I Come Alive In This Place Where I Once Died

NEPTUNE NET

Rough, old, dark wood enclosed the bar. Tiny, golden sun rays of the gleaming California summer poked through to light up the dark place barely. Heavy, hard wood chairs and solid tables lined the wall. A pool table was in the center. Faded photos of leather motorcycle gangs were framed on the wall. A lazy ceiling fan swung barely and silently to move the air heavy on spilled beer, sweat, and leather.

The sole person was the bartender behind the oak bar. His arms were wide and resting on the counter, holding a little towel. He was a heavy round man. The face was covered with a gruffly three day stopple. A black bandana with a skull covered his head. His arms were bare. A deep scar ran across his bicep down behind the elbow. The booze bottles towered behind him. With a stone cold gaze, he stared to the entrance.

The young man stepped into the bar -- tight jeans, eyes blacked out by sun glasses, leather boot tips standing up. In his mind's eye, he could see the night people like holograms moving through the empty bar. As if they had a blue shimmer to them, he remembered the heavy leather jackets that barely bent. He remembered the big beer pitchers with beer spilling over chairs, the floor, and people. In the rowdy atmosphere, he remembered the respect for the pool game in the center, the guy playing bending over the table, feet wide, stick poking back. And everyone would make a huge circle around the back of that cue.

He remembered his first fight in the bar parking lot. He remembered the awe of staring at the blood on his knuckles. The crowd had still been beating down on the guy. He had gotten a fist in. Yet, when he had seen the blood on his knuckles, the rush of the moment subsided and he realized what he had done. Then he had painted red lines on his face and had hollered his guts out.

His feet swiftly stepped down the steps into the bar. His heels banged loudly on the wooden floor. The memory of her voice came back to him. At night, all the men had to scream in the noisy bar to converse. Her voice was a melody in a pitch a little higher. Whenever he made himself very still, he could hear her over a fifty biker guys. The first time, he had seen her, her skinny self-stood tall in an ankle to neck biker leather suit. The front was zipped down all the way to her belly button. He had seen her bare, porcelain skin at the center of her front. She stood tall. Nobody was messing with her. She had a turquoise emblem, some kind of artist logo on her left chest.

His fingers were gliding past the wooden pole on the way to the bar. The touch to the pole was ritual like touching a mezuzah. He remembered, Fred, Hank, and Roger, his best friends sitting at a table over there. He remembered the bond, the understanding. He had been so close to them and spent so much time with them that he could remember their smell, the scent of sweat, leather, sour -- and yet so sweet. He remembered Fred's deep blue eyes, when they gazed down into his soul to tell him -- "I can see into your heart. Ain't never anybody going to know you like I do."

The bartender reached under the counter and brought up a shot gun with the rhythmic grace of a gymnast during Olympic performance. With a dry cracking sound, his meaty hand pumped the shot gun. He placed the shot gun down on the counter with the calmness of a Rottweiler.

The man from the door passed the pool table with the green, velvet surface. He thought about that game that he had played there. Dog-Face had been his opponent, a guy with pressed lips that made him look like a dog. The hair was skinny and stood up on either side of his skull like dog ears. Grim had Dog-Face starred down at him. Dog-Face had slowly twisted the cue in his leather clad hands. Dog-face's eye brows were bushy and twisted. Hands and fists had been pushing the man from the door to step up to the showdown.

With an angry fist, he had raised his bike keys high into the air and slammed them down on the rim around the pool table. The entire bar full of bikers roared. A beer cup was thrown at his head in the excitement. The girl at the bar had stepped away from her posse of male admirers. With her biker boots, that had a pink devil stencil, stepped wide she announced to the bar that the winner would own her racing suit for the night and could do with it whatever he wanted to do. The bar was boiling with excitement. A stool was smashed into a wall to unleash steam. The bar back donned dinged, bronze brass knuckles to brace for a fight.

On the way to the bar, he paused for a moment to look at the lineup of queues to recognize his queue. It had "devil worshipper" etched into it in a Celtic script. The bartender had watched him towering on the bar counter without a move without a hint of tension without a doubt that the bartender would take action.

The black ball had sunk into the far corner pocket. The pumping, hollering crowd had died in silence, confused about what was going to happen. She had stepped up to the pool table. It had been a near angelic moment how everyone's mind had been on pause. She had placed her left boot on the rim of the pool table. The boot shuffled to find a better spot for leverage. With strength and grace, she stepped up on the pool table in one smooth motion. Standing in the center of the pool table, in the center of the bar, the crowd had started banging on the tables, stools, posts, walls, anything. They had chanted "blood -- blood -- blood." Blood signified payment, payment of the wager in the bet.

She had stood tall with her elegant long legs and slender body. Her face had looked icy. Her face had a devilish look. Her face had deeply blue eyes that reminded me of a Viking warrior. Her thumb and index finger precisely held onto the zipper in the front of her body. The first two fingers formed on 'O'. The other three fingers had been splayed out straight like the comb of a rooster. The zipper had glided down to her groin.

The man from the entrance had reached the end of the pool table on his way to the bar. That's where he had stood, when she had slipped her torso out of the black leather jump suit. Once outside of the thick leather, her arms had been even more slender. Her boobs had been a wonderful tear drop shape. Her body and skin had been delicate and slender. The biker suit had dropped down to her ankles. She had worn a white g-string.

Only a rare woman had the power to stand strong in the middle of Neptune Net. The bar had been no stranger to police visits to inspect rapes. Whatever went down in the bar was shrouded by a wall of silence. Many women had been dragged in by their hair or foolishly entered of their own accord. This one had been tough.

The man from the entrance stepped up the stairs leading out of the pool table pit. An old sign hung over the bar: "This establishment reserves the right to refuse service to pigs."

He remembered stumbling up those stairs that night. He had her almost naked body flung over his shoulder. Drunk from five beers, he had been struggling up the stairs. He had pushed his way through the crowd for bikers -- heavy and unwilling to move. Her legs and head must have knocked into many of them. Hands were smacking her butt. A few daring fingers found her crotch. A sticker had been put on her back. A fist had grabbed his hair and shook his head in a strongly felt appreciation for his luck. A shot glass had been pushed to his lip that he had had to finish. The rough, physicality wasn't disrespect. It was part of being in the crowd.

Out under the full moon, he had put the almost naked girl on the back of his Triumph bike. Her arms had snuggled around his body seductively. The engine roared had been scaring up sleeping birds from a nearby tree. He had turned the gas grip hard. The back tire had skidded sideways and screamed. The dirt of the parking lot had flown high into the air. And off they had gone, dashing along the Pacific Coast Highway.

The moon had been their companion as it laid a white line from the horizon toward them. They leaned into the twisty, turny, empty coastal highway. Her long brown hair had been fluttering in the wind. Her hands had been caressing all over his body. Her skinny body had hugged against the back of his thick leather jacket.

The man from the entrance had reached the top of the stairs. He paused for a moment to gaze at the framed panties over the bar. They were signed "Juliana." Those were hers. The frame had a gaudy bevel around it. She had written XOXO -- hugs and kisses beneath it. There was a tiny, little, yellow bow at the front of the panties.

That night, he had dominated her pussy to the roaring of the six feet high California waves crashing next to them. White gusts of foam had sprayed high. The moon silently had overseen them. He had rammed his cock with all his might into her slippery pussy that had been drawing him in deep. He had impaled her rough like a man. She had been squirming underneath him moaning in high pitched song so feminine. She had begged him "Fuck me harder. Your cock is so big. Nobody has fucked me that well before." The waves drowned out her cries of pleasure, so nobody had heard her from the freeway.

The man from the entrance had lifted the bottom of his t-shirt to show that he wasn't armed. The bartender nodded him to come closer.

That night a lone cop had stopped. The red and blue lights had been flashing up the darkness. The colors had been chasing across the sand. The cop had stepped down the hill to the water front. His shoes had sunk deep in the sand and had slowed him down. "Show your hands! Move slowly!"

Showing his hands, he had done. He had shown his fist right as it thrust into the skull of the cop. The cop's skull made a cracking sound. Bleeding, the cop lay in the sand, motionless. The heavy work been done, she had stepped over the unconscious cop. She had pushed his mouth open. Squatting down, a hissing stream of pee had shot down the cop's mouth. The pee had filled his mouth, had run over, and poured down his cheeks.

A tear had formed in the eye of the man from the entrance.

They had split up. She had taken his bike, still barely dressed. He had taken the cop car. They had left his bike on the side of the road. She had joined him in the cop car. Her naked skin rubbed against the old worn black leather of the cop car. They had driven up the serpentines of the mountain road. They had pulled of the mountain road onto a fire road, a rough dirt patch. They had reached a little peak above the Pacific Coast High

They had blind folded themselves. He had pushed down the gas. Their adrenaline had spiked in the anticipation of the drop. There had been the desperate instinct to hold onto something to avoid the doom. And then there had been the drop, the feeling of nothingness, of gravity having disappeared, the terrible terror of the impending impact. The air bags had hit them hard in the face and chest. A little stream of blood had been running down his arm from flying plastic debris. They had laughed very hard.

They bike had been waiting for them. She had become again the mostly naked dare devil on the back of his bike. The cop car was burning in bright orange flames reaching high to the sky behind them.

The man from the entrance had to turn away from the bartender to hide his face. His face was twitching with emotions.

Five months, later she had appeared in court. She had been dressed in a sharp suit. He had been in an orange jump suit with hand cuffs and leg irons. She had been the master witness. "Decrepit, psychotic monster," had she called him. She had been an undercover cop. Every part of her being had been disgusted every single minute she had spent with me. It hadn't been the words that had cut deep into his heart. It had been the hate painted into every pore of her face. It had been the spit that she flung in repulsion out. It had been the tiniest spit wad anyone had ever spit out at him. Yet, it had had the most venom.

The bartender walked around the counter, steps wide to balance his heavy body. One hand on the shot gun and one hand on the shoulder of the man from the entrance, the bartender said, "Welcome home, Jonny."

DISNEY LAND WITH A DEATH PENALTY

"Jen, I wish you the best for your new future in Singapore. Don't forget about us little people back in Seattle. Amanda -- XOXO"

Jen slipped the American cell phone into her jeans back pocket. The black spaghetti strap high heels stepped forward, rolling off the stiletto heel onto her stretched back and red painted toes. She strutted out of the gate into the large airport terminal. The big open ceiling, four stories high, made her pause for a moment. Then her eyes focused back into the mess of moving people, sitting travelers, and piles of luggage. She darted in between pulling her black carry-on stroller behind her.

Her hand found a piece of paper in her back pocket. She looked at it for a moment. It was an H1-B visa with a red stamp across it -- cancelled. Her first crunched it into a ball and tossed it into a metallic trash can in passing without stopping a bit. A strand of black hair fell into her face. She tilted her head to focus her brown eyes ahead as she squeezed in between an old lady and a young boy.

The crowd made space for two police officers, dressed in blue shorts and polo shirts. They walked with a soft smile. A tall blond American girl with red high heels and pencil skirt was hand cuffed behind her back. The officer to the right carried her black Coach purse. He boyfriend followed closely with a frazzled face.

"I don't understand what the problem is. It's a vibrator. It's not a bomb. I keep telling them. Why don't they understand?"

"Honey, I think vibrators might be illegal here."

Jen snickered as she continued to weave through the crowd. She walked past the sign that pointed to the butterfly garden. The clear double door system led into the bright butterfly garden. A cornucopia of plants gave the colorful butterflies a varied home. Next, she passed blissful tourists sitting in a galley of massage chairs. Singapore airport is ranked the number one airport in the world for a reason.

At the luggage carousel, a big family stood together. Together is putting it mildly. The little six year old was clinging on the fat mothers leg and pulling at her pant fabric in abandon -- shaking his body left to right like a dog shaking off water after a bath. "You go die la," yelled the mom at him in sing-song style. A gray haired grand pa wiped the snot off the nose of a toddler: "We two buddy-buddy one." An eighteen year old daughter was zoned out listening to her head phones. No American teenager would have been caught dead still travelling with the parents at that age. Another seven family members engaged with each other in some kind of drama.

Jen sighed deeply and looked down at the floor.

She pushed the cart with her baggage through the automated sliding glass door. The humid, life-draining, hot air wrapped her up in miserable bubble. Her family, standing in front of the van on the curb, recognized her. Their eyes lit up. They waved. They stormed forward. They surrounded her. Ma pulled on her cheeks to check that America had made her skinny. Dad pulled her hair in a friendly fashion. The little ones pulled on her clothes begging for attention.

"I missed you guys so much!"

They took her luggage. Everyone took their assigned place in the van. Mom and dad sat up front. The kids and nephews sat in the back. The van smoothly pulled out onto the clean streets and then into the canyons of high rises.

"Sayang, I'm so glad you are out of that crazy America. You will find a nice boy here and marry. Our downstairs neighbors are moving out next summer. That would be a wonderful place to start a family. We brought Kevin. He is in the back. He is a really nice boy. He has good grades. And he never complains."

Jen looked in the very back of the mini-van. Kevin sat there. His hair was overgrown. His face was blank. He wore a conservative overall. Jen's eyes widened. Her face paled.

"Mom, you know I like wild boys. I like boys that are educated."

"Sayang, you want wild boy you watch a movie. Kevin is a good boy. He go come home every night."

"Mom, I want to take medical classes to become a neural surgeon. I already have three years of medical school."

"Nonsense, you will help our family business of selling fish."

"Mom, I'm 30 years old! Do we have Internet at home? I need to check my e-mail."

"Yes, of course, we live in the 21st century. It's real slow during the day. You have to wait until late at night to use it."

That night Jen was tossing and turning on the bare hardwood floor. It was her old childhood room. There wasn't a sliver of furniture in the room. She slept on the floor. The floor was hard no matter how she turned. The heat was suffocating hot.

She got up to look outside. The 20 floor high residential high rises stood uniformly like pillars. The dark half-light of the night let her watch. The streets were dad. She was wearing shorts and an oversized t-shirt. Her nephew had insisted on sleeping with her. He was curled up in the fetal position on the floor, gently sucking on his thumb.

The computer started with the fan piercing through the quiet night. The LEDs flickered with the sharp beep and strongly rattle of the hard drive spinning up. Jen clicked through a three versions old Windows.

"Amanda, I'm going to kill myself. I can't breathe. It's not the humid air. It's that I see no future. I love my mom. Everyone is really nice. I'm so horny. I'm never alone. I need a drink with a good friend. I need some good conversation. You wouldn't belief how backward everything here is. I feel like crying the entire time. Yet, I can't because I'm never fucking alone. I want to go back to the West. How is your new puppy? -- Jen"

She clicked send and went for a restless night that ended way too early with the first light. Actually, it wasn't the light or her mom's yelling that woke her. It was the thickening overpowering smell of dead fish. Mom brought in big, blue rubber boots, water-proof fishing pants, and a rubber overall. They all had been used well. Blood stains were on them. Little nicks had ripped the rubber. And the fish stench permanently stuck to them.

An hour later, with a hanging head and gloves that were way too large for her girl hands, she was bear hugging 30 pound, slippery fresh catch, hauling it from a big bin to the display. Her father was yell-mumbling to himself, while he dressed up the fish. The big fish hatched flew through the air and hit the plastic board hard. Fish blood and innards splattered across his clothing and the floor. The dozens of other fish mongers did the same. The air was deathly polluted with fish stink. And Jen stepped around with the oversized rubber boots and her skinny calves.

By midday, a fish liver hung down Jen's forehead. Dried fish blood coated her bare arms above the rubber gloves. A black spot of sweat had grown large on the back of her blue t-shirt. She had rolled up the sleeves to bare her shoulders and get a little respite from the humid heat. The rubber boots made her feet sweet and smelly.

That evening, she dressed in a black skirt that was knee long. She put on her flip flops. She looked girly after that day among the fish mongers. Her parents sent her to bring the kitchen trash to the dumpster downstairs. Even the dumpster area was spot clean in Singapore. The dumpster bean rattled, when the lid snapped close again.

She went onto the long trek back up the stairs, the barren concrete steps and the skinny hand rail. Her door appeared on the fifteenth floor. She kept walking up the stairs one flight after the next. There was a bit of monotony to it that was calming.

The stairs ended. There was a green door at the top floor. She opened it. There was a little balcony with the control board for the heating electricity and power. A gentle breezed made her skirt move and put a little fresh air into her lungs.