This is the first chapter to my novel. I turned this in for my fiction writing class last semester, and it got rave reviews. Hopefully you will enjoy it. It sets the foundation for a tale of romance, horror and existential angst.

CHAPTER ONE-Tucson,AZ March 1995

I realized my last night in Tucson that I had to write all this down. Keep a journal, a record. Change creeps upon a person. It's not the major decisions-going to college or dropping out or graduating;getting married or divorced or relocating for a job.It's the small ones:going to coffee with this person, avoiding THAT one for a few strange months, immersed in someone else's world, making THIS sacrifice instead of THAT one until the face in the mirror startles you as you walk past...

I had got off work at my job as a dancer(I see things in pre and post terms:pre-Vincent, pre-dancing, post-Vegas, post-car crash...but Iım getting ahead of myself.)This was well after I'd started dancing, when being a blackjack dealer had ceased to be an option. Iıd moved to Flagstaff, then Portland, then Tucson. And this was right before I went to New orleans. I was horribly bored and irritated with life in general. I had no idea just how tenuous the fabrics of what I considered reality actually were.

"Would you like a table dance?"I'd asked for what felt like the five thousandth time.

"Sure," said the man in the greasy Miller-Lite tee shirt.His breath stank. He was sweaty, his jeans were dirty and his hair unkempt.In other words, he was a typical customer.I did the dance, he he gave me the money, business as usual.

"Oh, I want to give you something before you go."

'another phone number,'I thought,'I'll put it in my file. Someday, I'll be out of toilet paper and it'll come in handy.'

He handed me a business card. I put it in my garter with my money and went back into the dressing room to change. It was noisy as usual, flooded with simple chatter about the night, bragging or venting frustrations.

I stuffed the night's money in my jeans pocket, put on my leather and helmet and briskly walked out the door.I begun the long drive towards downtown, stopping at Congress Grill. It was a trendy, all-night diner with fifties' decor.

"Hi, Lucia,"one of the waitresses, Melinda, waved as I walked in.
"How's it going?"I asked
"Slow night,"she rolled her eyes.
"I can relate."
"Single Cappucino?"Melinda asked.
"Make it a mocha,"I grabbed a table, counting my meager earnings. Yeah,it was a slow night all right.

At that point the business card caught my eye.There was no phone number, no address, just a quote.

"The greatest danger, that of losing oneself, can pass off in the world as if it were nothing; Every other loss, an arm, a leg, five dollars, a wife, etc. is bound to be noticed.

-Kierkegaard"

I stared at it for a minute.

'weird night,' I thought, shaking my head. I put both my money and the card back in my pocket.

"Hey Lucia,"Ben, a long haired,skinny cab driver was standing at my table."can I join you?"
"Sure. How's business?"
"slow tonight," he sipped his coffee, then lit a cigarette."how 'bout you?"
"Man, I'm sick of these sorry ass five dollar table dances."Melinda set down my mocha.I took a sip."Im ready to go someplace else."
"Where?"
"I dont know,"I shrugged "Texas? New Orleans, maybe? I love the idea of New Orleans but it's such a corrupt city. Maybe I'll go to Houston or Austin.The money's supposed to be good there."
"I like Tucson." Ben said."It's cheap,it's safe,it's a good place for my little boy."
"Well-you have roots." I pulled out the card. "Look,a customer gave me this."
Ben read it.
"Kierkegaard. He was a weird fellow. He wrote about despair and loss of the self but within the context of Christian beliefs. I think he killed himself."
"Damn Germans,"I shook my head.
"Actually, Kierkegaard was Danish,"Ben corrected me."It was Nietzche who was German. Of course, Nietzche went insane."
"But Nietzche had syphillis,"I interjected."he had an excuse."
'if only I had such an excuse,'I thought to myself.
"Maybe philosophy makes you crazy."Ben said.
"Probably. Anything worthwhile makes you crazy. Philosophy, art, writing-"
"Cab driving,"
"Cab driving, dancing, dating,"
"Not dating makes you crazy." Ben sighed.
"That's because you dont date enough."I said."If you dated, it'd make you crazy."
"Interesting logic." Ben slammed his coffee. Melinda quickly refilled his cup. "So, the south?Are you sure?"
"Where else is there to go?"I asked."I've done the northwest,I've done the southwest, I've done Vegas-"
"What about New York?" Ben asked.
"Ugh.Too cold,too grey.I spent a month in New York one weekend."
"I thought that was Philadelphia. What about California?"
"Too close to Vegas."I groaned.
"It's really not,"Ben said."It's no closer to Vegas than Tucson is."
"Maybe not by miles, but it's closer. Vegas was a fiasco. Trust me."
"Well,it is Vegas."Ben said. "Did you dance there?"
"No."I lit a clove cigarette."I was a black jack dealer."
"Blackjack dealer? No shit!"
"Yeah,dangerous job." I studied the wisps of smoke rising from my cigarette. "Trust me."
"Uh-okay.But the south?It's so good ol' boys."
"That's okay," I smiled,thinking'I survived Vincent. I can handle good ol boys.'

As I drove south, I gazed forlornly at the saguaros,the old stucco barrio houses,the prickly pears and mesquite, the dual purpose liquor/ammo shops. How long had this been a staple in my life, how many different realities have I lived throgh over the course of my moves?How often that what seems to be chance at the time creates change so deep that what you once considered "you" is alien and unrecognizable? Are you more the true "you"then, or have become so darkened and divided that you no longer even notice?It's a strange sort of madness when the only thing you can trust is your own judgement and even that seems permanently quirked.

I pulled into the driveway, killing the engine. My housemate,John, was pacing again.John was an insomniac. A year away from a PhD in philosophy he became consumed by depression and dropped out.He backpacked across Asia for five years, came back and has been working in health food stores ever since.

I threw down my backpack, threw my money on the kitchen table,took off my helmet and handed John the card.

"A customer gave me this,"I hissed."A customer! A greasy, smelly, trailer park white trash customer gave me this!"
John read the card.
"Kierkegaard,"John smiled wryly.He paced the kitchen,the five cats and two dogs getting underfoot."now there's a happy fellow."
"I know who Kierkegaard was,"I growled as I pulled a bottle of Cuervo 1800 from the cupboard.I filled a coffee mug, tossed in a straw and went to work."want a sip?"
"No, I've been drinking Goldenseal."he said."-good for the insides."

Sleep snuck up on me. Before I knew it, I was dozing off at the kitchen table.

"Lucia," John was shaking me. I looked up. "You fell asleep".
"Oh, were you talking?" I asked.
"Just for a few minutes."
"God, Iım sorry." I said.
"Donıt worry about it,"John said. "I never sleep, so it works out perfectly."

Perhaps I was just tired, but I could not see the logic in what John was saying. I wandered off to bed where slumber welcomed me, like a long lost friend.

I was in the art supply store, looking over cerulean blue and ultramarine and magenta, while a zombie worked behind the counter, oblivious. I snuck the tubes of paint under my blouse and walked casually out the door.
"Now thatıs not very honest is it," the zombie said. "you really should be more straightforward with people."
"I was going to pay for them, I just wanted--"
"No itıs okay,"the zombie said. "besides, this package came for you."

"Lucia," Jack was knocking at my door. "Lucia, you got a package."
I glanced over at my clock. 10:30 AM. Way too early.
"What is it?" I grumbled, opening the door.
"I donıt know, I just signed for it." John said.

I took the box and carried it into the kitchen. Cutting the tape with a steak knife, I dug through white styrofoam padding until I got to a heart shaped box of chocolates and a stuffed teddy bear. There was a small card in it.

Eternally yours, Howie.

"Dammit!" I cursed.
"What is it?"

"Itıs that idiot, Howie. My god, he just canıt figure it out, can he!" I exclaimed. I ran into my room, changed out of my boxer shorts and into jean shorts. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail without bothering to brush it. "I need to put this in terms heıll understand."

Running outside, I jumped on my bike and sped down Speedway Boulevard until I got to the toy store. I ran in, furious, as they were just opening. I hurried down the aisles to the boardgame section. Come on, they had to have it. That gameıs ancient. Aha!

Clue.

"Oh this is a lovely game," the cashier cooed. "your kids will love it."
"I donıt have any kids," I retorted. "this is for my ex."
"Oh."The woman was confused. "I see,"
I jumped back on my motorcycle and, with no respect for the posted speed limit, found my way to the post office. Shoving the box in their priority mail envelopes, I hastily addressed the package.
"Priority mail?" The postal worker asked.
"Yes, please."
"And would you like insurance on that?"
"Oh yeah, I wanna be sure that mofo gets this,"I hissed.
"My,"the old lady said. "well insurance it is then."

After such an exciting morning, I needed a place to unwind. Luckily there was Cafe Quebec. Right around the corner from the post office was a hip and artsy, if not somewhat pretentious, coffeehouse. But they had good Fettucine Alfredo and my stomach was beginning to growl.

In a far corner sat Dino, a local painter. Dino was an older man and seemed nice enough, although he seemed a little too into Dali for my tastes and the women he painted looked like something off the cover for a science fiction novel. He often did his acrylic work while in the cafe and much of his work hung on the walls.

In another corner sat Adrienne, a green haired art school drop out. She sat, chain smoking with her heavy set and chronically self conscious roommate, complaining about men,or women that had slept with the same men they complained about, or all the trendy backstabbers they considered to be invading their scene.

In the corner directly opposite of the two girls sat Fraggle. Fraggle was a cab driver with frizzy hair and thick glasses. Fraggle was sweet, albeit somewhat neurotic and was obsessed with Star Trek.

Finally, by the window, sat Jose and Beth, both art gallery owners I was faintly acquainted with.I deemed them the safest people to be around. I waved politely before grabbing a nearby table.

Sipping my Cappucino and waiting on my food, I began to read. It was a tattered and borrowed copy of Kierkegaard's"The Sickness unto Death"
"Hi, Lucia!"Two pages into it, I saw Howie."Did you get my-"
"Yes. I'm trying to read."
"What are you reading?"
"I'm TRYING to read Kierkegaard."I said.
"Really?"His eyes lit up."Too much of a Christian for me but he had some interesting things to say on despair and loss of the self. Personally, I prefer Nietzche.'what doesnt kill me makes me stronger'I really relate to that,you know?I mean I've suffered alot and--"
'Two months.'I thought.'You'd think that would have been penance enough.'
"Howie, can I call you later?"I said as the counter girl brought my food to my table."I'd really like to read this."
"Do you promise you'll call?"
"I promise you'll be hearing from me."I smiled sweetly,thinking'or my hitman if you dont shut the fuck up.'
"Okay, well call me. I'd love to go out to eat with you."Howie smiled suggestively. I glared at him.

I breathed a sigh of relief as Howie left and started to eat my food. Beth and Jose concluded their meeting. Jose walked over to my table.
"A happy social exchange with your ex?"he smiled.
"He's like a cockroach!"I exploded."I can stomp his ego or squash it or poison it, no matter how much I think I've got rid of him he just keeps trying to come back and infest my life."
"That's very poetic "Jose smiled."Some day I'll teach you how to tactfully blow people off."
"I wish you would,"I said."I just went to the post office and mailed him a game of Clue because I figured he needed one."
Jose gave a bemused smile and shook his head.
"I'm moving."I said.
"Where?"
"New Orleans."I decided at that moment I had to go.
"When?"
"May first."
Jose smiled again, this time ruefully.
"I'll believe it when I see it."he said.

Copyright Amy Lapisardi 2003