- be his plaything. But this was the same woman who'd make the sign of the cross every time we drove by a church, and the same woman who was in tears the day she was picked up by the police for an outstanding warrant... because later that day, her son was scheduled for his First Communion, and she was going to miss it.

Here was a woman who'd literally been without a place to sleep on several occasions. I'd been told about times she'd broken into condemned buildings for shelter. But this was the same woman who would be borderline insulting to a waitress as she gave her oh-so-specific meal order, as if she'd been accustomed to receiving the very best service and accommodations all her life. (And by "oh-so-specific," I mean... well, did you ever see Meg Ryan's character ordering a meal in "When Harry Met Sally... "? Just ordering a tuna sandwich was a project for Bella.)

Here was a woman who would tell me all sorts of creative stories (i.e., lies) in hopes of talking me out of as much money as I could possibly see fit to give her. (Years later, I told her truthfully that I'd known that these scams were indeed scams, but was basically making her work for money I would have given her anyway. I told her I'd been paying for the entertainment. She was amused and furious at the same time, if such a thing is possible.) But this was the same woman who -- once we were firmly established as friends, I should add -- wouldn't steal so much as a dollar from my wallet if I casually left it on the bureau.

During the next three years or so, I fell in and out of touch with Bella several times. We'd usually see each other on a regular basis for a few days or weeks at a time, and then follow each of these periods with one where we didn't see each other at all for months.

But it was rarely dull.

She had an on-again, off-again relationship with a guy named Ronnie. He was never overly friendly to me, but he did accept me as being just a friend of hers. Most men in his exact position would only have tolerated me if they thought I was a trick. He knew that I wasn't, so thankfully, Bella didn't need to produce money every time she visited with me.

Outside of Ronnie, she didn't seem to like men very much. And that extended to almost all men, not just her vics. (There were some molestation issues at some undefined period in her past, as is far too often the case with women I've known.)

But she and I had something special, and in case you're wondering, it stayed platonic between us. The closest we ever came to anything "romantic" (and not sexual), for lack of a better word, was one day in my kitchen, during a period when she'd spent a few days staying with me at my apartment.

She asked me, "David, how do you kiss?" And by "you," she meant me specifically, of course.

Well, the obvious answer to that would be, "It's not really something I can describe... I'd have to show you." But I only said the first half, waiting for her to "pick up the spare," as it were. My hesitation was to avoid seeming even the slightest bit manipulative. "I don't like perverted men!" she had once told me in response to a silly but otherwise harmless joke I'd made where I'd supposedly taken the word "fork" to mean the other, much more popular "F" word.

But she didn't follow through.

Usually, when we were at my home for any length of time, we spent a lot of time watching my boxed sets of "Highlander" episodes on VHS. She enjoyed the series quite a bit, but until I corrected her, thought that the character of "Methos" was named "Meatballs!"

And there was a day when she and I had arrived at my place, both dead tired for one reason or another. We sat on my very small bed, talking for a bit, and before I knew it, we were both reclining, with our heads on the pillow. I don't know which of us dozed off first, but it wasn't long at all before the other one followed.

We awoke at roughly the same time. I thought of making a crack about our having "slept together," but since I generally walked on eggshells when discussing anything remotely sexual with Bella... I didn't.

She told me that she'd never trusted anyone -- outside of boyfriends, naturally -- to the point where she'd allowed something like that to happen. But she felt safe with me.

Her attitude was remarkably upbeat for someone who had lived through -- and was living through -- so much outright crap in her life. When I commented on that one day, she laughed and said "Hakuna matata, baby!"

"Excuse me?"

"Hakuna matata."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It's like... " She paused. "It's like, everything's cool, no worries for the rest of your days, you know?"

"That's obviously not Spanish. Where'd you pick that up?"

"You're kidding, right?" I shook my head, no. "It's from 'The Lion King!' Haven't you seen that?" I shook my head again. "Really?"

"Hey," I replied, rather defensively, "you're the one with two kids, not me."

Bella tried to explain what a good movie it was, for adults as well as children, but I wasn't interested.

If it'll make you feel any better, I did eventually see it, and loved it. Especially the sex scene ("Can You Feel the Love Tonight"). And don't tell me you didn't know that that is what's really going on there.

Bella and I even had a huge falling out, somewhere around 1996. I was going through a short-lived but exasperating financial pinch, but stopped in Worcester to see her.

She asked for money that I couldn't -- not wouldn't -- give. I told her I couldn't help her.

She immediately turned into an outright Bitch. (Yep, with a capital "B.")

I'd dealt with Bella the Addict before, but never like what I dealt with that day. She pretty much accused me of lying to her, of "holding out" on her. "You just got out of the flea market," she said -- this was a Sunday afternoon -- "so don't tell me you got nothin'."

"What I have is going toward my rent," I told her truthfully.

She demanded the money.

Again, I couldn't have afforded to give her anything if I'd wanted to. But telling me to give it to her was showing more gall than she'd ever shown me before. I began to get angry.

"What is this sense of entitlement you have about my money?" I asked her. "Just because I have some doesn't mean I can afford to hand it to you!"

We were in my mother's car that day. (I must have been "in between" cars, since this was more than a year after I'd bought the car which gave me the freedom of mobility that allowed me to move from my sister's house in Southbridge to my own apartment in Webster.) Out of respect for my non-smoking mother, I didn't smoke in her car, nor did I allow anyone else to do so. Knowing this, Bella lit up a Newport and absolutely and childishly refused to put it out.

Well! Disrespecting me was bad enough, but disrespecting my mother, even indirectly... ?

I pulled over and told her to get the hell out of the car. She refused to do that, too.

We drove around some more. I pulled over again. We argued some more. She was still demanding money.

While we were parked in an otherwise-empty parking lot, Bella opened the door to throw out her cigarette (only because she'd finished it). Why she didn't just throw it out the open window, I'll never know.

The parking lot we were in was a fenced-off lot for a strip joint that wouldn't be open for a few hours more. I decided that sitting there for any length of time was probably not a good idea. "Would you please close the door so we can get out of here?" I asked.

Of course, she refused to do that, too.

"Bella, close the door," I repeated. She ignored me. It was only ajar by a little bit, so I reached across her to grab the inside door handle so I could pull it closed, but she braced her leg against it, which opened it far too wide for me to reach it.

I was getting angrier by the minute. "Fine. Be that way," I said, starting the car. I put the transmission in "drive" and drove to the lot's exit. "Are you going to close it now?"

"Nope." She was acting like a four-year-old!

I pulled out of the lot, and into traffic. "Are you going to close it now?"

"Nope."

"Okay, have it your way," I said, with a deceptively calm tone. I took a side street which ended on Main Street.

"Where are you going?"

"Main Street." I paused. "You realize, of course, that if you keep that door open, a cop will spot us, and stop us." She didn't answer. "I'm not doing anything illegal. But the cops know you." She didn't speak, nor did she look at me. "I sure hope you don't have any outstanding warrants or... "

She closed the car door.

I drove across Main Street, and onto a side street beyond a convenience store. I stopped the car. "Get out."

She didn't actually say "no," but the defiant look in her eyes said it for her.

"If you'd like, I'll give you three different reasons why you'd better change that 'no' to a 'yes' and get the fuck out of this car, now."

That's the thing about me. When I do get angry or am otherwise determined about a particular subject, I brook no argument. And I'm usually so agreeable and easy-going that people don't know how to deal with it when I'm not. But that's their problem.

Her features softened. She looked defeated. And she was. She opened the door and stepped out, but before she closed the door -- gently -- she sadly said, "I just know you're never gonna stop for me again," like she'd done nothing wrong.

Well, "never" ended up being several months. I was in Worcester for legitimate errands once in a while during those months, and I saw her a couple of times, but after purposely making eye contact with her, I drove right by her.

Eventually, though, I stopped. And she apologized. Repeatedly. Profusely.

Finally, she said, "So, we're back to square one? Clean slate?"

"Actually," I said, "I was looking forward to having you kiss my ass just a bit more before I give in and forgive you completely." She stared at me, wide-eyed. "Kidding. Only kidding."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Remember when you said you could give me three good reasons to get out of your car?"

"Yesssss... "

"What were they?"

I laughed. "Who knows? I just made it up to sound threatening." I was tempted to check out the look on her face, but didn't. "Worked, though, didn't it?"

She didn't reply. I suppose she didn't dare.

It took a little while, but our friendship did eventually get back to where it had been. I suppose that's a good thing, too, because Bella actually ended up saving my life. And not just once, but maybe even twice.

No, really.

Hell, it'd be three times if you were to count that time she showed up while I was having my little confrontation with Jeff, but I don't count that. I may have been in a tight spot there, but I never really thought that my life was in danger.

Denial? Perhaps. But it's all mine, baby!

Anyway, let me explain that "maybe even twice."

My friend John had owned a large, heavy television with all sorts of cool options. One day, it kinda/sorta went "snap, crackle, pop" and died. John replaced it with a new set, and told me that if his old one was able to be repaired, I could have it, as long as I footed the bill to fix it.

Sounded good to me.

The repair costs were hefty -- somewhere over $200 -- but according to the cool old guy who ran the repair shop, the manufacturer no longer included half the features (for free, that is) on newer versions of this model than the one that I had. So I ended up saving several hundred dollars.

The TV stayed in my car for a few days after I'd had it repaired. On the day I decided to move that big bastard into my apartment, Bella was with me.

"Want some help with that?" she asked.

"Nahhh, I can handle it." I made it from the car to my porch, up the six or seven steps and across the porch itself, through the kitchen, and into the hallway... where I stopped. The living room -- the TV's ultimate destination -- was only one room away.

But something inside of me was saying, "Put the set down here and now, or both it and the idiot carrying it are going to fall... and land badly."

I didn't like the way I was breathing, and my chest felt like someone was standing on it.

"Are you okay?" asked Bella. I turned to face her, and I don't know what she saw other than my gorgeous self, but she looked like something had scared the crap out of her. She took one of my hands and yanked me toward the bedroom.

"Lay down," she commanded.

Somewhere in my mind, I remember composing a feeble joke to the effect of "Not tonight, dear, I have a headache," but the words didn't want to make the long journey from brain to lips, so my mouth stayed uncharacteristically shut.

I'd had several instances of chest pains before this one, often after episodes of physical or emotional stress. This time, however, I thought back and couldn't recall any prior experiences that left me in so much pain, as well as being somewhat breathless and relatively light-headed.

Bella asked me once more if I was okay, and started talking to me. At first, my thinking was a bit fuzzy, so whatever she was saying didn't really register. But after a while, I started picking real words and sentences out of the calming sound her voice was making.

She told me about how she'd tried her hand at modelling when she was in high school. From previous conversations, I knew that there were a lot of unhappy moments in her childhood. But during these few minutes, as her soothing voice regaled me with events of her past, it was as if all the bad things had never touched her.

I've read enough about heart attacks to know that one of the pieces of sage advice they give you when you think you're having one is to relax and remain calm.

Relax and remain calm.

Riiiiiight.

I don't know about you, but my general reaction to the remotest thought that I may be having a heart attack is to think, "OHMIGOD!!! I'M HAVIN' A FUCKIN' HEART ATTACK!!! I'M GONNA DIE!!! I'M GONNA FUCKIN' DIE!!! WAAAAAAUUUUUUGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!"

...or words to that effect.

But Bella distracted me, which did a better job at calming me down than anything else probably could have.

It was only later, when I was returning her to Worcester, that Bella told me about the day her mother had had a heart attack. Bella stood there watching for a few moments... completely panicked... and left the house!

The only reason her mother ended up being rushed to the hospital that day was that a neighbor chanced upon the scene and called an ambulance.

But when I evidenced heart attack symptoms, Bella sat with me, held my hand, and "talked me down," as it were.

However, since I'm not 100% sure that these "symptoms" were a bona fide heart attack, I call this the day that Bella "maybe" saved my life.

There was another time, a year or two later, when she definitely saved my life. A real personal story. And although I hate doing this to you yet again, because it's so very personal... I'm not going to tell it.

Sorry.

No, I really am.

But suffice it to say that if she hadn't been there for me, I honestly wouldn't be alive to be writing this.

So. That's my Bella. A manipulative, selfish, uptight, demanding, untrustworthy little drama-queen/hooker/thief...

...whom I happen to love.

I'm not one of those people who says "I love you" and expects or demands that the sentiment is immediately returned. So the first couple of times I said it, I didn't expect to hear her say the same to me. And she didn't.

But it was possibly the third time I said 'I love you" to her that she replied, "I love you, too," and I was floored.

"Really?"

"No, fake," she replied sarcastically.

Damn. She'd really meant it. "I... just never expected to hear that from you," I said, truthfully.

In 1998, Bella wound up incarcerated in MCI-Framingham. During the months she was there, I wrote to her, visited her, and sent money to her, just as I had written to, visited, and sent money to Dawn three years earlier.

After Bella got out, she moved in with her mother (and Bella's two sons), got a real job at a Worcester restaurant, stayed "clean," and seemed to be getting her life together. I called her as often as I could -- which was difficult for me, as I didn't get a telephone in my Webster apartment until three or four years ago! -- and saw her two or three times, before we fell out of touch again. And this time, it was for a long time.

The next time I saw her was about three years ago. Unfortunately, she was using drugs again (which insured that she was no longer at her mom's). I quite bluntly pointed out to her that at forty years of age (or thereabouts) she needed to clean up her act once and for all. Predictably, my unsolicited advice fell on deaf ears.

She and I followed our usual pattern, meaning that we were in frequent contact for several weeks until falling out of touch, as always.

And now? Well, after briefly being in touch with Bella's sister Corrinne, I was told that Bella had landed back in MCI-Framingham on a robbery charge. I don't have any details about the robbery in question. It could have been a somewhat standard theft, or maybe some vic had the gall to complain to the police after being ripped off by Bella.

For various reasons, I haven't written to her in prison. I keep telling myself I'm going to, but keep procrastinating.

I'm famous for that.

So, as with the "ending" of my "hangin' with the hookers" gig, the story of Bella ends, not with a bang, but a whimper, as the old saying goes.

At least I know she's alive, and relatively well. And for now, I'll settle for that.

And here's a little bonus for y'all:

In the middle of 1994, when I was a part-time comic book dealer, I chanced upon the following illustration of a character in a title called Harem Nights.

Amazing.

Without ever having known her, penciller Yanick Paquette and inker Michel Lacombe had combined their talents to provide what I can honestly say is a strikingly-close image of Bella as she was roughly fifteen years ago!

Enjoy... and thanks for your time.

Introduction to the "Dover Street" Stories, Chapter Seven

What follows are both the conclusion of, and random afterthoughts from, a true story. However, quite a few of the names and other identifying details have been changed, because of that fact.

Actually, I should say that this is "almost" the conclusion. Judging from several comments -- both public and private -- it seems that "Bella" has made quite a hit with my readers. So the next segment, the true conclusion, you might say, will deal primarily with her.

* * * * *

Let me quote from one of my favorite writers -- myself (and yes, that is a joke!) -- and repeat the following (which I've trimmed slightly) from an earlier chapter:

I was smack dab in the middle of a dangerous situation. Why do so many writers have this need to be self-destructive? There's an unnamed "something" that far too often makes sleaziness attractive to writers, and I'd discovered too late that I, in a sense, had developed an addiction of my own.

Writers throughout history have succumbed to alcoholism, or drug addiction, or bouts with excessive gambling, or sexual misadventures, or [fill-in-the-blank] sometimes by merely being around The Bad Thing(s)... and usually the writers in question have arrogantly assumed, as do most addicts, that they could quit The Bad Thing(s) if and when they really wanted or needed to.

In my case, my own brand of arrogance was in believing that it was okay to surround myself with hookers, junkies, drug dealers, and the like, as long as I remained detached from it all -- one could almost say "above" it all -- by not paying for sex, not using drugs, not (naturally) selling the drugs... I wouldn't be breaking any laws, even while surrounded by those who were.

And as far as being "safe?" Hell, these people didn't even know where I lived. If I ever wanted or needed to "escape" from them, all I had to do was stop visiting them!

In other words, I could quit any time I really wanted or needed to...

Yeah.

Actually, in terms of whether I was "addicted" to hanging around these various sleazy types, or able to turn my back on them any time I so chose... As it turned out, the truth was somewhere in between.

There were a few of the girls I'd become really attracted to, on the level of friendly acquaintances. And out of those, a couple of them, like Julia and, obviously, Bella... meant more. And perversely, right about the time I decided to stop prowling the streets of Worcester, I actually started getting to know Dawn, Jeff's girlfriend. (Eventually, I even got to the point where he and I became... not friends, certainly, but two men who learned to co-exist.)

There's a lot more to the whole story behind Dawn, Jeff, and myself, but unfortunately, this isn't the place to tell it. Someday -- in a few months or in a few million years -- I'll tell the "Dover Street" version of that odd little triangle. Not the real one. That, I'd tell here, if I were going to.

I started out writing this "introduction" to explain why a law-abiding sort like myself would keep coming up with these "Dover Street" stories every now and again. ("What is this guy's fixation with drug addicts and hookers?" Logical question.) And this story has mostly contained details about my period of research which won't otherwise show up in Dover Street tales.

You've only "met" the people you've had to meet. There are many more who will show up in highly fictionalized form at a later date.

Like Catherine. I've mentioned her a few times, but only in passing. Someday she'll show up as a radically altered character who is merely based on her and another girl.

Anyway, this introductory story doesn't end with some knock-down, drag-out, climactic moment of truth. It just kinda peters out. To help explain that, I need to fill in some details about my personal life that concern my living arrangements, automobile issues, and a few other things.

At about the time that I'd decided to limit my Worcester visits, my "famous" Hyundai died. At that time, my mother and I had both been living with my sister, so I briefly relied on my mother's car for transportation to and from work. This made it easier to cut down my Worcester trips.

This was also the time when my close friend Patty, who lived in Ohio, died. That was a major shake-up, something that insured I'd become somewhat more anti-social.

I was also working on a comic book concept called Aero. One more thing to take up my time and keep me home.

So, I stopped picking up new girls, and started spending a lot less time driving around in Worcester. When I was out there, it was to see Dawn or look for Bella.

I say "look for" Bella because, for no apparent reason, a long period went by during which she was never out and about when I was in the city. Before that period, I do remember warning Bella about her habit of "beating" (slang for ripping off) her "vics."

"Who's to say you won't get into a car with someone you stole from a few months earlier?" I asked her. "And don't try to tell me you remember every face you see out here!"

She didn't try to tell me that. She knew better, as did I. I continued, saying, "Don't you realize, Bella? Every one of those guys is potentially dangerous, and every one of those guys only has to remember one face. Yours."

Shortly after that, purely by happenstance, Bella and I fell out of touch.

So, before I stopped going to Worcester completely -- well, in terms of going there to hang out with the street people -- I'd tapered off to the point where my only contact was with Dawn, with whom I was actually forming a friendship.

The last time I saw Sheila, Dawn and I were driving down a side street. Sheila was staggering along the sidewalk, about half a block from us. She looked totally zonked on something.

The last time I saw Catherine -- in Worcester, that is, and I'll explain that later -- I told her that, for various reasons, I was curtailing my Worcester visits. She told me that, coincidentally, she was considering leaving Worcester herself, and moving to Florida.

The last time I saw Julia was one morning after I'd gotten out of work. I worked the third shift at Shaw's Supermarket in Shrewsbury (one town over from Worcester) at the time, and was driving down Worcester's Main Street merely out of force of habit. Julia flagged me down frantically.

"Hi! What's up?" I asked.

"David, look, I know you don't usually do this... " she began, continuing to offer me, shall we say, a $20-30 service for $10.

What do you mean, "don't usually do this?" I thought, but "What? Why?" was all that I asked. I mean, what the hell was this, a Kmart blue light special? Or should I say, a red light special?

"I need works!" she said, which -- as you probably already know -- was and is street slang for a syringe. "I already got drugs... " Drugs, but no way to use them. So near and yet so far, I thought, immediately followed by Oh, great, and she's sitting in my car with them in her possession! "...and all I need now is works!"

We were near McDonald's, so I pulled into the parking lot. I looked at Julia very seriously. "Look, it's not the money... "

"David, please." She repeated her offer.

"What would you have done if I hadn't driven by?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Make same offers to someone else."

I took out my wallet. "How much do you need?"

She smiled. "Oh, bless you, baby! I said I do you for ten."

"You're not going to 'do' anything. How much do you need?"

She blinked. "He charge seven... "

And seven is exactly what I gave her. "This is for you, free and clear, like the other times I gave you money. Only this time, you don't even have to spend time with me. I'm in a rush anyway." I looked at her and shook my head. "Honey, don't ever under-sell yourself!"

She was looking at me very strangely. "David, you come find me again, and we do something. No moneys." She roughly grabbed my face in her hands, and gave me a long kiss which was reminiscent of that time in her mother's parking lot, as well as a few times after that which I haven't bothered discussing with you before now. That kiss almost -- almost -- made me wish I'd taken her up on her initial offer.

I started asking if there was someplace I could bring her, but she interrupted me to say no, then jumped out of the car... and disappeared.

As I drove away, I started laughing, thinking back to what I'd told her: "Don't ever under-sell yourself!" Between that and my admonishment to Bella about ripping off her customers, I started thinking that these girls needed actual business advisers more than pimps (which almost none of them had as well).

So if you ever read a light-hearted Dover Street story called "Hooker High School" or something similar, you'll know where it started. But I digress.

It's funny. Julia had said "You come find me again, and we do something. No moneys," but I never saw her again.

I said earlier that I'm leaving out a lot concerning my budding relationship with Jeff's girlfriend, Dawn. And I am. But suffice it to say that due to a court case which began before I even met her, Dawn ended up in the women's prison in Framingham, Massachusetts for several months.

While she was there, I wrote to her, sent money to her, and even visited her once or twice using my mother's car, as my Hyundai had died, remember? And although it was really none of her business, my sister made it difficult for me to use my mother's car for such visits.

Long story.

Anyway, I made it a priority to get myself another car and get myself an apartment of my own, in that order That's when I moved from Southbridge, Massachusetts -- which I call my "Crappy Day Job Town," among other things -- to the nearby town of Webster.

(I should probably take this opportunity to shoe-horn in the fact that during one of my visits to Dawn in prison, I saw Catherine in the visiting room. She and I locked eyes briefly, but the rule there was that you were to have no contact, verbal or otherwise, with any inmate other than the one you were there to see. Dawn saw me looking at Catherine, and made a couple of rather rude comments. Keeping in mind that the two would very likely be encountering one another here and there while both were incarcerated, I said, "Just... be good to her," and nothing more.

So, Catherine hadn't made it to Florida after all. I hope she's there now, or if not there, someplace that's safe...

I'd been living in my own apartment in Webster for a few months by the time Dawn's time in Framingham neared its end. But somehow, before -- and I mean right before -- she was scheduled to be released, we fell out of touch, for lack of a better term. In retrospect, I'm not sure what happened, nor whose fault it was. Mine, hers, ours? I dunno.

Another long story. And one I won't be telling. At least, not here, not now. Sorry.

* * * * *

Next time... whatever happened to Bella?