by Mike Sweeney
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Downstairs she can hear the squeak and rattle of the cap on the Jameson bottle and it sounds like relief to her. It\u2019s all a question of potency: whiskey numbs him with sufficient speed that there\u2019s little time for much else other than sleep. Beer takes too long, gives him the stamina to express his anger. In Mora\u2019s head, the equation has always been: Jameson > Budweiser.<\/p>\n
She checks her Sankyo clock, the ancient digital device her older brother left her. It reads \u201c9:17.\u201d By the time it reaches \u201c11:00,\u201d she\u2019ll be able to safely go down and put a blanket over her dad.<\/p>\n
A little over an hour and a half to write, but first she wants to get the cover just so. Is it one \u201cl<\/em>\u201d or two?<\/p>\n Mora turns to the small shelf above her night stand, the one made for a little boy and covered with cartoon etchings of baseball and football players. She considers it the place she keeps her most treasured items: a Polaroid snap of her mom, the Sankyo clock, and her paperbacks.<\/p>\n The latter are divided into three stacks. On the far right are the trio of Han Solo books by Brian Daley. On the far left are the canon: the original novelizations of the Star Wars<\/em> trilogy ghost written for George Lucas by Alan Dean Foster. In the center are Foster\u2019s novelizations of The Thing<\/em> and Alien<\/em> and his own original Star Wars<\/em> novel, The Splinter of the Mind\u2019s Eye<\/em>.<\/p>\n Mora has many other books, enough for two bookcases, but these paperbacks are special. The words in them mean a great deal to Mora, but so does their physical presence. They are talismans against bad things. It\u2019s why she will never part with them, why she loves them infinitely more than the beautiful new set of Harry Potter<\/em> hard backs she got for Christmas or the glossy collection of Twilight<\/em> novels she reluctantly bought at Barnes & Noble\u2019s so she\u2019d have something to talk about at lunch.<\/p>\n The purchase of the paperbacks was one of the few acts of defiance committed by her mother against Mora\u2019s stepfather.<\/p>\n Those were the Dark Times: no Internet and no movies or TV shows that didn\u2019t conform to his standards, all under the guise of unflagging devotion to a different set of books. Against that, nine tattered paperbacks from a county fair were all Mora had, until her mother\u2019s one absolute act of defiance.<\/p>\n Mora carefully slips the yellowed copy of Star Wars<\/em> from the bottom of the stack on the left and runs her fingers over the words, \u201cFrom the Adventures of Luke Skywalker\u201d on the cover. She opens to the prologue and sees that \u201cWhills\u201d does indeed have two \u201cl\u2019s<\/em>.\u201d She notes this in her mind, replaces the book in its correct spot, and let\u2019s her fingers linger on the paperbacks above it. Downstairs, the Jameson cap is squeaking again.<\/p>\n Mora estimates that she is among the one-hundredth of one percent of the world\u2019s population who were introduced to Star Wars<\/em> via the written word rather than the screen. She eventually saw the movies when she moved back to Jersey and fell deeply in love with them too. But there are times she prefers those early days when the Battle of Yavin existed only in her head, when Darth Vader\u2019s eyes glowed red, the way Foster described them.<\/p>\n Mora looks out her window at the clear night sky, at the full moon, and at the water tower looming over the neighbor\u2019s house. She hopes this will be one of those nights when it miraculously transforms into an All Terrain Attack Transport. Mark Everson can\u2019t stop sweating. He sits in the office of his supervisor, Bert Newcomb, waiting for Bert to get off the phone.<\/p>\n Mark\u2019s hand is balled into a fist in the right front pocket of his suit pants. His car keys are laced through his fingers and he jams them into the flesh of his thigh trying to force himself to be calm.<\/p>\n Mark is certain why he\u2019s here. New Year\u2019s Day, when he came in to catch up on his accounts, he spent two hours on the \u201cclear computer\u201d in the break room. No one\u2019s supposed to spend more than five minutes on it a day \u2013 just long enough to check messages.<\/p>\n It\u2019s not so much the reprimand that Mark fears as the details.<\/p>\n It was a free trial of Star Wars Galaxies<\/em>. He should\u2019ve just waited till he got home. Instead he logged on to an external server from inside the Department of Justice and spent two hours roaming the Dantooine countryside as \u201cDarth Laser.\u201d It was the name Mark used when he played Star Wars<\/em> as a kid and now it was going to be officially entered into his record. For the rest of his life co-workers everywhere would laugh about it.<\/p>\n Mark thinks seriously about selling out one of his colleagues. There\u2019s Stan Worthington who has those videos on his secure computer, the compilations of famous actresses\u2019 nude scenes. He\u2019s showed everyone the Natalie Portman one and that\u2019s got to be against the sexual harassment policy, if nothing else. Then there\u2019s Toby with his Blackberry and his incessant tweets. Smartphones are only for the outer office but Toby sneaks his inside so he can tell all twenty-six of his Twitter followers that he switched the family over from the Scott-brand napkins to the ones by Bounty and he\u2019s really happy with the results.<\/p>\n Mark is sure he\u2019s close to drawing blood from his leg.<\/p>\n Bert hangs up the phone and looks at the paper in front of him. He smiles and hands it to Mark.<\/p>\n Mark is sufficiently relieved that it doesn\u2019t contain the words \u201cDarth\u201d or \u201cLaser\u201d that he ignores the fact that his own last name is misspelled.<\/p>\n Bert clears his throat and uses his official voice: \u201cThe Department of Justice thanks you for your hard work and dedication under extreme circumstances.\u201d<\/p>\n Mark slowly begins to recognize that he\u2019s holding a certificate of commendation from the Attorney General.<\/p>\n Bert is still speaking. \u201cAnd I\u2019d personally like to add it took a hell of a lot of courage volunteering to go over to Iraq.\u201d<\/p>\n Mark wants to say that it was after most of the violence against US forces had stopped. He wants to say that he never left the FOB, that for eleven days he never went outside, just shuffled down the hall from his quarters to the air-conditioned sub-basement where he looked for discrepancies in the accounting practices of the fast food companies that supplied the base. He wants to say that he didn\u2019t find any but that he hoped the time in Iraq would qualify him to work on one of the terrorism projects.<\/p>\n Mark says none of this.<\/p>\n Bert is still smiling. He has wonderful teeth.<\/p>\n Finally, Mark summons his courage. \u201cSir, I\u2026 I was wondering about the electronic transfers project. I think I could be a lot of help. And terrorism is \u2013 \u201c<\/p>\n \u201c \u2013 is important, but so is our everyday security here in this facility. We can\u2019t plug other people\u2019s holes if our own ship is sinking, right?\u201d<\/p>\n Bert stares at Mark until Mark nods his agreement.<\/p>\n Bert continues: \u201cMark, you\u2019re the best I\u2019ve got and you know we\u2019re cutting back on SIPRNET reliance, going back to old fashioned pen and paper. That means I need my best auditor now more than ever. Right?\u201d<\/p>\n Bert stares at Mark until he smiles, which he finally does.<\/p>\n Mark relaxes the hand in his pocket. At least no one\u2019s mentioned Darth Laser.<\/p>\n \u201cAlright then,\u201d Bert says, which his way of ending all conversations.<\/p>\n Mark slips out of his chair, certain that he\u2019s bleeding through his pant leg.<\/p>\n As he leaves Bert\u2019s office, Mark thinks again about applying to the CIA\u2019s forensic accounting division but knows that would mean he\u2019d have to take a polygraph. There\u2019s no way around the issue of the escort. He\u2019d have to admit to it. The Agency probably wouldn\u2019t care but it would get out, get around the office. They\u2019d look at him as an even bigger loser.<\/p>\n Mark coughs twice as his breath catches. A secretary looks up from her cubicle and he waves her off as he tries not to hyperventilate. He quickens his pace through the outer office, towards the men\u2019s room. As he walks, he hears Stan Worthington and some of the others laughing in the break room. They\u2019re not laughing about Darth Laser or about the physics grad student he pays to sleep with him, but Mark feels like they are. The laughter echoes down the corridor as Mark walks faster and his breath begins to shudder.<\/p>\n His chest feels tight and hot and if this hadn\u2019t happened to him dozens of times before he would be sure he was taking a heart attack. Mark rams his shoulder into the men\u2019s room door and begins checking to make sure no one else is using the bathroom. He finally sits in the last stall and places his palms flat against the metal door. The coolness relaxes him. He stares at his feet and prepares to say the only thing that ever makes him feel better.<\/p>\n As his breathing slows, Mark forces his voice into a deep rumble and growls, \u201cIf they only knew the power of the Dark Side.\u201d \u201cHuh. So it\u2019s like a castle?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAlmost exactly like a castle. In fact, I think you can safely say a castle and a citadel are pretty darn close from an architectural standpoint.\u201d<\/p>\n The young man on the customer side of the counter considers this as he checks over his application one more time. He corrects the spelling of his home address with the stubby pencil and asks, \u201cSo why don\u2019t they just call it, \u2018Cheese Castle\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n A.J. weighs the question for a moment before deciding to answer honestly. \u201cProbably because of White Castle. There\u2019s some legal thing.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut they make burgers.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe make burgers too.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut the cheese \u2013 \u201c<\/p>\n \u201c \u2013 is our difference maker. You see, the idea behind Cheese Citadel<\/em> is that you can get a burger \u2013 the meat end of it, that is \u2013 anywhere. Our value added, our special secret, is the cheese.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cRight. Sixty flavors?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSixteen. And we prefer to say, \u2018wheels\u2019 instead of \u2018flavors.\u2019 Probably because of Baskin Robbins.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe ice cream guys?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah.\u201d A.J. rubs his chin, looks left and then right. He leans across the counter towards Sam. \u201cSay, you wanna know what I call this place?\u201d<\/p>\n Sam nods.<\/p>\n \u201cThe Coruscant of Cheddar.\u201d A.J. grins expectantly.<\/p>\n Sam considers A.J.\u2019s words for several seconds. Then: \u201cIs a coruscant like a citadel?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo it\u2019s\u2026 um\u2026 nevermind. May I?\u201d<\/p>\n A.J. takes the application from Sam. His eyes immediately move to the questions about arrest and incarceration and seeing that both boxes are checked \u201cno\u201d decides he has a new hire.<\/p>\n A.J. pretends to read the other information for several seconds, nodding as he does. When he thinks a respectable amount of time has passed, he ends with a final, definitive bob of his head. He extends a hand to Sam.<\/p>\n \u201cI like your experience. And your attitude. I think we could use you on the Citadel team.\u201d<\/p>\n Sam shrugs and takes A.J.\u2019s hand. \u201cAnd the thing about Wednesday\u2019s is cool?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot a problem.\u201d A.J. looks intently at the counter and clears his throat. He hates this next part. \u201cThere\u2019s, uh, there\u2019s this one other thing.\u201d<\/p>\n Sam is still smiling.<\/p>\n A.J. continues: \u201cThe new guy\u2026 you see, at night we need someone to mop out the restrooms and, you know, um, clean the toilets and so, for a while anyway, that would primarily be you. After a few months, though\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n A.J. doesn\u2019t finish. Sam is backing away. He looks more hurt then angry. He continues edging towards the exit. When he reaches the glass door, Sam pushes it hard enough that it rattles.<\/p>\n A.J. puts his back to the rest of the restaurant and stares down at a stack of plastic cups adorned with a cartoon cat who loves brie. They wanted to use a mouse but there was that legal thing with Chuck-E-Cheese.<\/p>\n He can hear Molly in the back saying the fondue dispenser is jammed again. For the third time in as many days, A.J. is afraid he will publicly burst into tears.<\/p>\n From behind him, a flat, cold voice says, \u201cYour powers are weak, old man.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI said, \u2018Can I speak to the manager?\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n A.J. pivots and is confronted by a woman in her fifties. She stands with one hand balled into a fist on her hip; in the other, she holds a half-eaten cheese burger that seems to accuse A.J. of some wrong.<\/p>\n She drops the burger onto the counter and scowls. A.J. picks it up gently and respectfully considers what\u2019s left of the bun and meat patty before returning his focus to its owner. \u201cIs there a problem?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cProblem? I\u2019ll say. This is gouda. Not muenster.\u201d It\u2019s Friday and that means trash day. From her window seat in the second-floor classroom, Mora watches the front-loader sanitation truck pick up the rusted dumpsters. She thinks of a Sand Crawler and rubs her neck.<\/p>\n Her dad would never hit her, but he\u2019s a big man and sometimes he doesn\u2019t realize how tightly he grips Mora\u2019s shoulder when she helps him up the stairs. There wasn\u2019t a bruise when she woke, but she pulls her hoody tighter all the same. She doesn\u2019t need to have that discussion with a teacher again.<\/p>\n Mrs. Haley is lecturing almost verbatim from the textbook and Mora tunes her out even though she enjoys Sherlock Holmes. She likes the part where he seemingly comes back from the dead after the fight at Reichenbach Falls. Holmes is more forgiving of those who have been wronged when he returns, more willing to overlook minor sins committed to atone for larger ones. \u201cChrist-like,\u201d the textbook describes him as. Mora is fond of the Sherlock-Jesus; he sounds much nicer than the one her stepfather worshipped.<\/p>\n Mrs. Haley has ten more paragraphs to recite before reaching the end of the section and calling for discussion. Mora knows she has at least four minutes before she needs to pay attention.<\/p>\n She turns to the words Ronnie Miller left for her Monday. Ronnie occupies Mora\u2019s desk during the preceding period and the two had been having a running conversation. After an initial period of light flirtation, Ronnie has grown frustrated with Mora\u2019s lack of genuine interest. In dark angry letters, he\u2019s etched \u201cMora eats pussy.\u201d<\/p>\n Mora has stared at the three words each of the past four days, consciously noticing how anger and embarrassment have given way to amusement. She\u2019s now tempted to append the words \u201cvery well\u201d at the end, but she prefers not to make statements she can\u2019t back up with facts.<\/p>\n Mora catches Molly staring at her from the seat in front of her. Molly\u2019s hair is cut into a tightly-cropped crew cut. She wears boy\u2019s overalls with men\u2019s Timberland boots. Her laptop is plastered with stickers for bands with names like, \u201cBull Dyke Rodeo.\u201d Molly flicks her pierced tongue down her chin.<\/p>\n Mora likes Molly but she tries too hard.<\/p>\n Still, Molly is one of a handful of students Mora considers to be something like friends. It\u2019s Mora\u2019s second year of high school and things are finally starting to feel okay. Most days she no longer brings her paperback copy of The Thing<\/em> or Alien<\/em> with her. They\u2019re always good to touch, but she\u2019s usually not nervous enough to need them now.<\/p>\n Mora\u2019s eyes leave Molly\u2019s stare and drift to the right where Charisma is doing her best to follow Mrs. Haley, taking notes on the exact same words that are already in the textbook. Charisma is a year behind Molly and Mora, but her body has skipped several grades. There\u2019s a pep rally today and Charisma wears her cheer outfit to class. Mora\u2019s eyes fix on the part of the wooden seat that digs into Charisma\u2019s bare thigh.<\/p>\n Mrs. Haley is almost done. She\u2019s on the part about the correlation between Holmes\u2019 inactivity and his addiction. Mora thinks of her dad, how much better he is when he\u2019s on a job: her father, the consulting electrician.<\/p>\n Mora allows herself a happy thought. She holds a green light saber atop a desert skiff. Charisma is standing next to her and the wind is just about to blow back the crimson skirt hanging from her metal bikini. They\u2019re definitely not siblings. Mark used to find the drive up I-95 relaxing. Now, it\u2019s just tedious. He still makes it every Friday night, even though the house has been empty for two years.<\/p>\n Inside, he examines the carpet in the living room and thinks again that it needs to be replaced. There are multiple stains in various hues, final testament to where his father lived his last few days.<\/p>\n Most of the furniture is gone, his sister\u2019s way of slowly easing Mark into the concept of letting the house go. Only the kitchen table, a couch, and one bed remain.<\/p>\n The blinds of the picture window are open and Mark looks at the pristine, snow-covered backyard, glowing amber under the flood light. Somewhere out there under eighteen inches of snow and another foot of dirt lays the molted skeleton of Chewbacca the Goldfish.<\/p>\n The yard is clear, just snow and a fence. When Mark was a kid, it held an above-ground pool, three trees, a swing set, and a picnic table. It seems smaller in its emptiness.<\/p>\n Mark moves through the foyer and catches his image in the hallway mirror: he\u2019s gained more weight. In his black trench coat, he is a solid mass of darkness.<\/p>\n Through the open doorway, he sees the lights on at the Tarlick house across the street. It\u2019s been years since he spoke to Atticus.<\/p>\n Mark thinks about the changes that take place between ages 11 and 13. One minute you\u2019re best friends sitting next to each other at the Middletown movies for the premier of The Empire Strikes<\/em> back. A couple years later you don\u2019t even speak.<\/p>\n Mark would spend summers in Atticus\u2019 basement. The Tarlicks were one of the first families to get HBO and Mark and Atticus watched Airplane<\/em>! and Caddyshack<\/em> incessantly. Cindy Morgan\u2019s bare breasts never got boring.<\/p>\n It was the summer of 1983. Atticus\u2019 parents had gone to the beach and Mark was coming over to watch Blade Runner<\/em>. It was rated R and neither of them had been allowed to see it in the theater.<\/p>\n It was incredibly hot, the type of day that produces a special brand of humidity that can only be found in Jersey during the late summer.<\/p>\n Mark was like a second child to the Tarlicks. There was no need to knock. He patted Radagast, the family dog, and descended into the basement.<\/p>\n The lights were dimmed, the TV off. Janey Pennington from their class was there, kneeling. She licked Atticus\u2019 exposed penis like a popsicle as he moaned.<\/p>\n Then Mark said the words that would haunt him for the next four years and, really, most of his life: \u201cWhat are you doing to him?\u201d<\/p>\n They both laughed so hard.<\/p>\n Mark never found out if it was Atticus or Janey who spread the story, but it spread. Just in time for high school, too.<\/p>\n Mark considers that it might have been all downhill from that moment. It was three months after Return of the Jedi<\/em> came out.<\/p>\n Mark closes the front door and walks into the kitchen. He affixes his certificate of commendation to the refrigerator with little magnets.<\/p>\n To the empty house, he says, \u201cCPA of the Sith.\u201d \u201cHow was the Coruscant of Cheddar?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo one gets that,\u201d A.J. says.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNothing.\u201d<\/p>\n A.J. smells like bleach. He\u2019s given up on assigning bathroom duty; it\u2019s just easier to do it himself.<\/p>\n Annie\u2019s pupils are dilated and the basement door\u2019s closed tight. A.J. eyes the cupboard where they keep their stash. He knows he can\u2019t have any. He again ponders the injustice of the Cheese Citadel\u2019s drug policy. Not only should he be allowed to get high as a manager, it should be required.<\/p>\n \u201cSorry,\u201d Annie says and she sounds like she genuinely means it.<\/p>\n A.J. takes his jacket off and sits across from Annie at the kitchen table. He looks at her and she looks beyond him. Their pauses are longer than ever.<\/p>\n Annie rubs her hair, hoping that maybe he\u2019ll notice the new shade of strawberry she\u2019s trying. It\u2019s almost identical to the color she had when they first met.<\/p>\n A.J. tries to wish he didn\u2019t hate her.<\/p>\n Annie reaches down and holds up an old flashlight.<\/p>\n \u201cI found this in the basement,\u201d she says. \u201cI thought you might want to keep it when we throw the other stuff out.\u201d<\/p>\n She reads the plastic label glued around the rim of the casing: \u201cAn elegant weapon for a more civilized age.\u201d<\/p>\n Annie smiles. \u201cProperty of Rice-a-Roni Kenobi?\u201d<\/p>\n A.J. almost smiles himself but just nods. He speaks softly. \u201cHe, uh, he was Obi-wan\u2019s brother.\u201d<\/p>\n Annie\u2019s eyes light up. \u201cHey, maybe I could dress up for you again. What was her name? Lara Raid?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMara Jade,\u201d A.J. whispers. Something in his head has started to pound. He wants to picture Annie in costume on his thirty-seventh birthday, but can\u2019t.<\/p>\n It\u2019s Annie\u2019s turn to whisper: \u201cOf course, then we would actually have to do it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDid you dress up for him?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGoddammit, I never \u2013 \u201d<\/p>\n Annie stops, shuts her eyes, shakes her head.<\/p>\n She throws the flashlight at A.J. It bounces off his chest and ricochets around the kitchen.<\/p>\n It\u2019s only when she stands that A.J. realizes she\u2019s wearing cut-offs and a white t-shirt in the middle of January. It\u2019s the outfit he used to love to see her in down the shore.<\/p>\n \u201cRed, white, and blue,\u201d he would say then.<\/p>\n \u201cWe can\u2019t go back in time,\u201d he says now.<\/p>\n Annie has the basement door half open. Her back is to A.J. and her voice is level.<\/p>\n \u201cAtty, maybe if you didn\u2019t hate your own life so much, you wouldn\u2019t blame \u2013 \u201c<\/p>\n A.J. doesn\u2019t let her finish. He covers the distance between the two of them in a lunge and slaps the door out of her hand, slamming it.<\/p>\n She turns on him and for a second his hand flinches. The movement is miniscule but it registers in his mind as surely as the shadow that falls over Annie\u2019s face. Dinner didn\u2019t go well and Mora doesn\u2019t expect the rest of the night to be any better. The union still has nothing for her dad. Downstairs, there\u2019s a rumble as something falls over. It\u2019s definitely a beer night. Han Solo at Stars\u2019 End<\/em> is at her elbow, just in case she needs to touch it. Mora doesn\u2019t plan to leave her room unless absolutely necessary.<\/p>\n Even though the winter has been brutal, she keeps her window open. With the wind in her face, it feels like she\u2019s flying as she writes.<\/p>\n On the street below her, she sees A.J. Tarlick sitting on an iced-over snow pile in front of the Everson house, smoking. He\u2019s Molly\u2019s manager at the Cheese Citadel and she always says how cool he is. Tonight, though, there\u2019s something fundamentally wrong in his posture. He holds himself like he\u2019s in pain. Mora thinks he\u2019s speaking but isn\u2019t close enough to understand him.<\/p>\n The words Mora can\u2019t hear are the same seven repeated by A.J. over and over again: \u201cFor knowledge and defense, never for attack.\u201d<\/p>\n He chants them continuously, mantra-like as he chain smokes the pack of Pall Malls he liberated from Annie\u2019s Jeep. He holds the cigarettes in his left hand as he continuously flexes his right, the one that flinched.<\/p>\n \u201cAtticus?\u201d<\/p>\n A.J. stops chanting but doesn\u2019t respond.<\/p>\n \u201cAtticus? You okay?\u201d Mark repeats.<\/p>\n A.J. focuses and says, \u201cThat\u2019s a name I\u2019ve not heard in a long time.\u201d<\/p>\n Mark hasn\u2019t belted his trench coat and the wind whips at it, billowing it behind him.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah,\u201d A.J. adds flatly. \u201cI\u2019m just great.\u201d<\/p>\n Neither man seems sure how to proceed. Mark kicks at the caked rock salt on the sidewalk. A.J. stubs out the last of his cigarette.<\/p>\n Mark looks up and down the sidewalk, neatly cleared by the man he pays to take care of the lawn. The snow is piled four-feet high on either side of the walk forming a trench.<\/p>\n \u201cLike Hoth,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNothing.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMark\u2026 um\u2026 sorry about your dad.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah. Thanks.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHey, I, uh, heard you were over in Iraq.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYep. Kicking in doors in Fallujah. That\u2019s me.\u201d<\/p>\n A.J. looks back at his own house.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, cool. I just needed a moment alone, you know?\u201d \u201cFine, man. Hey, you should stop over some time. We\u2019ll hang out. Like old times, right?\u201d<\/p>\n Mark doesn\u2019t know why he says what he next does. There are people in the world more worthy of his immediate ire. Nonetheless, the words come out: \u201cSo you can tell more people I don\u2019t know what a blow job is?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n Mark shakes his head, his cheeks flushing a deep shade of crimson. \u201cThe reason we\u2019re not friends, Atty. Janey? You told everyone I didn\u2019t know what she was doing to you. I was a laughingstock for all of high school.\u201d<\/p>\n A.J. tilts his head, as if not hearing correctly.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you kidding me? My marriage, my life is disintegrating and you\u2019re pissed about something that happened over a quarter century ago? Fuck you, Mark.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFuck me?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah. Fuck you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, Atty, fuck you. Fuck you twice!\u201d<\/p>\n Mark has no experience with actual violence. His lunge towards A.J. is awkward. He tries to throw a punch but plants on the wrong foot, his right arm flailing forward as if throwing a dart.<\/p>\n A.J. sidesteps him easily, shoving Mark into a snow bank as he does. Mark rights himself and charges again. A.J. delivers a hard punch to Mark\u2019s abdomen, dropping him to his knees.<\/p>\n A.J. knows he should walk away but today has just been too much. He grabs a handful of Mark\u2019s thinning hair and rams his fist into his old friend\u2019s face.<\/p>\n The pain is instantaneous. A.J. pulls back his bloodied knuckles. His wrist feels like it\u2019s broken. Instead of flesh, he\u2019s just punched metal.<\/p>\n From the ground, the black visage of Darth Laser pulls itself to full height. The Sith Lord\u2019s eyes glow red and he ignites his light saber. Through his breathing apparatus, his voice booms, \u201cYou should not have come back!\u201d Rice-a-Roni Kenobi removes his light saber from his belt. The low hum of the device immediately joins that of his opponent.<\/p>\n In his mind, Kenobi assesses the precise amount of time the Rebel transports will need to clear the hangar. Darth Laser wasn\u2019t supposed to be here on Hoth, but intelligence is seldom perfect. Kenobi will hold him off as long as needed.<\/p>\n For his part, Darth Laser can\u2019t believe his good fortune. The Emperor dispatched him to the ice planet to finish the Rebellion once and for all. Now he has the added pleasure of ending Kenobi. He\u2019ll make the Emperor a present of the Jedi\u2019s head.<\/p>\n \u201cThe circle is complete,\u201d booms the Sith Lord. \u201cWhen I left you, I was but the learner. Now I am the master.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOnly a master of evil, Darth.\u201d Kenobi draws his blade up in the classic warrior-ready pose.<\/p>\n The Sith Lord wastes no time. With surprising swiftness for a being of such bulk, he pirouettes and swings to Kenobi\u2019s mid-section, a move that is simultaneously controlled and vicious.<\/p>\n Kenobi is ready, parrying the blow as the two warriors\u2019 light sabers crackle and screech against one another. Laser\u2019s strength is immense and Kenobi\u2019s wrist still aches from their initial confrontation. He retreats two steps but immediately regrets it, as Laser plunges after him his light saber whirring in a series of slashes.<\/p>\n Up and down the sidewalk, the old foes parry and riposte.<\/p>\n His frustration mounting, Laser\u2019s attacks become more violent, the swings of his saber more wild. Kenobi knows he can\u2019t hold the Sith Lord off forever, his raw power too great for the confined space of the Rebel base.<\/p>\n Kenobi backflips off the sidewalk onto one of the surrounding snow piles. For the moment, he has the high ground and a temporary respite.<\/p>\n Laser\u2019s eyes glow a vibrant red and he lowers his blade. He extends his hand.<\/p>\n Purple electricity leaps from it!<\/p>\n Kenobi only has milliseconds to curl into a ball and dodge left. He feels the ion dancing on his skin as the deadly energy zaps past him and vaporizes the snowman on the neighboring lawn.<\/p>\n Atticus stares down at Mark. \u201cYou\u2026 you can do Sith lightning now?\u201d<\/p>\n Darth Laser clenches his black glove into a balled fist. He savors every syllable: \u201cIf you only knew the power of the Dark Side!\u201d<\/p>\n Laser unleashes another volley of the sinister energy but Kenobi focuses intently, drawing the lightning into his light saber, neutralizing it.<\/p>\n Overhead he hears the last of the Y-Wing fighters screeching to safety, but he also knows the Imperial ground forces are closing. He can sense the snow troopers. They\u2019re not far from the garage now.<\/p>\n Darth Laser punches at the air with his fist and two recycling cans fly at Kenobi. He ducks the first and slashes the second in half.<\/p>\n Kenobi rolls to the right and comes up on one knee, force-pushing a frozen garden gnome at Laser as he does so. The Sith Lord is unprepared and the ceramic figure shatters against his battle armor.<\/p>\n It\u2019s the distraction Kenobi is waiting for. He takes two steps and dives into the night air, somersaulting over Darth Laser\u2019s light saber and striking home with his own blade. He lands the saber into the middle of Laser\u2019s breast plate, the metal hissing as the blade slides home, impaling the Dark Lord.<\/p>\n Laser drops to his knees.<\/p>\n The Sith Lord gasps, his respirator a sickly wheeze of electronics. \u201cIf you only\u2026 knew\u2026 the\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n Laser falls flat on the sidewalk.<\/p>\n Kenobi deactivates his light saber and reattaches it to his belt, assuming Laser is finished.<\/p>\n It is Kenobi\u2019s last mistake.<\/p>\n Darth Laser rears up one last time. Mark summons every joke that\u2019s ever been made at his expense, every laugh he\u2019s ever heard directed at him, every humiliation he\u2019s ever endured, and funnels it into a final, hellish burst of Sith lightning.<\/p>\n He engulfs himself and his ancient enemy, Rice-a-Roni Kenobi, in a cocoon of purple energy that incinerates them both, whisking away their very existence into the night sky. In the morning, Phil Woodman walks outside for his paper and wonders what in the hell happened to his snowman.<\/p>\n \u201cDamn kids,\u201d he says to no one in particular.<\/p>\n Across the street, in his basement, with the circumspection most men reserve for viewing pornography, Atticus stares at the Google homepage. He rubs his wrist. He must have slept on it wrong. Otherwise, he feels better than he has in years. He\u2019s already bookmarked the Americorps application. Now he types, \u201cdivorce lawyers nj\u201d into the search box and hits the return key. Inside, he feels a new sense of hope. They both deserve so much better.<\/p>\n In his father\u2019s house, at his kitchen table, Mark knows that nothing concrete has changed. His father is still dead, the house still empty. Mark\u2019s job still drains him to the point of despair. He\u2019s forty and alone. Despite all of that, Mark feels something he hasn\u2019t felt since childhood. As he eats his cheerios, a determined smile builds on his face. His eyes glow red.<\/p>\n Down the block, in her room, Mora estimates she has about an hour more to write before her dad wakes up. She\u2019s been up since dawn furiously scribbling in the Mead notebook, the one with \u201cJournal of the Whills\u201d written on the cover in silver. Her latest entry has flowed effortlessly.<\/p>\n Last night, Mora became the first human being to witness an actual light saber duel.<\/p>\n Electric crimson clashed with lambent topaz as Sith battled Jedi.<\/p>\n Really, what else can she do, but write it down? by Mike Sweeney Episode I Mora takes the Mead notebook from her desk and begins to draw on the cover, thick block letters with her silver Sharpie. Downstairs she can hear the squeak and rattle of the cap on the … Continue reading
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\n\u201cUh-huh. You sure you\u2019re okay?\u201d<\/p>\n
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\nMIKE SWEENEY<\/strong> lives in Central New Jersey where he writes constantly but never quite enough.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"