On the green and misty outskirts of Cincinnati, a man named Saul Revenge pauses in his driveway and looks at his blue house. His rust-orange suit is crumpled from a day of working and living. Everything seems intact beneath a cantaloupe and baby-blue cotton colored sky streaked with bruise gray. The shrubs are neatly pruned and still, the grass is evenly mowed, the rose bushes are giving birth to their first blossoms of the season. Rose buds, he thinks. How very sexual. He plucks one and glides it against his face. He puts it in his mouth and gently sucks as he would on her if he could. Vivian, his life partner, is an arctic volcano.

He spits and turns his attention back to the house. His house. His refuge. His burden. The front windows, tall and narrow, are the color of deep-blue aluminum glass. Yet, there is something beyond the static and ironed curtains that seems unsettled and almost twisted. He shifts as he looks, readjusts the brown paper bag he’s cradling. He’s a weird man and so looks at the paper sack and smiles, but just for a moment. Those small slivers of joy in his life dissipate so quickly now.  

Saul Revenge knows there will be that certain smell when he presses on and goes through the front door with its gentle click on the close. It will be the smell of carpet dust dancing in the day’s final sun rays. It will be the lingering warm mechanical scent of a vacuum motor mixed with his wife’s perfume. She’ll most likely be sitting on the end of the couch reading a book and drinking a cold combination of lemonade and orange juice and most likely Swedish vodka.

He imagines how she’ll look up at him and vaguely smile when he walks in, her fresh lipstick glistening, some imprinted upon the edge of her drinking glass. Her bare legs will be crossed at the knees. He’ll think about her in-between spot that lies beyond the skirt hem. But she’ll just set the book aside and say something meaningless like: “I’m making chicken pot pies for supper. I hope that’s okay.”

Moments later he finds himself interacting with her in a very realistic way. “Chicken pot pies?” Saul repeats in the entryway as he works his shoes off with his feet.

“What?” she wonders aloud.

“I thought you said something about chicken pot pies.”

His wife sets her book aside. “No, but I thought about it for supper. How did you know?”

Saul shoots her an aching grin. “I’m psychic, remember?” He laughs about it, but it’s not even funny.

She follows him into the kitchen where he puts the paper sack down on the table. “I got you more lemonade and the lens wipes you asked for,” he tells her, aching for her approval. He’s always aching for her approval.

She looks through the bag. “What about my fruit cups? Did you forget my fruit cups?”

“Now don’t get hysterical…”

“Hysterical? You know I need my fruit cups.”

Saul sighs with frustration. “Come on Vivian, we’ve talked about this before. Pre-packed fruit like that is a total scam, not to mention horrible for the environment with all that plastic they pack it in. I don’t understand why you can’t just peel your own fruit like a normal person.”

“Normal person? Oh, so now I’m a freak because I enjoy the convenience of fruit cups?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh, I’m quite sure it’s what you meant.”

“Vivian, please. I’ve had a long day.”

“Oh, yes. Excuse me. Another riveting day in the life of a bread salesman.”

“Are you discounting what I do? Because I happen to perform a very important role in the American food chain. I bring bread to people’s lives.”

Vivian snorts and tries to walk away. Saul grabs her by the arm and turns her to face him.

“Don’t mock me, Vivian. Do you even realize how important bread is to society. It’s a staple commodity, Vivian. It’s important, which in turn makes me important.”

She pulls away from him. “You’re crazy,” she snaps.

“Crazy, huh? Well, you certainly seem to enjoy the lifestyle my so-called riveting career affords you. You certainly don’t seem to mind sitting around this nice house all day doing nothing while I’m out there selling and merchandising bread 60 hours a week.”

“You think I do nothing?”

“Oh, that’s right. My apologies. I left out sitting on your ass, drinking booze and playing with your love box… I’d love to see your lot in life if you didn’t have me in it. It would be hopeless and sad.”

Vivian’s open right palm moves quickly through the air and strikes his bristled, shadowy face.

The crack startles him. He quickly grabs her by the wrists and looks into her sparkling blue eyes that maddeningly swirl like space. He suddenly kisses her mouth.

She pulls away from his slobbering moan. “What are you doing!?”

“I love you, Vivian. I really do. Even when you hurt me.”

“I hurt you?” She wipes her mouth with her arm. She moves to retrieve a fresh glass and pours herself a stiff drink.

“Please don’t drink more, Vivian. I’m sorry about what I said, baby. I really am.”

She drains the glass and sets it down. “Don’t tell me what to do, or not to do, or anything… I’m going to take a shower before I make your supper… I hope that’s all right.”

Saul tries to embrace her, puts a hand between her legs. “I could help wash you.”

She forcibly rejects him and slips away toward the other side of the house before Saul can say anything else.

***

It’s dark time and he lays awake in bed and stares at the ceiling the color of ghost skin. Vivian is dead asleep beside him, the heavy round of magic sleepers now fully kicking in. Saul leans up on an elbow and tries to look at her. She resembles an under ripened schoolteacher. He suddenly envisions her ringing a great golden school bell in the recess yard. Her blonde hair is tightly pulled back into a ponytail. She’s wearing a cream-colored winter sweater, a red scarf around her neck, her breath is visible because it’s so cold out. For some strange reason she is crying out “Ho! Ho! Ho!”

The bedroom is mostly dark except for the glow of the stereo’s dials and lenses along with the purple blue hue emanating from the miniature moon nightlight perched upon one of the night tables. He looks toward the windows and light pollution lurching up from the bulge of the city leaks in through curtain slits. Saul lies back down and closes his eyes. He can hear Vivian breathing. He wonders if she worries about things as much as he does. He decides she probably doesn’t. Who could possibly worry more than him? He sighs deeply. He tries to form a dream scenario in his head. Where will he go and what will he do, he wonders. How does the mind create such foreign places? Places he has never been to before. But they must exist. Somewhere. In some time, near or far, forward, or back. How otherwise could he paint them?

If dreams were to truly come true, there would be chaos.

A dark rage within slept sounder than he did. But then there was softness, too, like butterscotch or yellow flowers or a deep blue sky with little to no need for a bandage.

Vivian stirred as his mind flew around like a Tilt-A-Whirl surfacing from the annals of lost Americana. Her eyes were sealed shut, but her mouth was propped open by some invisible force. She was beautiful, he knew that. Saul also knew that perhaps someday that beauty would be used against him. She would torture him before a judge and jury, and he would be hung before a crowd in the plaza of light. Everyone would cheer. Jesus would lead him away in shackles.

Paranoia. Restless breathlessness. He feels the struggling heart in his chest begin to quicken. Dark stripes on the wall begin to materialize into something… Someone.

He moves his body and is then sitting on the edge of the bed. His bare feet are touching the cold floor. There’s not a stitch of carpet in the entire house—a mid-century animalistic menagerie in the stylish old-world part of this Ohio town. Vivian coughs and it startles him. She rolls onto her side. There, something on the walls is whispering to him. A hiss of turbulent thoughts, history, orders, wishes. Saul is tired but awake at the same time. He gets dressed and walks out of the room.

He goes out into the backyard. Instead of stars there are billions upon billions of books. White spines lined up on the shelving of the jungle pitch heavenwards. The words are all alien hieroglyphics. Moonlight glistens. The glow of Cincinnati is a Buddha belly circus dome off in the distance. The air is mildly refrigerated.

Saul looks down and realizes his feet are still bare and in the moist grass. At the far end of his perfectly manicured and ornate Zen lawn and garden, he catches the glimpse of a figure near the wooden fence. There is a woman there in a green dress, the fringes of her entire mass aglow. She is not young or old. Her whitish hair flows without the aid of gravity. Her eyes are pure white, no pupils, no iris, no anything. Like small, disinfected hard-boiled Easter eggs peeled and ready to eat with salt. Salt from her own tears.

There is a telepathic nod, and he understands.

“I can make anything happen,” Saul replies. “There are no consequences for a man’s actions within his own dreams. Or if he is smart enough, within his own reality.”

The woman in the green dress slowly floats into a mist and disappears.

***

Bertram Chokewine is an uptight capitalistic hog. His tennis ball-shaped brain cage resembles a clean-cut frosted Arctic tundra. He wears silver -rimmed spectacles over his blue-ice eyes. The lenses are circular, studious, and ancient. His face is scraped clean, waxy, pure, artificial. He wears a clean shirt, expensive necktie, perfectly pressed trousers, plush underwear, fine socks, polished shoes. His cologne reeks like an upscale department store carved into the belly of a virgin ice cave.

He’s pecking at his computer keyboard when Saul Revenge comes knocking on the door.

Mr. Chokewine freezes for a moment. Tries to reassemble his whereabouts. “Yes? Come in.”

Saul enters the office. He’s timid and scatterbrained. He has no idea why he’s been summoned by the boss.

Bertram stands, smiles, extends a strong hand. He’s very fit for a man in his late 50s. Saul feels less a person for it. He fixates on the fact that he’s soft, often disheveled. He wonders if he’s been called in because his appearance isn’t professional enough. He’s not polished and slick or gleaming. He suddenly feels like old news.

“Everything all right for you this morning, Saul?… Please, have a seat.”   

Mr. Chokewine gestures toward a box of fresh muffins on the desk. “Help yourself to a muffin. I have Claudette pick them up for me at that little bakery around the corner.” He pauses. Smirks like a twat. “Just between you and me, I’d like to eat her muffin, if you know what I mean.”

“Sir?”

“Oh, come on, Saul. Relax. We’re just two guys shooting the shit first thing in the morning before we do the meaningful things we do. You can’t tell me that you haven’t noticed Claudette is one fine piece of ass. And great knockers, too. Don’t you think?”

Saul shifts nervously in his seat. “Oh, well, sir. I don’t really have an opinion about that. I’m a married man. Remember Vivian? From the Christmas party?”

“Yes, yes. Vivian. Not a bad little number herself.” Mr. Chokewine chuckles as he removes the paper cup from the base of his banana chocolate chip muffin. But really, Saul? You’re married not buried.” He stares at the muffin as if it were an object of sexual desire. “Mmm. Men like tits, and all the other bits, period. And I will confess, one man to another. I look at Claudette’s tits. I like them. Hell, I’d like to slap them around a little bit. I’m not afraid to admit it. I’m a man who knows what he likes, Saul, and I don’t mind letting it be known.”

“Aren’t you afraid she might take offense,” Saul remarks as he leans forward and looks over the selection of fresh muffins. “She could get you fired.”

“Nonsense. Claudette is one of my most loyal servants… Employees is what I meant to say. But enough of that. We’re here to talk about you, Saul.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Yes. I’m afraid there is.”

“What is it?”

“The problem is you, Saul. Your productivity has been steadily slipping over the past few months. Your numbers are way down. What’s going on with you, truly?”

“I don’t understand. I work very hard. I’m very dedicated. You know how important bread is to me. Are you sure the numbers are right?”

Mr. Chokewine taps on his keyboard and reads over his computer screen. “The information is reliable, Saul. It’s AI after all. You are our lowest performing salesman… And you have been for quite a while.” He opens a desk drawer and retrieves a sheet of paper. He pushes it across the desk toward Saul.

“What is this?”

“It’s a reprimand.”

“A reprimand?”

“Yes. And unless I see some improvement in your productivity in the next 30 days. I will have no choice but to let you go.”

“What? You’re going to fire me?”

“Only if you fail to turn things around, Saul. I know you can do it. I have faith in you.”

Saul scans the paper in more detail. “It doesn’t seem like you have any faith in me. None, according to this.”

And it’s then that Saul begins to feel this flush of heat in his head, that old familiar feeling of anxiety, a melding of weakness and anger and disgust with the world and his own place in it. Hello old friend, he thinks. Hello to those painful reminders of how much he gives and gives and keeps on giving and in return receives blank stares and ungrateful dismissals. Hello to the old lump in the throat, then the disintegration of manliness and he is suddenly overcome with the reality of his own disastrous existence, and he falters and begins to cry. There he is, a grown man and supposedly professional cog in the machine, and he is weeping in front of his silver prick boss.

Bertram Chokewine watches him in a revelry of part disgust, part sympathy, part joy. He reaches a hand forward and pushes a button on his desk phone. He speaks to the invisible. “Claudette, would you bring us a box of facial tissues.”

A moment later she enters the room.

Mr. Chokewine points at a blubbering Saul Revenge. “Be a good girl and wipe away his tears.”

Claudette approaches him, snaps two tissues from the box and dabs at his eyes. “There, there,” she whispers in a nurturing tone. “There’s no need to cry.” Her heavy, intelligent breasts sweep across his face as she tends to him. She looks over her shoulder at Mr. Chokewine and smiles, and in a mocking way about Saul says, “Real men don’t cry.” She turns her gaze back to him, pushes her breasts further into him. Saul can smell her scent. That of woman skin and a dime-store perfumed spray.

“I can cry if I want,” Sauls says in his own defense. “There’s no shame in that.”

Mr. Chokewine gets up from his desk and positions himself directly behind Claudette, his crotch situated alarmingly close to her ass. “I suppose not, but then again, no woman is going to want to deal with a crybaby. Isn’t that right, Claudette?”

“If I wanted a crybaby, I’d be working at a daycare.” She laughs hysterically.

“It takes a real man to sell bread at the professional level,” Mr. Chokewine says, his pelvis slowly grinding against Claudette’s backside.

“Please, sir. I beg of you. I need this job. I’m planning a trip to the Farasan Islands. It’s supposed to be a surprise for my wife. For our anniversary.”

Bertram’s thrusting motions become more punctual. The pressure wave moves through Claudette’s body and emits a warm libido against him. Saul can taste her breath in the air as she gently pants like a summer dog so close to him.

“The Farasan Islands? Are you even allowed to go there?” Mr. Chokewine demands to know. “That sounds like a made-up story to me.”

“It’s not made up… Good lord, are you about to make love to her right in front of me!?”

“Would you enjoy that, Saul. Or would you just cry some more,” Mr. Chokewine snaps.

“This isn’t right! This whole horror show isn’t right!” Saul cries out.

“Zip it!” Mr. Chokewine says as he loosens his belt and lets his pants fall to the floor. “Why don’t you take yourself a long weekend and reflect on your poor work performance and how you can turn things around. Think about how you could better yourself, Saul, perhaps enough so that a woman like Claudette here might fall in love with you.”

“That’ll be the day,” she giggles and jiggles. “I like my men with big balls and a penchant for superior work performance coupled with high wages… Oh, Mr. Chokewine! You’re poking me with your thick stick!”

“That’s right, Claudette. And as soon as Weepy Willy here leaves us be, I’m going to thank you for those delicious muffins in a proper way… Go on now, Saul. Get out of here. But I expect to see you first thing Monday morning with a fresh new plan for your tentative future here.” He waves him off as if he were a disposable soul. “Bye, bye.”

“Ciao, baby,” Claudette adds. And then she grunts like a soft animal.