Ten minutes ago we were sworn in. All twenty some odd number of us stood straight, our right arms raised, and repeated the same oath of office the members of the president’s cabinet must agree to. Two vital parts of this oath stuck out to me, (a) “I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic,” and (b) “So help me God.” No badge, no gun, just a plastic ID that I must write my own name on in ball point pen and wear on a lanyard above my waist. I have sworn to defend my country’s constitution against all enemies, but have no tools with which to do so save for my own ingenuity and a semi-respectable pay rate.

If an old woman doesn’t appreciate me asking her how many of her grandchildren were squatting here on April 1st, how many teacups were housed, how many cats she’s holding, and how many illegal immigrants she’s hired to care for those cats, so attempts to crack my skull with a wooden rolling pin – what do I do? They don’t cover defending your country’s constitution against a domestic grandmother. Do I squeal pleas for my life? Hold a crucifix to her with my eyes shut and my heart hoping it’s a quick death? This oath makes me uneasy. It’s the same oath military officers take. So help me God.

I walked into a cafe this morning and boasted my recent taking of this oath, and made it sound especially important.

“I was sworn in as a federal officer yesterday,” I said to them.

“What?!” they said, amazed, obviously thinking I would soon be carrying a badge and steel revolver. “For what?”

“For the Census Bureau,” I replied. They broke into laughter, looked at each other, and handed me my tiny cup of espresso. I reminded myself that I was still important and still a man; that they had no effect on my federal oath of office. That I am, in fact, vital to the health of the United States Constitution.

If I meet anyone famous, I’m not allowed to tell you. If I find Osama Bin Laden, as one of the women in my class dumbly asked, I am unable to report him to the officials. Sean, the young and and vivacious man who does in fact do his job better than anyone in the room could, replies, “If you find Osama Bin Laden, someone is straight slacking; don’t worry about it.”

After the class ends, after 7 hours of peanut gallery-like comments , ridiculous questions, and a lengthy fingerprinting activity, I am freed and tell Sean, “You did a good job, man. It’s a tough crowd.” His fellow associate who wandered in after the end of class, an orange bearded man of Irish decent, says to me while chewing a baby carrot, “Hey man, want to join a cooler group? We’ve got beer and hookers.” This bearded man’s remark renews my faith in the structure of the federal government; his stature and disposition prove to me that our country is 100% sure of what it’s doing and will, above all else, make its constitution a priority – despite the fact that it might be hundreds of years old and out of date.

Being a U.S. Census Officer I feel a little bit like a gay man who’s married to a straight woman: I’m not totally faithful, I think it’s fun, I really do care for her, but I just don’t know how long this marriage will last until I come out. Maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but they’re an equal opportunity employer.

A few quick questions you might all be wondering. In our constitution it states that a census will be taken every ten years. It began in 1790 and has been conducted every ten years, in years ending in zero, ever since. This census determines how many representatives each state will have in the House of Representatives, as well as how much public transportation we need and how big to make our schools. These are not its only purposes, but these are some of the most important. So when I come to your house, don’t ask me why I’m doing it. Just answer the ten questions. Please. And I wont mind if you complement me on my sweet messenger bag.

I’ll leave you with a quote I read on a bumper sticker, “Dissent is the highest form of patriotism.” – this quote is often attributed to Thomas Jefferson or Howard Zinn, but no one really knows. Regardless of who said it, it’s something worth thinking about.

David Wagoner wears denim buttons-ups unbuttoned to the third button with different colored turtlenecks beneath. A Native American inspired (perhaps made) belt buckle holds his pants tight with the dignity of eternal youth. He still does his hair everyday, snowy white it holds close to his head, combed with an unmatched slickness. His glasses are large, beautiful relics from the 70′s, if they were tinted they would immediately be the most fashionable sunglasses within 30 miles – that’s him, that’s David Wagoner; even in his old age he’s on the verge of being completely fashionable. His poetry still is.

Legends are legendary because of their elusiveness. As the recent attention on Tiger Woods has revealed, a legend rarely remains a legend when put directly in the spotlight, or when the facts of their life are explicitly revealed. To be a legend one must master the art of paraphrase, solitude, and performance. For the past three weeks I’ve been taught by a legend; a poet born in 1926 who worked with and outlived the likes of Theodore Roethke, Richard Hugo, Elizabeth Bishop, and countless others. David Wagoner has mastered the ability to remain a master. The kind of person who can make a silly remark and yet, somehow, it’s received as a piece of backwards-wisdom; intentionally said in a silly way so that we’ll learn an important lesson.

“Stay alive,” he said wisely and not without a grim skepticism. “If you plan to write good poetry, you must stay alive.” I’ve scribbled these wise axioms all throughout my notebook. I take them, at first, as complete truth. Old folks, especially successful ones such as David, have an innate conviction that, unless you’re simply not listening, forces you to believe – even if momentarily – everything they say..

“Theodore Roethke was in this room,” David says, crossing one leg over the other, nimble even in his eighties, “when he was arrested for threatening a class with a can opener; the state police came and arrested him. He was incoherent, of course.” His voice is musical, it booms like thunder but soothes like cough syrup. He told us that to master poetry we must master the same abilities a classical singer does: pitch, tone, timbre, rhythm. “Two floors below us Allen Ginsberg performed one of his first readings of the poem ‘Howl.’ This building, Parrington Hall, is haunted by the spirits of many poets, Roethke, Ginsberg, and so many more. Roethke instructed me in this hall. That was back when instructors wore suits and ties and coats, and took their suit coats off as soon as they got the chance.” He always finishes his stories of old with a chuckle that says we could never understand and that we probably think he’s trying to be funny.

There’s certainly something demystifying about being in David’s presence – he insists upon being called David – not unlike if you learned the science behind love it would become less magical. So many people seem to believe that the ability to write poetry is some natural, magical gift that can’t be taught – honed, perhaps, but not taught. David seems to think it’s a bit of natural ability, but that there’s also a science to it. “You’re poetry is not sacred in this room,” he said on the first day. “We will tear it apart.” One of the first things he tore apart was the prose poem, something I hold rather dear to my heart. “It used to be that poetry and prose were completely separate forms, that’s no longer the case. I don’t see what you could gain from writing a poem without intentional line breaks. And either use punctuation correctly or don’t use it at all. You live in an era where there are no rules,” he says. “Remember that.”

A few minutes later he tells us not to capitalize the first letter of a line unless it’s the beginning of a sentence, and a couple classes later not to part an attributive adjective and it’s noun with a line break, then he tells us not to have more than twice as many attributive adjectives as we have lines. One moment he tells us there are no rules, then the next he lays them out clearly. And of course he makes the suggestion that we write out a poem in prose first, no line breaks, no poetic constraints – just write and write until we have no more to say on the subject. Even the oldest, wisest, most successful poets can be a walking contradiction, maybe that makes a poet. It’s humbling and yet a little scary, too. How would you feel if Jesus came to you, a devoted christian, and started saying hypocritical things and making confused suggestions? I suppose your faith would likely falter, but at the same time you’d realize that Jesus wasn’t that much better than you – what’s stopping you from being a modern day Jesus?

After a pregnant pause in which the fourteen or so students in the room glance slowly around at each other, he says, “Every time I say something a little voice in the back of my head says,” he reaches back and touches the back of his head as if he knows the voice’s exact location, “’yeah, but the opposite’s also true.’” And he immediately redeems himself of his previous contradictions. He’s quite possibly the most coherent human being I’ve ever met. Unfaltering in his beliefs, yet acknowledging of the fact that they’re likely wrong – everyone’s likely wrong.

David often spends 3-5 second intervals between statements, he creates these long and somber silences, not quite awkward so much as meditative. The subtext of his silence says, “You should all be thinking of ideas right now greater than the one I just had.” They’re intimidating silences in which I often scribble ideas in all caps in my notebook – I’ve recently learned that my writing is somewhat legible if written in all caps. He often counters his booming criticisms with a tiny chirp of praise; he knocks you off your feet and doesn’t grab you by the hand and pull you back up, but merely whispers in your ear, “I suggest you get back up.” He takes confidence and energy.

Coming into David Wagoner’s knowledgeable arms I was excited, thinking he must hold the skeleton key to poetic success. After his class I would be able to open any door, anywhere, and turn whatever was inside to art. His age, his reverence, his reputation – his first book of poems was published at 22 and he hasn’t stopped since; he’s well into his eighties now. All of these seemed to be evidence that he would be able to turn me into a successful poet. Of course, this was a naïve, overly excited, and headstrong belief.

Masters can teach us what they did to master a thing, but masters are considered masters because they did something striking and unique – something never done before. No one can teach you how to do something that’s never been done before.

“A plains Indian,” he once said, “does not think the same way that a woods Indian does. If you place a woods Indian on the plains he will feel vulnerable; a plains Indian in the woods will feel trapped.” The Indian out of his comfort zone will feel fear, the Indian must turn that fear to positive energy and will himself to innovation, and always say to himself, “Yeah, but the opposite’s also true.”

David once said his wife calls the following poem his “cash cow.” It’s been reproduced in multiple languages, in thousands of mediums, and read in thousands of different places; in keeping to this tradition, I am reproducing it here, for you, just in case you get lost:

Lost

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you,
If you leave it you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

I’ve been climbing this ladder, that’s all I really can do. Climb climb climb and, every once in a while, stop at a floor to look in a window. See how people are getting along. Hope to see some broken reflection of myself in glass meant to be looked through, not reflected upon.

Just when you think you know everything, realize you’re only being tricked. The point at which everything seems clear is the point just before your reality is overturned. It’s easy to be proud of how well you get through hard times, but it’s harder, for me at least, to be proud of the times when I got by and it wasn’t hard.

I had an amazing summer. I went on a road trip to California, I met so many new people; pretty much began a new life. But when you meet new people you inevitably lose others. To think we understand the purpose of someone’s relation to us is to claim to know more than anyone’s ever known. That’s probably why everyone gets divorced now. They all think they’re signing a contract to relieve their loneliness, only to find they’re signing up to spend years with someone they don’t even know.

I sometimes toy with the idea of just traveling. Backpacking through Europe, learning about the world and writing about its beauty. But it all comes back to that saying, Wherever you go, there you’ll be. I go through waves of content and discontent. Every time I feel a positive wave coming on I hope that this time it will stay. But I should never be so foolish.

Once, I met two amazing people at nearly the same time. These people were on opposite ends of the spectrum. One romantic, involved, clever, sincere, but almost wholly untouchable. The other receptive, playful, intelligent, and hungry for knowledge. Both beautiful. These people got along well enough, but by no means were best friends. I, however, managed to be best friends with both of them. I could connect with both of them unlike either of them were able to connect with each other. I wasn’t so much a bridge but a system of underground tunnels to both. Each of them often spoke of the other and I felt conflicted in their intentions. A game of tug of war it seemed. There was the first, she couldn’t hide a thing with her eyes. And the second, I fear could do it all too well. Neither of them was better than the other but they, as well as me, have at least one thing in common—we don’t know what the fuck we’re doing aside from making it alive and in bed every night. If we’re lucky we might even get some sleep.

The satisfaction I’ve received merely from the success of this meal is something not many know. To be proud of having eaten dinner. To be proud for functioning as a normal human being does. What a peculiar feeling, but rewarding as well. As if normalcy is less a sign of mediocrity and more an enlightened state. Not a single bite of food has been left here tonight. And for functioning more like a human being ought to, I am proud.

I drop them off with love and warmth, set them on a Washington winter avenue a block before the Loft so they can pull sweetly on their cigarettes for a minute or two. I weigh my foot down on the gas pedal, pull a u-turn, blow a kiss, and disappear into the night. A phantom for now. I drive through the darkened Edmonds streets, eerie with the crisp vacant feeling of the 18 degree weather. Every turn becomes a drift in my mind, every stop smooth and calculated; the lights do not turn red to stop me, I turn them red to take a break. When they turn green it’s only if I’m ready. My evening ritual: I drive to a 24-hour diner, order a breakfast plate and an Oreo milkshake. I write. When I’m done, I head back towards Edmonds; all the while commanding the street beneath my tires. I stop at the QFC to buy two electrolyte boosted water bottles so that the girls will have a less hung over day tomorrow.
In the parking lot of the QFC a man is driving an old Ford pickup truck wildly. Obviously drunk off his ass. It’s unnerving, but I am a phantom and would take a hit from his truck like a patch of fog. I head back towards Edmonds. The girls have nearly another hour of fun ahead of them. I do not tell them I’ve arrived; I want them to feel no pressure. After a very deliberate bout of parallel parking, I step carefully out of the car into the frozen night and feel naked it’s so cold.

I hop out of the car in a dance-like maneuver in my winter garb. I dash behind the buildings and duck into the alleyway. I hop onto a metal dumpster and leap up towards the roof, grabbing the edge of it. I pull my body up and over the side, rolling onto my back and making sure not to ruin any of the buttons on my pea coat. I breathe hard with adrenaline pulsing through my veins. My breath is visible in front of me, before the starlit sky, like a cloud. The Beach Boys are in my ears.
They’re mocking the night; the world. I sit up quickly and begin to prance about the rooftop like a bandit in the night. I’m frolicking up there like a raccoon in a garbage can. It’s exciting and wonderful. From business to business, I gallop over their thousands of sleeping products, merchandise all waiting to be bought, empty rooms full of money and nothing all at once. Liberating. Absolutely liberating. Living on the edge, but not criminally. I would never steal or hurt others. That’s not me. I just need to do things mildly against the rules. Bend them really. Add a spark but never light a fire.

I’m lying on the marquee of “The Fabric of Life.” The girls step out of the Loft and walk up the block, just below me. My phone rings. It’s one of the girls.

“Where are you?” she asks.
“I’m nearby. Where are you?”
“We’re smoking at the Fabric of Life.” I hang up.

I lean over the edge and shout shrilly like an old woman, “Could you girls not smoke here?! The fumes bother me.” It startles them and they retaliate.

“Don’t fuck with us when we’re drunk!”

But one of them laughs. They love me. They’re glad I’m there. I love them. I’m glad I’m there. On this night I would choose nothing different to do but be there for these girls; to allow these girls to have a night of fun the world would otherwise never permit. To say that we are simple or that it doesn’t take much to please us would be a lie. Maybe. But when pleasure comes it comes full force, and in a way that I’m sure no one else understands. The night’s a success. I run over the rooftops again, slip on the slanted edge of one and think about the embarrassment of being caught doing something so ridiculous. I realize that being caught would be worth the feeling. Like these girls and their escape in the lights of the Loft, I need this escape above the people of the streets and above all the problems of my daily life. I hop down off the roof, onto the dumpster, and walk back to the car. I open their doors one by one and help them gently into their seats.

During my early promenade to lecture this morning, I fished two quarters and a penny out of my front pocket. As I walked, my boots clacked step by step, echoing through the frosted rose bushes and atop the surface of the gargantuan frozen fountain. I slipped my right glove off and grasped a quarter between my thumb and pointer finger. I pulled my arm back and lobbed the coin up at the sun. It gleamed against the rays like a star during the day and came down spinning in more perfect form than a figure skater. It met the ice of the fountain with a tinny clank and bounced a couple of times. The sound was so satisfying that I did it again with another coin. And again. The bouncing, frozen wishes were somehow legitimized by the cold. What normally would’ve been a vacant, meaningless action became a real wish. I’m not superstitious but this ice, this abrupt winter freeze, has somehow made me believe in the unbelievable. That was the best 51 cents I’ve spent since I could buy Double Bubble for that price.

As if to defy the way of the world, I’m blossoming in these winter months. My petals are extending their reach and requesting the gentle nourishment of the bumblebee. I’m giving and receiving, coming out of a dense hibernation. I’m learning to love and be loved, and not to give too much. I’m learning that the cold is not a time to solidify, but a time to use the ice as a lubricant for progress. As much as Pam hates ice skating, I’m afraid there’s a time when everyone must lace up their skates and take advantage of this opportunity to skate over our lakes of trouble. The ice may crack, but taking that risk in return for the effortlessness and grace of the skate is something I’m willing to do. During the summer we’re forced to swim and fight the waters, the winter offers a less common way of overcoming adversity. But build a safety net. It’s okay to fall through the ice so long as someone sees it happen. They’ll call up a team of expert-trained firefighters to pull your curdling blood up from the dark waters.

I recently walked into a store, “The Greenwood Space Travel Supply Company.” If you cannot identify my intrigue, I can offer you no more evidence of it. I stepped in with Pam after a pleasant bite at Mr. Gyros. Once in the door, I froze. I looked up, down, left, and right. Tiny metallic objects, books, freeze-dried food, canisters with chemical labels, pens, pencils, robots all lined the walls.
At the counter was a woman. “What do I do now?” I asked her. As if the question was one she receives often, she replied without hesitation. “You find any and all of your space travel supply needs.” “What if I don’t have space travel supply needs?” “Well…we’re actually a front for a non-profit youth writing and tutoring center.” It all began to make sense. The atomic teleporter at the back of the store wasn’t actually a teleporter, it was an elaborately designed door that led to a classroom where tutoring sessions were held. All of these products weren’t really for space travel, they fund an organization with more valiant of a cause than NASA could ever hold claim to. Pam looked at me with the eyes of knowing. Her gaze said, “Danl, you need to volunteer for this shit immediately.” It’s the culmination of recent revelations. Of my need to help others, of my need for purpose, of my need to write, of my need to impart encouragement and support to a group so troubled by the aspects of growing up.

As the quarter wraps up, December closes in, and the winter grows harsher I intend to do just the opposite. I’m going to volunteer at either 826seattle.org (The Greenwood Space Travel Supply Co.) or some like-minded non-profit place that involves both the upbringing of youth and a culmination of the arts.

My father always played 97.3 KBSG on the radio in our green Ford Escort station wagon. “Good times and great oldies, 97.3 KBSG.” Most of the music drove me bonkers and I could only tolerate it when, rarely, I Get Around or California Girls came on. The Beach Boys were the only marginally sane musicians to be heard from the God-forsaken station. I would’ve given nearly anything for Star 101.5 or KISS 106.1, but could not listen to my Backstreet Boys CD because The Wagon didn’t have a CD player. Even then I had no deeply rooted affection for these boys of the beach. But now, all blossoming and full of adulthood, with the winter months coming on fast, I play the Beach Boys at least once a day. I do not listen to them for nostalgic pleasure, nor to warm my Pacific Northwestern skin and think of California. Fuck California. I listen to Brian Wilson, Al Jardine, Bruce Johnston, Mike Love, Carl Wilson, and Dennis Wilson because I need these boys to help maintain my sanity. Or at least to come to terms with losing it.

In the Beach Boys I find absolutely no clichéd love song. The Beach Boys were merely onto something before the rest of us. They knew that however many years later these songs would become a sadistic juxtaposition to a life hardly worth living. Pet Sounds, widely considered their most influential album, and one of the most influential albums of all time, contains absolutely no songs about California, beaches, surfing, or cars. Pet Sounds is as incongruent with the rest of the Beach Boys’ discography as its name. Pet Sounds appeals to the boy in me. The one who, when stuck at a red light, throws tantrums inside, beating his fists against the inner walls of my chest. I’m re-teaching myself. That boy missed something big in his upbringing, there’s supposed to be something in there about love and loving others, being loved, having a family; whatever-the-fuck, that this boy missed. I press play and Pet Sounds spins its way through my brain teaching me all the lessons my parents forgot to. Perhaps that’s an overstatement. What exactly would I be learning from the literal translations of these songs? I guess I’d learn that it’d be nice to be older, which, I suppose it is. I’d learn that girls treat you much better than you do them (ha.) I’d learn that sometimes you shouldn’t talk, you should put your head on my shoulder and listen to my heart beat. Just listen.

Pet Sounds is a progression of maturity. It appeals to the boy in me as, I can only guess, a father would to his son. Whereas Celine Dion’s latest album probably has a title track that claims I can both be a completely independent woman and yet I can’t live without you, boy; Pet Sounds only learns. There is no backtracking. There is, I understand, some contradiction. But as any reasonably taught Lopate-ist will tell you, contradiction is absolutely necessary. God Only Knows is one of the most intelligently written love songs ever. Fucking ever. Let us for a moment consider the lyrics: “I may not always love you, but long as there are stars above you, you never need to doubt it, I’ll make you so sure about it. God only knows what I’d be without you. If you should ever leave me, though life would go on believe me, the world could show nothing to me, so what good would living do me?” Though it took at least 137 plays of this song for me to grasp the true nature of its honesty, I have come to understand it. About a month ago, sitting in my blue Honda Civic LX, Carl Wilson sang me some of the truest words to carry me through countless years.

Confucius, The Beach Boys; Beach Boys, Confucius; teach each other some shit.

Last night, with a half-full flask of seven times distilled vodka, a wool pea coat, and Pet Sounds I danced through the darkened courtyards of Meridian Park Elementary. And I gave no shit whether it made me insane. I realized in that moment, if my sanity is lost, then my insanity is all I’ve got and I will embrace that lack of sanity. God only knows what I’d be without it. And still, while walking through the school, snow falling silently, I thought, Wouldn’t it be nice if I were older? All of the doors were locked, I know because I tried. Like a bandit under the cover of night, I tried to open each and every door; peered inside. Looked for things the little boy Daniel might want to play with. Things that I apparently forgot to learn as a child. A couple of pulls from the cold tin flask and I sprouted wings. I vaulted a fence and climbed on top of an oversized metal container, the kind on the back of semi-trucks. I stood there as I Just Wasn’t Made for These Times lectured my ears. I looked up into the black sky, saw nothing, and back down. I could see over all the buildings at the school. “Sometimes I feel very sad,” Brian Wilson cried to me. Ah-fucking-men, brother. “They say I got brains, but they ain’t doin’ me no good. I wish they could.” Have truer words ever been spoken? I suppose this is beside the point. What might be the point is that up there, upon this metal container, with my breath turning to a ghost before me, all of the lights at the school turned off. All at once. As if cued by this event, Brian sang to me, “Each time things start to happen again I think I got something good goin’ for myself, but what goes wrong?” What the fuck goes wrong, Brian, what goes wrong? What Brian claims is that he “just wasn’t made for these times.” I, for once during the course of this album, disagree. I think I was made for these times. But perhaps you were not made for those times, perhaps you were made for my time, Brian. Your beach was something my boy needed. You, friend, get me through the darkest of times by singing in a brilliant harmony with your brothers that makes ice beautiful again, and makes Daniel a child again.

But even as little boy Daniel dances like a lunatic around empty schools in the middle of the night, the only thing he can think is how nice it would be to be older.

Additionally, Sir Paul McCartney considers Pet Sounds one of his favorite albums of all time, with God Only Knows being his favorite song on the album; perhaps ever. Does this make me a knight by association? Dylan said Wilson should will his ear to the Smithsonian. Elton called it “a timeless and amazing recording of incredible genius and beauty.” That’s two knights and a genius. If I’m not a genius knight at least I have two knights and a genius to back up my sentiments.

I had fallen asleep, vulnerable, shirtless, shoeless, half naked, unguarded beneath the shade of a large tree, the green grass keeping my back cool as the sun crept up close to my toes and threatened to burn my dermis. I was unaware I had fallen asleep. Suddenly, as if thunder from the clouds, I heard the jolting voice of the Skin Magician.

“Aren’t you cold?” it boomed.

“What?! Huh, uhhh, uhh, no no no, I’m not cold…” I jumped up as quickly as if I were trying to walk across a bed of fiery coals.

“Were you asleep?”

“No, I was just relaxing.” I rubbed my eyes and opened them wide as if to prove I hadn’t even been close to sleep. The Skin Magician smiled. Creepy.

“Well it sure is a nice day out here, huh?” His conversation was brimming with all the awkwardness of a cold pot of water forced to boil against its will.

“Yeah, pretty remarkable for Washington,” I said.

“Ahhhh, yes. Mmmmmmmmmm.”

About this point I began to question his motives. My drowsiness was vacating quickly, my senses coming to me. I looked at him with heightened suspicion and he returned my gaze with wondrous eyes like stars. Creepy. And the noises, the incessant grumbling and moaning noises. When he had no words he simply grabbed the handrail he stood next to and turned his head to the left and up, staring into the sky, moving the clouds about it with his magic eyes. Silence ensued for seconds. Seconds longer than minutes.

“Mmmmmm. Wow. Yes.”

I lay in uncomfortable silence, unsure whether to bolt or experience whatever was happening, as awkward as it may be. But mostly, I was unsure what to do. I was about 90% sure the Skin Magician was hitting on me, 10% of me still thought it possible he simply sought pleasant conversation.

The Skin Magician wore no cap, no gloves, no cape, no tuxedo. A t-shirt, jeans, tennis shoes, a bald and shining head; a very unassuming outfit for a magician of such caliber.

“Wow, do you see that?” he asked me inquisitively, with tremendous conviction. He could obviously make the silliest things glow with interest. “Watch this pole,” he said, shaking the railing he held tightly in his grip. The railing stretched out for at least a hundred feet, all the way down a long cement walkway through the park. “When I shake this bit here you can see it still shaking all the way down to the end.” He dropped his head very close to the rail, cheek almost against it, and continued to make it quiver beneath him.

I was in awe. I was now 100% sure that he was hitting on me. If it is ever unclear whether a man is hitting on you, ask yourself this question: Does he direct your attention to a phallic symbol and proceed to manhandle said symbol as if it is the body of another human? If you answer yes to this question, you, friends are being hit on by, perhaps even, the Skin Magician himself.

“That’s crazy,” I replied. Anyone who knows me would’ve known my interest was completely feigned. What rested in me was merely fear. Fear alone. I reached for my socks and began to pull them on slowly.

“So, you like to ride bikes, huh?” he asked me, nodding his head toward my bicycle. Shit, yes I do, I thought. I’m riding a bike and he most certainly drove his car here. How ever will I escape if the Skin Magician decides not only to turn me gay, but cut me in half and have two parts of me to do as he pleases? I know his assistant would not be some lovely lady either, no, the manssistant would be wearing a Speedo tuxedo and bunny ears. I’m fucked, though I wish I weren’t.

“Yeah, I like to ride. Especially on days like this, you’ve really got to take advantage of the weather.”

“Absolutely,” he said, too smoothly.

I pulled my shoes slowly over my feet, being cautious not to make it deathly apparent I was clothing myself. The Skin Magician, rest assured, would pull his wand from his back pocket and force the clothes high up into the trees. I must move as a snake through the underbrush and make no sudden movements, only stealthy, boneless ones. The Skin Magician, no doubt, knew only of sudden, bone-full ones. He was moving the clouds about the sky once more with his eyes. My heart beat a pitter patter that could rival any Led Zeppelin jam. Terror does not describe what the Skin Magician had strapped me with. A more appropriate likening would be chains and leather straps, whips lined up on the walls. Weird shaped tools, strange circular objects, many things laid out on table which had no obvious utility but would very clearly become obvious once near any of my body’s few orifices. I reached down and grabbed my shirt. This would be difficult to do stealthily.

“So, what do you do?” he asked. “Are you a student?”

“Yeah, I go to the University of Washington.”

“Oh very nice. What are you studying?”

“English. Creative writing.”

“Ahh, a fellow artist. I studied the visual arts. Painting and acting, mostly. Yes, yes, I’m definitely an artist too. Very cool to run into another.” No no no, we are fellow NOTHINGS, Skin Magician, your life is one complete illusion. Free me, NOW!

My shirt was a tight fitting orange v-neck. I carefully unrolled it from its balled up shape. One hand in the bottom, up, slowly to the right arm of the shirt; the other arm in the other side up, slowly, to the left arm; my head bowed down and slipped into the bottom hole. Everything goes black. My shirt covers my vision as I try to slip it on quickly, but never quick enough, and my fear grows. Inside my shirt I can see nothing. I know not where the Skin Magician is, nor what he’s doing. My heart. Pound. Pound. Pounding.

In my mind I pictured the Skin Magician dancing in dubious circles around me, waving his wand in wild motions, smiling up to his ears and jumping five feet in the air, somehow silently. He was casting the wickedest of all his spells and all because I tried to get dressed, to cover up this skin of mine. All because I wanted to remain a straight, woman-loving, man. I wanted nothing more than to be anywhere but in the middle of the Skin Magician’s wicked dance. I pulled my shirt down and there he stood, not dancing in circles, but closer than before. He was on the grass now, not holding the railing. Only five feet from me, maybe. I stood up.

“Well, I really should get going,” I said nervously.

“Where do you live?” he asked. I felt five again. Do not talk to strangers. Do not talk to Skin Magicians.

“Oh, you know, just over by 145th, kind of near Central Market.”

“Ahh, really? I was just about to do some grocery shopping there, maybe we’ll run into each other.” He smiled the smile I had imagined moments earlier, except he was not dancing, only figuratively. It was so far from an evil smile that it was worse than evil.

“Yeah, so I should get going,” I said, grabbing my bike and standing it up. I was mostly clothed now, the only skin showing being my arms, my face, and my shins beneath my rolled up brown corduroy pants and still, I felt acutely exposed. Even if he did not come near to touching me, his eyes, his disposition, his magic, was molesting me with every moment his presence persisted.

“Haha, maybe,” I forced, trying to be cordial. Do not let your captors know you suspect their evil. If anything, convince them you have succumb to Stockholm Syndrome and when they least expect it, run. Run for your fucking life. For the health of your body’s orifices. I straddled my bike between my legs. He walked closer, right next to me.

“My name is Dana, by the way,” he said, offering his hand. I quivered inside, contemplated my next move.

“Daniel,” I said, offering mine. We shook hands. I imagined him shaking that pole in his hands. My brain gagged.

“Oh, funny,” he said. “Both D names. That’s very funny. People used to make fun of me for mine. But very funny we’re both D’s.” Shut. The. Fuck. Up. And free me, Skin Magician. Stop this horrible torture. “Do you email?” he asked.

“Yeah, sure,” I replied. “I don’t have one of my cards on me though,” I lied.

“Oh, me neither,” he said to me. “But here, I’ll just tell you. It’s,” he began to speak very very slowly, and very very surely, “‘Skin Magician’.” He enunciated each letter carefully. My blood curdled, my veins twisted, my eyes twitched, I got a pilo-erection and froze.

“Spelt as it sounds?” I asked stupidly.

“Yes, except with an underscore between ‘Skin’ and ‘Magician,’ at yahoo dot com.”

“Okay, very neat,” I said. I slipped my foot into one pedal of my bike, then the other. Mounted it, barely moving, standing still on the pedals as if frozen in time; he was holding me there, still as stone with his eyes. I could almost make out the wand in his eyes. Then, with a sudden second of mercy, he freed me. He gave me a moment to run, and I capitalized.

I pushed my legs as hard as they would go, already out of breath before I’d even begun, I hit a stone and nearly crashed the bike, but pedaled with excessive ferocity. Down the hill, to the left, away, far far

away from

The

skin_magician@yahoo dot com.

For miles, squirrels, humans, crows, and insects alike were awoken and began to foster a lifelong hate for me and my follies.

Sweat on my brow and panic in my underpants, I typed the combination once more and the prison fell silent. 3 seconds passed and one final beep echoed through the dark but awake halls of the craftsmen prison. My heart made one last thump and I stood at the top of the staircase, waiting. I felt like a child awaiting my punishment. I had my gloves in my left hand, my coat unzipped with a scarf flopping about my neck. Shock was printed on my face and I stood silently with a complete stillness, listening for the footsteps of the landlord.

They did not come. And I did not argue.

I got what I came for and dashed out the way I’d come.

As if I needed anymore persuasion, I’ve decided to end my time as a criminal and move to a nice, suburban, humble abode. One, hopefully, without a totally impenetrable alarm system. The problem with these systems is that they make the house one lives in feel almost entirely inhospitable. And unlike most prisons, college is not free here.

Plus, I could use cheaper rent. Anyone looking for a couch?