Dennis sat in a black chair nestled deep into his cubicle. The chair had four levers that were supposed to adjust the comfort, although he wasn't sure just how. Each time he pulled one it did something different from the time before, and it was hard to take back. He crouched over his keyboard trying to keep the top of his head from being seen over the gray partition wall. A small drip of snot leaked from his nostril, and he sniffed it back in quietly so as not to be heard. He listened - without listening - to the people mulling around his work area talking amongst themselves, not to their words, rather the sound in general. He couldn't see them but there was a sharp picture in his mind that he knew to be authentic, that remained for the most part, unchanging. As soon as the last voice was heard, he would print the web page he was viewing and dash to the printer to grab it before anyone could see what it was. A decoy spreadsheet was set on the monitor. It was nothing but meaningless data really.

It was 8:53AM, about two minutes shy of the morning scramble from the lounge that bordered his cube to various work areas throughout the second floor. A blue window popped in the lower corner of his monitor. Shane had just logged in. He clicked on the name and typed in a quick message and sent it.

dreamer77@hotmail.com says:
dick

It took a moment but the status bar lit up and in came a reply.

longshanks@hotmail.com says:
fag

longshanks@hotmail.com says:
where you at?

dreamer77@hotmail.com says:
work - where the hell are you?

longshanks@hotmail.com says:
work

longshanks@hotmail.com says:
they keep paying me and I have no idea why

dreamer77@hotmail.com says:
me too - going to a meeting. ill get back you later.

longshanks@hotmail.com says:
k

dreamer77@hotmail.com says:
fag

longshanks@hotmail.com says:
fag

He closed the window and sent the web page to the print queue. Around the corner the printer kicked on and hummed briefly before feeding the paper. He waited, then walked quickly ran past the printer and made for the stairwell.

Outside the air was brisk and a heady wind blew against the back of the building. It was challenging to light a cigarette. He ducked around the side of the building for cover and got one to light. He pulled a long drag and leaned against the wall for support while browsing the printout. It was still an outrageous fare for the cheapest flight to Mexico City. But it didn't matter because his wallet was thin, and even if the money were there, he didn't really have the balls to just up and leave so close to the end.

He gazed at the highway running parallel to the property. It was busy, flowing steady in both directions. Like packages on a conveyor belt, the cars rolled by in lines that seemed to go on forever. It was a thing that he liked to do, just watching, feeling anonymous. Suddenly the possibility that someone might be watching him became very real, and he felt sick. He flicked the cherry out of the cigarette, balled up the paper, and tossed them both in the dumpster. Reluctantly, he went back inside.

Right after lunch Dennis was stricken with a sudden and terrible pain in the stomach. It was excruciating. There was a gaseous expansion. Something weighty dropped abruptly and everything moved causing his ass to pucker. A cold sweat broke across his brow. Carefully he got up and shimmied to the bathroom. Just as the door came into sight he noticed that it was closing. He stood outside the door and listened. He heard someone peeing. He went to the water fountain and bent down to feign drinking. When the door swung open again he pushed the button and let the water run into his mouth and then out again until the person was safely out of sight.

He dashed into the bathroom, straight to the disability stall and sat down, keeping a white knuckled grip on the safety bar above the toilet paper dispenser. He relaxed his bowels and relieved himself. Suddenly the door opened and someone entered. Whoever it was, they did not get down to business immediately. It was unclear exactly what they were doing but it was not something Dennis considered typical of a bathroom visit. They seemed to stay somewhere near the door. Dennis held himself as long as he could but eventually he broke. An alarming sound echoed around the porcelain walls. He held his breath and felt the warmth of his face as it reddened. Still the intruder made no noise. For a moment he thought that perhaps no one was there at all. He pulled at a piece of toilet paper and the dispenser squeaked loudly. The faucet turned on. He immediately let go of the paper and sat there in silence with his hands pressed to his mouth and waited to be alone before he made another sound. A feeling of being somehow inappropriate stayed with him for the rest of the day.

Dennis watched as the computer shut down, a reliable indicator as any to him that the day was finally over, that time had been defied, and he had survived. The phone rang. His heart jumped. Gingerly he hit speakerphone and answered, "This is Dennis."

"Dennis - Bob here. Are you aware that the reports are showing that no services have taken place since the conversion?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me about this earlier in the week, like way before these were due?"

"I did."

"When?"

"I sent you an email on Tuesday. You want me to forward you a copy?"

"No. But come in here. We need to find a solution that works right now."

"There is nothing that can be done now. I…"

"There has to be something. Come in and we'll talk about it. Does anyone else need to present?"

"No."

He turned off the phone and for a moment considered leaving anyway. He ground his teeth together and squeezed the head of his penis until it hurt. Slowly he set down his bag, took off his jacket, and walked to Bob's office. He pulled a chair to the front of Bob's desk, using his monitor to run interference with a direct line of eye contact, and slouched down uncomfortably. Bob continued to peck at his keyboard, stopping intermittently to chew at a nail.

"What are we going to do about his?" Bob asked.

"Nothing today. I told you that they mapped a key field to the wrong table in the conversion. Now services are related to nothing. I tried to tell you this would happed before we even started."

"So you mean to tell me that services are being recorded but they are associated with nothing - just a bunch of services floating around in space?"

"Pretty much."

"How the hell do we get them back?"

"Redesign the table, put the correct field back in, dump all the current data, then write a query to search on SKU number and pull them out one by one, reinsert them in the new table and pray like hell that it worked."

"Can you do that?"

"No."

"Well find somebody that can and get them started tonight."

"Everyone from the UNIX team is gone for the weekend man."

"I don't care. Page someone. Get on the phone. Get somebody back in here."

"It's not going to work, not until Monday."

"It has to. You have to make it happen. Get back to me in an hour."

Dennis got up, walked away and stood outside the door. How bout I kill you for not paying attention, he thought. How bout I kick your ass, and then expose you for not doing or knowing anything about what's going on around here. Piece of shit, he said, and left the building thinking about ironic ways in which his boss could rightfully die.

Fifteen minutes later Dennis was stuck in time, sitting completely motionless in the middle of the highway, bordered on all sides by mad people and noxious gases. The moment was so stagnant that the smoke from his cigarette failed to make even the slightest movement towards the cracked window. It wafted in clouds around his head and sank slowly towards the floor. Mixed in with it were any hopes of a smooth commute and the possibility of a hassle free evening. For several painful minutes he inched his way into the left lane and crawled towards the nearest exit. He had no idea where it led but anything was better than sitting still. Finally he got a look at the ramp and descended down towards the light. He took a right and headed for a large intersection. The light turned yellow and he drifted out into the intersection. The car in front of him, the last in line of traffic extending all the way to the next stoplight, stopped abruptly. He was trapped in the middle. He looked into the rear view mirror and watched as the light turned red. A horn blew. He looked over his shoulder at a blue Nissan that had been driven straight up to his door. The driver, a young woman, screamed at him and gave him the finger. He looked to the other side and a red Ford Truck had done the same. His car was blocking the through lanes of the oncoming traffic. In all directions there were cars, lots of them, all menacingly pointed at the exact center of his brain. Another horn blew. It was answered by yet another. He felt a sharp pain at the base of his neck and closed his eyes. Like a heavy flower wilting, he sank inch by inch to the side and laid his head down on the passenger seat. He stayed there listening to the horns and the screaming, and finally the sound of cars moving quickly by. He imagined what it might look like out there but didn't have the energy to take a peek. It seemed to change rhythmically every two minutes or so. He tried to determine what color the lights were based on the sounds. Then there was a tapping on the window. He opened his eyes and looked up at a police officer wearing mirrored glasses. A ray of evening sun reflected off his shiny badge and temporarily blinded Dennis. He sat up and rolled down the window.

"Is there a problem here sir? Are you okay?"

"I don't know."

"Is your car broken down sir?"

"No."

"Are you okay?"

"I don't know. What time is it?"

"Sir pull the car into the lot right there and wait for me."

Dennis put the car in gear and pulled out of the intersection and into the lot as directed. He got out and knelt beside the car on one knee and rubbed his hands through his hair. The officer pulled in, parked, and stood looking down upon him.

"What happened here sir? Do you realize that you had traffic blocked here for better than ten minutes?"

"No. I… I got stuck in the middle and then someone began threatening me."

"Threatening how sir?"

"Yelling and stuff, but suddenly I realized how old I am and how little I have of what I really want."

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing. I just felt cheated somehow, like there was something better for me somewhere."

"So you laid down on the seat?"

"I guess."

The radio clipped to the officer shoulder squelched and a dispatcher said something unintelligible. The officer reached across his chest, pushed the button, and said something back, again unintelligible. He looked back down at Dennis.

"Are you okay to drive now sir?"

"Yes. I can make it."

"Get this thing out of here and take yourself home. No more blocking traffic today. Okay?"

"Yes. Thank you for helping."

Dennis stood and watched the car pull out into traffic and speed down the turning lane. He shoved his hand down his pants, massaged his scrotom between two fingers, and surveyed the shopping plaza while picking at his ear. There was a bright green TCBY sign above the corner unit. He walked inside and read the menu from top to bottom, finally deciding on a plain vanilla cone. He took the cone and sat in a booth next to the window facing the lot never really intending on taking a lick. After a while the ice cream began to melt and ran down his arm. Once it had completely melted, he tossed some napkins on the mess and went home.

A light drizzle started to fall as Dennis pulled into his drive. He got out of the car and looked up at the sky. Southwardly, lightning streaked across the blackness as a storm conspired to break upon the night. He walked slowly to the porch and stopped there to have a smoke before confining himself for the evening. Inside he heard the pounding of feet as his daughter streaked across the living room and up the stairs. He held his breath, waited, and then heard the screaming as expected. Times were tough, money was tight, and the world was different, but he couldn't feel the invisible pressure putting the squeeze on everyone's emotions. He sucked on the cigarette and thought about responsibility in general, about his diminishing health, and taxes. Somewhere there was a midnight greyhound shutting its door on a load of foiled dreamers and one vacant seat. He could feel it and he longed for its dirtiness. He walked out into the damp air and let the moisture soak his clothes before going inside to greet the family.

He hung his coat in the closet and walked into the smoky kitchen. Charlotte stood in front of the stove tending to several steaming pots, a cigarette hung from her lips, and she squinted her face as she cradled the phone on her shoulder. He walked to her side and peered over her shoulder to see what was cooking. As he took a deep breath, her shoulder bumped into his chest and pushed him out of the way. He threw up his arms and stepped back in submission. She did nothing to acknowledge him right then but when she returned and found him sipping from the ladle, a cold glare in her eye froze his soul and forced him to retreat.

He found Lizzie kneeling over the coffee table in the living room, busy at work amidst a collection of art materials while listening to cartoons. He sat on the couch and reached out to pull on her ponytail. She allowed him to tug at it for several minutes, and then as if she'd been slapped, she screamed at him, "Stop it Daddy! I don't want you doing that."

"Sorry," he said, and recoiled. "I was just trying to be nice. I missed you today you know."

Lizzie continued drawing. He poked her in the ribs but she scribbled away unabated.

"What happened in school today?" He asked.

"Nothing."

"Hmmm. You mind if I change the channel here?"

"No. I mean yes. This is my favorite cartoon." She looked up at the screen and leaned her on her elbows.

"You're not even watching. You're coloring kid."

"But I'm watching too Daddy. I am."

"Alright, alright. Can I see what you are working on then?" He leaned over her shoulder. She threw herself down on the table, scattering crayons and markers, and covered the construction paper with her torso.

"No. It's for you but it's not done yet. You can't be allowed to see it until it is done. Don't you know that?"

He gently smacked her bottom through a pair of pink corduroys and sat back. "I guess I didn't know that. I'll wait until you are done sucker."

She turned and wrinkled up her face, "Don't say that. Don't call me names."

"Hey I was just kidding sweetie, you know that," he said, "Go ahead and finish. I'll just sit here, watch cartoons, and be quiet. It's my house though. It is."

Dennis rested his hands on his thighs and looked at the television. His eyelids felt heavy, and a dry burning began to spread from the back of his eyes across the front. He struggled to keep them open but it was a losing battle. In the absence of sight his head echoed the sounds of the house, a clanking from the kitchen, a snippet of distant conversation, and the scratching of crayons. He pictured a passing landscape, rows of corn, abandoned farmhouses, and ghostly rail yards. He pictured a woman dressed in black walking across a windy plaza, hiding her eyes under dark glasses, and clinging tightly to a small handbag. He imagined rain, and snow, and warm autumn winds blowing red leaves in circles on the ground. He heard the sound of airbrakes releasing, and felt himself bouncing on that vacant seat aboard his phantom greyhound. Then sleep got a hold of him and he thought of nothing.

Lizzie leaped into his lap. For a short period he didn't know where he was. He couldn't determine how long he had been out. Lizzie was holding out her latest piece of work for him to admire. Across the top in rudimentary English it said, TO DaddY fRoM LizziE I lovE You.

"Thanks baby. It's really good. Can you explain it to me?"

"Sure Daddy. This is New York City where the accident was."

He pointed at two large rectangles. "What are these?"

"Those are the buildings," she pointed at a plane coming towards them, "And this is bin Laden's plane coming to crash them down. And these are the people running to their Mommies and Daddies." She pointed at a dozen or so stickmen at the bottom of the page.

"Well, that's very good. And these over here?"

"That's the Army, and that is Afghanistan."

There was a small brown island with a lone tree at the right edge of the paper. The sky above it was filled with crosses.

"These are the warplanes and these are the bombs." She sat back into his lap and considered her art from a distance. "Do you like it?"

"Of course, of course I do. It is very good sweetie. You certainly are very observant. How did you get so smart?" He patted her gently on top of the head.

"Because I came from you silly." She smiled, and squeezed him as hard as she could. He let out a moan to appease her.

"Hey let me ask you something Lizzie," he sat her up on his knee, "Do you understand why that happened? I mean really understand?"

"Yes. Bin Laden believes that his God is better than our God." Lizzie cocked her head and stared at him.

"Sweetie, that's right in a way but there is something very important to be learned from this. Sometimes people use things like God as an excuse when they are acting out of anger. And what they don't know is that there is really something wrong within themselves. They have refused to give other people a chance to be what they want. It makes them angry that the world doesn't behave they way they think it should. And the truth is that the world behaves in spite of itself. Its much easier on the soul to try and understand that than it is to try and change it by fighting."

"But shouldn't we fight war on bin Laden's people Dad?"

Dennis sighed and took a deep breath, "I wish we didn't, but yes we have to."

"Because then the world will be safe?" Lizzie asked. He pulled her against his chest and lowered his mouth into her hair, "I don't know about the world or all the people in it, but I know about you, and you will always be safe as long as I have anything to do with it." He kissed the top of her head.

She sat up in his lap, "Did you know that if you let your hair grow forever someday it would be as long as your whole body?" She held out her ponytail and let a sandy tuft of her hair slide slowly through her small hand. Charlotte called for them from the kitchen. He lifted Lizzie and sat her down on the floor.

"Sounds reasonable to me," he said, and watched as Lizzie ran off to the kitchen. He followed her for a few steps, but stopped at the living room door and decided to go out back for a smoke instead. It started while he was smoking, and until he went to bed that evening, he thought of nothing but when and where he had lost the ability to give an answer with substance and believe in it.

Dennis lied in bed and listened to Charlotte as she brushed her teeth. He squeezed a pillow between his knees and felt creepy. At some point in the evening he'd lost control of better judgment and taken it upon himself to drive his wife and daughter into fits of rage. It was nothing more than playful teasing at first but things took a turn towards malicious in the end. He'd gotten carried away in the action and didn't realize how serious things had gotten until everyone had gone and he was left in silence. And now he questioned his motives, he wanted to say sorry, but he lacked the courage. He felt alone and vulnerable.

Charlotte turned out the bathroom light and crawled into bed. As she tussled with the sheets, her foot touched the back of Dennis's calf. He jerked his leg away and pulled at the covers. Charlotte pulled back in opposition and managed to get several more inches. He pulled back but there was no give, she had pinned them down under her side. The only remaining option was to scoot towards the center of the bed, and in doing so, his butt pressed against Charlottes back causing her to retract in the opposite direction.

"You know this is supposed to be a place of rest don't you," he said, and rolled onto his back.

"And husbands are supposed to be loving towards their wives and children," she answered without moving, "But apparently that doesn't happen around here either."

"You guys need to lighten up for Christ's sake. Everything is just too tense around here."

"So your way of dealing with it is to agitate us to the point of crying."

"This has become a chicken and egg argument. Can't you see that? If you weren't so uptight in the first place you wouldn't get pissed when someone messes with you."

"Well, then you are the egg. We don't seem to have this trouble when you're not around." She tugged stiffly at the small sliver of sheet still covering Dennis.

"Interesting. Well how about this then. I would imagine that one day Lizzie is going to wonder why she gets so fucking mad all the time and eventually she will realize that she learned it from you. That's an egg and it's fucking rotten." He sat up and ripped the covers from her.

"So you're willing to fight us around every corner until we become the way you want us to be?"

"If that's what it takes. This is not the right way to live."

Charlotte sat up and looked down at him. "Oh it's not. Then what is? Who gave you the authority to judge the quality of people's lives?"

"No one, but I know that you can't think and see things clearly when your mad all the time."

"You're such an asshole," she said, and dropped heavily onto the bed.

He thought about it for a minute then quietly said, "I love you too."

He woke to an empty bed. He tried to remember exactly what had been said the night before but a series of bad dreams had layered themselves over the reality and it was impossible to discern the truth. He worked at it a little while waiting for an erection to die down but it proved too tangled to unravel.

He rolled out of bed and walked to the living room hoping to catch something interesting on Saturday morning television. Not surprisingly Cartoon Theater was playing to an empty room. He dove onto the couch and grabbed the remote. There was a rustling behind the couch, and then a muffled and meager voice spoke, "I'm not in here."

"Whose not in here?" He asked.

"Nobody," Lizzie answered.

"How can nobody have a voice?"

Silence.

"Hmm? I guess I'll just go to the kitchen then." He said, and stood up.

"No. Because it's really me Lizzie, but I'm disappeared."

He got down on his knees and put his head to the floor next to the couch. Lizzie was lying on her side, smashed in between the couch and the wall, chewing on a strand of her hair. Her eyes locked onto his and she seemed to not be blinking. "Why can I see you if you have disappeared?"

"Because I'm letting you. If I didn't you wouldn't be able to."

"You must have woken up with special powers then. I didn't know you could do that."

"Lots of people disappear now."

Dennis got face down on the floor and rested his chin on the back of his hands. "Oh. Why did you disappear anyway?" He asked.

"Mommy wants me to clean my room. And I don't want to." She turned her eyes to the floor. Her lower lip slowly pushed its way out.

"So you disappeared huh?"

"Yes. People can't make you do things if you have disappeared from them. You didn't know that Dad?"

"No."

"It's true."

"Okay. But it's not a good idea to hide from your problems. Eventually you will have to deal with it. You can't stay disappeared forever." He reached out and touched the tip of her nose. "If I were you I would just do it and be done with it."

"No."

"Should I go tell Mommy that you're gone?" He asked.

"No. Cause then she'll be mad."

"Well then you've got quite the situation. Damned if you do, damned if you don't."

"Don't use cuss words Dad." She hissed at him.

"They aren't really… What if I helped you?"

"The whole time?" She asked.

He held up two fingers, "The whole time."

"Okay. But you can't tell anyone about my disappearing spot." She wiggled her way out.

"Can I borrow it if I need to?" He asked.

"No Daddy, you're too big silly." She laughed and skipped down the hall.

Sometime after Dennis had helped Lizzie hide most of her toys under the bed, he decided to pursue other interests in the studio. To call it a studio might have been a stretch but it was a room where thinking happened and art was periodically produced. It was occupied on most days by Charlotte as she dreamt up children's books and scratched out articles for a local women's magazine. In the evenings and on some weekends, Dennis found peace there while translating his feelings to canvas.

In the wake of a violent protest by Lizzie, as she was dragged out of the house to run errands with Charlotte, Dennis decided to break out the brushes and kill some time. He set up the easel, arranged his paints, and put on his favorite hat. He began to paint without much consideration for subject, at first just laying strokes of dark colors across what would eventually become a sky. In his early days of painting he had hoped to be a realist, reproducing small slices of life that would be recognizable in terms of people and places, but as of late his work had become vague, filled with swirling darkness and odd shapes. He had abandoned his desire to impress and had become secretive, afraid that his canvases might give the impression that there was an evil side to his soul. He paused to stretch and contemplate what he had just painted. It looked very much like a mountain range in the distance with a slow burning fire destroying the backside and about to peek over the crest. The fire filled the air with black ash and cast an orange glow up into the lower atmosphere. The foreground was destitute, devoid of any living things, or the remnants of their dwellings. Someone else might have seen nothing.

He sat back down and rubbed his head. A migraine had been creeping up the back of his neck all morning. It had been awhile since the last one but the doctor warned him that the frequency was likely to increase over time. He picked up the brush and painted a large white head directly in the center of the canvas. The head was obscenely round and large at the crown but the face was long and slopping. The eyes and mouth were neglected. They had no definitive shape, and the background showed through them as though the face were empty like an unoccupied mask. His nose began to run. He sniffed at it intensely but it seemed to have no effect on the flow. He drew his arm across his face to keep the snot from running into his mouth, but it was not snot. It was blood, the third time in as many weeks. He grabbed a rag and pressed it to his nose as he continued painting. At the top right corner of the canvas he painted the profile of a face, as if God were screaming at the earth from the heavens. His mouth was open and a hazy bolt of lightening originated within. The lightning coursed its was across the sky and terminated on the temple of the empty face in the middle of the canvas.

He stopped to look at the blood soaked rag and felt like crying. He knew that he was losing control. He reapplied it to his nose and leaned his head back. Moments later the coppery tasting blood trickled down the back of his throat. He tried hard to convince himself that none of this was happening. Slowly his field of vision became monocular as though he were looking through a tube. It shrank in circumference to the size of a pinhead, blackness came, and Dennis collapsed onto the floor.

Upon waking he had no idea where he was or what had happened. Turning his head to the side, he saw the bloody rag lying on the floor beside him. He jumped to his feet and was immediately brought back to his knees by the sharp pains throughout his mouth. He heard the sound of the garage door opening and scrambled to hide the painting under a sheet in the corner with the others. He ran down the hall to the bathroom and locked the door. Looking at his mouth in the mirror he discovered that he bitten through the sides of his tongue in multiple places. His entire face was sore as if all the muscles had been tensed for a long and strenuous period of time. His arms ached. The backs of his elbows were starting to bruise. His suspicion that he'd been fighting a losing battle with life since the time he really knew what it was, now seemed like an inevitability. The immediate pain subsided as he thought not of his brain, or his tongue, but of not being able to remember what it was like to believe in dreams of winning. He sat on the toilet and cried.

Lizzie ran past door and down the hall. She slammed her bedroom door and turned on the radio. He could hear Charlotte in the kitchen rustling through plastic bags and putting things into the cupboards. He threw some water on himself and wiped his face with the hand towel. Quietly he turned off the light and walked softly down the hall, past the kitchen, and out the front door.

A couple of hours later he was on the third leg of the Main St. - Loyola city bus route, reading about a new terrorist threat, and thinking about how to tell his family that this was likely to be his last year. He knew that his wife would be devastated, but he once knew a lot of things that weren't true anymore, and he was afraid now that she would be angry with him for leaving her. She would be unable to say the right kind of goodbye and he hated her for that. He knew that it would be up to him to have that talk with Lizzie, the one where everything had to spoken in very clear and simple language - There is something bad growing in Daddy's head. Eventually it will get so big that it will push all the important stuff out of the way. After that Daddy won't be able to wake up anymore. It's no one's fault Lizzie, sometimes these things just happen.

The bus pulled up to the stop where he had boarded earlier. He wanted to look down the street towards his home, but turned his head to the opposite side of the bus instead and stared at his semi-transparent reflection in the window.

"You can't ride the bus all night Mister. You got to get off somewhere," Called out the bus driver.

Dennis turned to the mirror above the driver's head and looked at his eyes. "I have more money. Is a problem for me to just ride for awhile?"

"Not really. But you ride the bus all night without getting off and eventually you gonna look suspicious to somebody," the driver replied.

"I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be suspicious. It probably doesn't make much sense but I guess I'm just kind of rehearsing for bigger things."

The driver shook his head gave Dennis a glare of disbelief. He perceived something cold in the drivers look and a shiver ran up his spine. He turned his eyes to the newspaper on the seat beside him and tried to focus on the pictures from the war. He thought about the diversity of problems in the world, about the power of the aircraft carrier and what it meant for it to be deployed. He thought about a small tumor, about when he'd lost control, and about the obscure reasons that led us to fight anything at all.