Castles Made of Sand

I watch as she finds the perfect leaf and breaks it off.

She carefully folds it in a piece of paper and slips it into her pocket.

"A souvenir," she explains.

I am their summer vacation.

Soon the floor is covered with gasoline. It soaks into the ancient wood and mixes with the scent of ganje to create a new olfactory experience. Something elegant and horrible. It consumes me. For a moment I wonder if I'm getting high off the fumes, and decide to exit the grow house before I find out for sure.

In the distance a dog barks and a high-powered vehicle streams down a dusty gravel road.

For a moment, I see a Long Black Lincoln Convertible driving in the distance. It pulls into the yard of the Grow House and Sullivan gets out, grinning at me. He's wearing those ugly camos, a burning joint hanging from his lips. He claps me on the back, and tells me he's proud of how I took care of things.

But you can't expect much from perfection.

I blink at the empty horizon. Sully's not dead. He's tough.

"Alanna!" I yell, "We're getting out of here."

I start the engine on Sully's Ball of Razors and pull it around as she comes out of the Grow House holding a Glock 7. Sully loved that gun. He bragged about how it couldn't be detected by airport scanners. Porcelain has that benefit.

She hops in The Lincoln as I spin it around again and seems disappointed when I don't ask her why she needs a gun. I pull out a pack of matches and light it as we make a final pass, handing it to Alanna. She doesn't ask, she stands up in her seat and heaves it into the Growhouse

boom

This wakes Madeline up. She leans over the back edge of the seat and watches the flames in the rubble until the light flickers and disappears on the horizon.

"What happens now?" Alanna asks once Madeline falls back to sleep. I reach out and our hands touch. I know she can feel it.

SIX: THINGS BEST LEFT

We're back at the same truck stop. The harsh Sun is beginning to burn me again. It's rearing its unwelcome head over the empty fields of flax and canola, searing the naked skin on my forearms. Alanna's gold and silver hair hides her gently closed eyes as she dreams of something better in the passenger seat, and Madeline's awake and perky. She insisted on buying coffee. I don't drink coffee.

I hit the same eleven numbers. It rings.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

I don't look behind me. I wonder if I should until I catch the rough, loud scent of stale coffee, left over from the previous night. Madeline hands me a cup and hops into her dove' nest in the back seat as the phone keeps ringing.

Dad would never be up this early. Ainsley should just be waking up for her job.

But the phone keeps ringing.

I look over to Madeline and block my eyes from the Sun. She grins her little fifty-watt grin and takes a sip of the ill-chosen coffee. I can picture her downing a can of motor oil just as easily.

I wonder if it would kill her or just make her grin a few more watts. This isn't just a summer retreat for her any more.

I wonder if she even remebers knowing a "Doug".

When she's not looking I lose the coffee in the ditch.

And the phone keeps ringing.

"Just hang up," she says from her dove's nest.

"They're home," I tell her, and light a cigarette.

And the phone keeps ringing. I glance back to Madeline.

Madeline. He mess of curls and her shiny, shiny grin. She thinks she's clever.

I hang up.

"What happens now?" she asks. Madeline thinks she's clever.

We're in a motel a day's drive from the city. It's seven or so. The ugly Sun is finally beginning to set, and I can't wait for the imperfect, near-full moon.

The moon doesn't burn. It's not golden.

It's something else.

"The chill in the air," Alanna says behind me as I watch the empty horizon. "It's almost fall."

"Change is good," I tell her. Keeps things from being shiny for too long.

She's behind me now. I can feel her hands around my waist.

Her chin rests on my shoulder. I breathe her breath. It smells of cigarettes and hints at the hot dog she ate six hours ago.

No onions.

Extra ketchup.

I want to kiss her.

But I don't.

I look over her head to Madeline's curved hip, rising softly beneath the cheap green sheets of the cheap motel bed.

"You wanna' go get some dinner?" Alanna asks me.

I nod.

Things are getting complex.

Two steaks.

Twenty-one ounces each.

Rare. It could be sauce or blood that collects beneath. Either would satisfy.

Side of mushrooms and asparagus. Mushrooms are said to be an aphrodisiac.

Alanna points out how asparagus looks like… y'know.

Two glasses of merlot.

Each. Our faces glow.

For a moment, we're golden.

A shared chocolate sundae for dessert.

A candle.

We don't talk about the Grow House or Sully or Madeline. We don't talk about us.

Movies. She likes movies.

Old movies like Casablanca and Breakfast at Tiffany's.

And I want to make love to this woman.

The roar of the restaurant around us does not exist.

We are warm and comfortable and safe in our little cocoon of denial.

For a moment, we're golden.

But you can't expect much from perfection.

"Y'know… I never thought I'd end up liking you as much as I do," she says after slipping the cherry stem into her mouth.

I don't answer.

She looks up to smile as the waiter removes the plundered sundae bowl. She flicks out her tongue to show him the knotted stem and smiles when he blushes.

How could I not fall for that.

I didn't want to talk about this.

"So how 'bout them drug dealers, eh? They're a breed apart…"

But she thinks I'm talking about me.

Maybe she knows I'm not.

"Yeah, you're different. I don't know why, though."

"Benefits of a troubled childhood."

She laughs. Her smile blinds me for a moment.

It burns.

She's a little too golden. A little too perfect. I'm not sure I'll be able to handle it.

"Sometimes I forget you're only nineteen," she says.

That's good. Remind her how little I matter.

"Just a kid," I tell her.

"No you're not."

She's too golden. I stand and reach for my wallet.

"Time to go."

"What?"

"We need to get back to the motel," I say. "Didn't leave a note for Madeline. She might be worried."

She doesn't look up at me.

"Charlie."

"Yeah."

"It'd be nice to stay for a while longer." Now she looks up.

She's still shiny.

Her weekend retreat changes nothing.

She glows. And her eyes burn me.

I need a joint.

But I sit.

And for a little while longer, it's golden.

We slip back into the motel room at a little after ten. Madeline is still sleeping soundly.

Alanna goes to pick up a joint from Madeline's bedside table. A perfect Madeline joint.

She sticks it between my lips and smiles.

A hundred and twenty watts.

She turns and slides her shirt up and off, and for a moment I hold my breath at the sight of her pale bare skin. The swelling curve of her hips and the shadow in the small of her back.

She's golden. And I want her to stay that way.

I put the joint down and come up behind her, wrapping my arms around her stomach and letting my fingers graze her neck. She turns her head to me and smiles softly, kissing my cheek as my lips leave a wet jackrabbit trail of footprints along her shoulder.

"What is this?" she asks. Not in a flirty way. "Does this mean anything to you?" she asks.

You can't expect much from perfection.

"You matter to me, Charlie."

I'm not sure I can handle this. We should have smoked that joint.

For a moment, I think of the times when I was sixteen and couldn't sleep. I'd steal some of my father's meds after he passed out.

VALIUM: three capsules of.

AMYTAL SODIUM: three caplets (the 200 milligram kind) of

Somebody put me to sleep.

And I wonder if I can handle my own life any better than he could handle his.

"I'm not special," I tell her.

But she kisses me. Long and soft.

Madeline isn't there. Some ghost fills out her general shape in the bed.

We're not in a cheap motel room with cheap sheets and cheap soap and rough towels.

We're somewhere better.

And I wonder for a moment if I'm dreaming one of those dreams I envy so much. Brought on by something tangeable. Something easy to swallow.

AMYTAL SODIUM: three caplets (the 200 milligram kind) of

"There are important things," she tells me.

"Like what."

"Like me," she says. She begins to unbutton my shirt.

I'm not sure I can handle this. But I listen. Another button.

"SUVs and DVDs and mortgage payments aren't important," she tells me.

And I listen. Another button.

"But some things are," she tells me.

Another button. And I listen.

"Yeah, maybe some things are," I say.

"Maybe?"

"Yeah, maybe."

She kisses me again. And I'm somewhere better. She places my hand on her breast. She's warm.

A warm place better than all the shit.

"I want you," she tells me.

I've had my share of girlfriends.

All they wanted from me was weed.

Her soft, shiny, perfect hair catches in the spikes of mine and I hear the tearing sound as it tries to break free. Her perfect, shiny hair.

And I look into her huge, green eyes.

And for a moment I feel…

Get that shit out of your head.

Get her pants off.

Get her on the bed.

Taste her.

She moans softly.

I'm going slow. I want to take it slow.

I'm enjoying this too much. It can't last.

Her excruciatingly soft thighs gently knead my head as I lick her.

She tastes like honey.

"Take your pants off," she tells me.

And I listen. Without stopping, I worm my way out of my pants and let them drop to the cheap motel floor. I feel her fingers slip through my hair and hold me gently to her.

"Charlie," she says.

I listen. But I don't answer.

"Charlie… what…. what are you going to do when all this is… when it's over? …oh, fuck…"

I lift my head and softly rub the entrance to her pussy as I say,

"Move somewhere."

I drop back down.

"Oh! …where?"

"Miami probably. There's a great market there."

"…Jesus, Charlie… you're pretty good at this."

I listen. But I don't answer. Her hips gently rock against my mouth.

"Charlie."

I don't answer.

"Come here," she says.

I pull myself up and lay beside her. We kiss as I stroke her breast.

She slowly touches her lips to mine. And I feel the imperfections. The tiny cracks and soft bumps of her lip.

I feel my breathing jump. Even in her imperfections, she's golden.

I let my hand trace her thigh. The gentle abrasive against my fingers of three days without shaving her legs.

"What's that smile for?" she asks.

I kiss her.

Her eyes are huge in the dim light. She smiles back.

I wonder if I'm gold to her.

But I'm something else.

I am the piss and shit of the world.

She sighs, hot and moist in my ear as I slowly move myself inside her.

"I want this," she whispers. "I want this so bad."

Her arms are wrapped around my shoulders and back, and she spreads her legs further.

I feel myself gain a quarter of an inch inside, and she sighs again, clutching me with her pussy.

For a moment the world goes blank. Everything that came before is moot. Everything that will come after. An oil painting splatters across the canvas in my head.

Alanna and me. But not. Some combined force of life. Something golden.

"…Jesus Christ," I blurt out.

"What?" she asks, as if concerned.

"Nothing. It's just… really really good."

You can feel things, sometimes, if you let yourself.

I can't see it, but I know she's smiling.

"I don't want this to stop," she tells me. And I listen.

I'm on my back, and she's slowly rocking her hips. My hands rest gently on the swell of her thighs and occasionally drift up to caress her face and hair. And she's smiling.

"Everything beautiful fades," I tell her. I know she's listening.

"I mean this," she says. "You and me."

My heart slams against my rib cage. It bounces off my sternum before ricocheting into my backbone.

Her pussy feels so good.

"You'll have to go back to school soon," I say. She begins to bounce up and down on me. So fast that it's no longer in and out. It's just in. In. In. IN. IN. IN.

"Fuck school," she says. "I'm serious."

I don't believe her. This is anti-pillow-talk.

"You don't believe me," she grins. A hundred and fifty watts.

I grin back.

"No, I don't."

She's fucking me harder, and beads of sweat are forming as her breasts heave up and down. I can feel the slickness of her perspiration as her thighs slip against me.

"I don't want to be a fucking lawyer," she says. She bites a finger I let too close to her mouth.

"Defense or prosecution?" I groan, trying to find something to bite into and grabbing the cheap white pillow. It smells of degergent and lemons.

"Defense. …oh Christ…"

She's fucking me harder.

"Defense is… is good," I moan. "You can get me out of jail… when I get busted."

She leans down to me and sucks on my throat. I grip her ass hard and begin to pound her up and down on my cock. Her fingernails feel like they're going to strip the skin from my shoulder.

"You'll never get busted," she tells me.

She leans back and rocks her hips again.

"Everyone's luck runs out… Jesus Christ….eventually."

I reach between her legs and find her clit, rubbing it in time as she rocks back and forth on me.

"Charlie… Charlie… Don't stop…"

Her hair is wild. It flails out behind and above and before her like an ideal Sun. Not burning. Not harsh.

Her smile is genuine and permanent, and her chest is flushed with her impending orgasm.

"Come," I tell her.

"Don't stop… oh God…"

I rub her clit and fuck her back.

She bounces on me harder. I wonder for a moment what I would be like if she were to break my hipbone. I grin at the idea.

"I'm serious," she moans. "I want to… I wanna' go… with you."

She's so fucking tight. She's gripping me like a fist.

"Later," I tell her, letting my other hand stroke her cheek.

"Now," she demands. "Tell me you want to be with me."

Like nothing I've ever wanted in my life.

"Later," I say.

Her mouth is a perfect, pink circle as she gasps for breath. I want to be with this woman.

But she doesn't need me. I'm her summer vacation.

I'm the wrecked beach house.

I'm something less than golden.

I am everything that's wrong with the world today, and she's just slumming.

"Don't you do that," she says, banging me so hard. "Don't you fucking… holy shit…"

I am something less.

Her pussy feels like it was made just for me.

I am something worse.

"Tell me," she says.

Her face is the ideal I never thought I would see or taste or touch.

But I am the shit and piss of the world.

"Look me in the eye and TELL ME!!"

"JESUS CHRIST, 'LANNA! I'm gonna' come, here!"

But she gets off.

But her eyes are cold.

But she's not smiling.

And I am something less than golden.

"You…" she says, finding her pack of smokes. I hold out my lit Zippo for her, but she finds her own. "Whoever told you you're nothing is wrong. …you fucking asshole…"

She wipes something from her eye.

"…you fucking asshole."

I am the chocolate starfish.

"Was it Uncle Jerry? Was it fucking Drunk Uncle Jerry who made you think like you do? Like nothing matters?"

"Stop it," I say.

I don't need this.

I need a smoke.

I need to get my pants on.

Not in that order.

"Whatever he told you, whatever he made you feel? THAT'S NOTHING!"

I zip up the fly on my pants.

"Anything he had to say, meant NOTHING! He doesn't-"

"I FUCKING DECIDED!"

I don't mean to shout at her.

She stops dead, a wave of her perfect blond hair falling over one of her perfect green eyes.

"You think I give a shit what my father has to say?

ME.

I DECIDED.

I look at the world, and it's fucking COLD, 'Lanna. We were born into an AWFUL place. A hundred years of pollution. Two thousand years of prostitution. Ten thousand people dying A DAY from starvation. Terrorists can buy live nuclear warheads in BULK!"

She's just staring at me.

"And you. You with your fuckin' Micro Machines sports carts and your fuckin' beach cabanas and your fuckin' stock options.

Don't tell me how I need to look at the world, 'cause you don't live in mine."

And she's just staring at me.

I light my cigarette. I am the chocolate starfish. I am the piss and shit of the world.

I finally notice Madeline.

She's staring at us, her eyes like saucers in her petite little head. She looks scared.

Alanna wipes something from her eye.

She sniffs.

"Don't cry," I tell her.

I am filth.

"It doesn't matter," she says.

I am Chernobyl.

"'Lanna, I…"

I am not golden.

"Nothing matters," she whispers.

I am something much worse.

But I can touch something better.

I can touch her.

My cheek rests softly against hers and I wrap my arms around her.

I feel a wet drop hit my shoulder and roll down my back.

"Nothing matters," she says again. A drop from her lips spatters against my neck as she speaks.

"Maybe some things do," I say.

"Oh yeah? Then tell me what."

But I can't tell her what.

SEVEN: CASTLES MADE OF SAND

A Convertible Ball of Razor Blades rolls up onto the highway and hits sixty in 12.87.

The offending Sun, hot and harsh burns my eyes through my sunglasses. If only we had an ozone. If only the world was something better.

Alanna has taken over the Dove's Nest in the back seat, and Madeline lays with her skinny legs up on the door of the car, her feet tickled by the wind. She smiles up at me under her oversized sunglasses and lights us each a cigarette.

I don't smile. I rough up her hair and she laughs.

Alanna's not laughing.

Without my even noticing, Alanna has surpassed in a night what Madeline couldn't accomplish in three days. Madeline is still teasing her hair and putting on her makeup in preparation for some future gentleman of great expectations. Madeline is still planning for the future.

And she thinks she's clever.

Somehow, through my sunglasses, Alanna knows when I look at her in the rearview. She invariably looks away. I burn her. She can't cover enough of herself against me.

When I was a kid my mother told me to never stare into the Sun.

So once when I was seven I did.

It burned my corneas and I ended up with two white checkers over my eyes for three weeks.

The doctors thought I would never see again.

I see things more clearly now than I ever did before I challenged the Sun.

I wonder if Alanna's ever stared into the Sun.

She sees things in shades of grey.

And the Sun still burns me. Its lifelong revenge against my presumption.

But I see things.

We're at a gas station a half a day's drive outside of town.

Alanna is buying cigarettes.

Madeline's buying a pop.

I'm punching eleven buttons on a dusty pay phone.

And it rings.

"Hello?" it's Dad.

"Is Ainsley home?"

"Who is this?"

ALCOHOL: tequila; seven ounces of

beer; five bottles of

VALIUM: two capsules of.

"It's Greg." Ainsley must know a guy named 'Greg'. She had a million boyfriends.

"This is a shitty time you've picked, Greg."

"It's important," I say. What the fuck could be wrong in his alcohol-encumbered world?

"Ainsley!!" I hear him scream in the background. A distand 'what?' echoes back. "PHONE!"

The extension gets picked up.

"Hello?"

Dad hangs up.

"It's me."

"I thought you were going to be home by today!"

"Hit some snags," I tell her. "Are you packed?"

"We can't leave town right now."