Sunglasses Day Quotes

Liam cleared his throat again and turned to fully face me. “So, it’s the summer and you’re in Salem, suffering through another boring, hot July, and working part-time at an ice cream parlor. Naturally, you’re completely oblivious to the fact that all of the boys from your high school who visit daily are more interested in you than the thirty-one flavors. You’re focused on school and all your dozens of clubs, because you want to go to a good college and save the world. And just when you think you’re going to die if you have to take another practice SAT, your dad asks if you want to go visit your grandmother in Virginia Beach.” “Yeah?” I leaned my forehead against his chest. “What about you?” “Me?” Liam said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m in Wilmington, suffering through another boring, hot summer, working one last time in Harry’s repair shop before going off to some fancy university—where, I might add, my roommate will be a stuck-up-know-it-all-with-a-heart-of-gold named Charles Carrington Meriwether IV—but he’s not part of this story, not yet.” His fingers curled around my hip, and I could feel him trembling, even as his voice was steady. “To celebrate, Mom decides to take us up to Virginia Beach for a week. We’re only there for a day when I start catching glimpses of this girl with dark hair walking around town, her nose stuck in a book, earbuds in and blasting music. But no matter how hard I try, I never get to talk to her. “Then, as our friend Fate would have it, on our very last day at the beach I spot her. You. I’m in the middle of playing a volleyball game with Harry, but it feels like everyone else disappears. You’re walking toward me, big sunglasses on, wearing this light green dress, and I somehow know that it matches your eyes. And then, because, let’s face it, I’m basically an Olympic god when it comes to sports, I manage to volley the ball right into your face.” “Ouch,” I said with a light laugh. “Sounds painful.” “Well, you can probably guess how I’d react to that situation. I offer to carry you to the lifeguard station, but you look like you want to murder me at just the suggestion. Eventually, thanks to my sparkling charm and wit—and because I’m so pathetic you take pity on me—you let me buy you ice cream. And then you start telling me how you work in an ice cream shop in Salem, and how frustrated you feel that you still have two years before college. And somehow, somehow, I get your e-mail or screen name or maybe, if I’m really lucky, your phone number. Then we talk. I go to college and you go back to Salem, but we talk all the time, about everything, and sometimes we do that stupid thing where we run out of things to say and just stop talking and listen to one another breathing until one of us falls asleep—” “—and Chubs makes fun of you for it,” I added. “Oh, ruthlessly,” he agreed. “And your dad hates me because he thinks I’m corrupting his beautiful, sweet daughter, but still lets me visit from time to time. That’s when you tell me about tutoring a girl named Suzume, who lives a few cities away—” “—but who’s the coolest little girl on the planet,” I manage to squeeze out.

Tohrment spoke. "Bella's brother called. He's tabled the sehelusion request and asked that she stay here for a couple of days." Z jacked his head up. "Why?" "He didn't give a reason-" Tohr's eye's narrowed on Z's face. "Oh... my God." "What the fuck are you looking at?" Phury pointed to the antique mirror hanging on the wall next to the double doors. "See for yourself." Zsadist marched across the room, ready to give them all hell. Bella was what mattered- His mouth went lax at his reflection. With a shaky hand he reached out to the eyes in the old-fashioned leaded glass. His irises were no longer black. They were yellow. Just like his twin's. "Phury?" he said softly. "Phury... what happened to me?" As the male came up behind him, his brother's face appeared right beside Z's. And then Wrath's dark reflection showed up in the mirror, all long hair and sunglasses. Then Rhage's star-fallen beauty. And Vishous's Sox cap. And Tohrment's brush cut. And Butch's busted nose. One by one they reached out and touched him, their big hands gently on his shoulders. "Welcome back, my brother," Phury whispered. Zsadist stared at the males who were behind him. And the oddest thought that if he were to let himself go limp and fall backward... they would catch him.

No, you love to confuse me and drive me crazy. You don't really love me. You don't know what love is." "Yeah, I think I do." His brows lowered, and he took a step toward her. "I have loved you my whole life, Delaney. I can't remember a day when I didn't love you. I loved you the day I practically knocked you out with a snowball. I loved you when I flattened the tires on your bike so I could walk you home. I loved you when I saw you hiding behind the sunglasses at the Value Rite, and I loved you when you loved that loser son of a bitch Tommy Markham. I never forgot the smell of your hair or the texture of your skin the night I laid you on the hood of my car at Angel Beach. So don't tell me I don't love you. Don't tell me--" His voice shook and he pointed a finger at her. "Just don't tell me that.

I had an interview once with some German journalist—some horrible, ugly woman. It was in the early days after the communists—maybe a week after—and she wore a yellow sweater that was kind of see-through. She had huge tits and a huge black bra, and she said to me, ‘It’s impolite; remove your glasses.’ I said, ‘Do I ask you to remove your bra?

They shoot the white girl first, but the rest they can take their time. No need to hurry out here. They are 17 miles from a town which has 90 miles between it and any other. Hiding places will be plentiful in the convent, but there is time, and the day has just begun. They are nine. Over twice the number of the women, they are obliged to stampede or kill, and they have the paraphernalia for either requirement--rope, a palm leaf cross, handcuffs, mace, and sunglasses, along with clean, handsome guns.

Luxury cruises were designed to make something unbearable (a two week transatlantic crossing) seem bearable. There's no need to do it now, there are planes. You wouldn't take a vacation where you ride on a stage coach for two months but there's all-you-can-eat shrimp. You wouldn't take a vacation where you had an old-timey appendectomy without anesthesia while steel drums play. You might take a vacation while riding on a camel for two days IF they gave you those little animal towels wearing your sunglasses.

Did you know that when Dave Navarro first met Carmen Electra, rumor has it that he was so taken with her beautiful eyes that he went out and bought over a hundred pairs of sunglasses for her to wear to cover her eyes whenever she left her house so no one would fall in love the way he did?

When she says margarita she means daiquiri. When she says quixotic she means mercurial. And when she says, "I'll never speak to you again," she means, "Put your arms around me from behind as I stand disconsolate at the window." He's supposed to know that. When a man loves a woman he is in New York and she is in Virginia or he is in Boston, writing, and she is in New York, reading, or she is wearing a sweater and sunglasses in Balboa Park and he is raking leaves in Ithaca or he is driving to East Hampton and she is standing disconsolate at the window overlooking the bay where a regatta of many-colored sails is going on while he is stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway. When a woman loves a man it is one ten in the morning she is asleep he is watching the ball scores and eating pretzels drinking lemonade and two hours later he wakes up and staggers into bed where she remains asleep and very warm. When she says tomorrow she means in three or four weeks. When she says, "We're talking about me now," he stops talking. Her best friend comes over and says, "Did somebody die?" When a woman loves a man, they have gone to swim naked in the stream on a glorious July day with the sound of the waterfall like a chuckle of water rushing over smooth rocks, and there is nothing alien in the universe. Ripe apples fall about them. What else can they do but eat? When he says, "Ours is a transitional era," "that's very original of you," she replies, dry as the martini he is sipping. They fight all the time It's fun What do I owe you? Let's start with an apology Ok, I'm sorry, you dickhead. A sign is held up saying "Laughter." It's a silent picture. "I've been fucked without a kiss," she says, "and you can quote me on that," which sounds great in an English accent. One year they broke up seven times and threatened to do it another nine times. When a woman loves a man, she wants him to meet her at the airport in a foreign country with a jeep. When a man loves a woman he's there. He doesn't complain that she's two hours late and there's nothing in the refrigerator. When a woman loves a man, she wants to stay awake. She's like a child crying at nightfall because she didn't want the day to end. When a man loves a woman, he watches her sleep, thinking: as midnight to the moon is sleep to the beloved. A thousand fireflies wink at him. The frogs sound like the string section of the orchestra warming up. The stars dangle down like earrings the shape of grapes.

I had sunglasses on my head all day and I still feel like I am wearing sunglasses on my head, although I am not. Just comes to show how hard it is for me to let go of the past.

I want to come home. Not just for a few days or a couple weeks. I want to stay. Can I stay?" Cam drew off his sunglasses, and his eyes, smoke-gray, met Seth's. "What the hell's the matter with you that you think you have to ask? You trying to piss me off?" "I never had to try, nobody does with you. Anyway, I'll pull my weight." "You always pulled your weight. And we missed seeing your ugly face around here." And that, Seth thought as they walked to the car, was all the welcome he needed from Cameron Quinn.

The dominant myth of the day seemed to be that anybody could do anything, even go to the moon. You could do whatever you wanted -in the ads and in the articles, ignore your limitations, defy them. If you were an indecisive person, you could become a leader and wear lederhosen. If you were a housewife, you could become a glamour girl with rhinestone sunglasses. Are you slow witted? No worries -you can be an intellectual genius. If you're old, you can be young. Anything was possible. It was almost like a war against the self.

My grandfather was troubled and fascinated by this alteration from the girl of ten days before. Had the flirtatious gamine in the Ingrid Bergman sunglasses been a pose adopted for the evening, while this shapely vessel leaking sadness approximated something closer to the truth of herself? Or was it the other way around? Maybe neither version was the "truth." Maybe "self" was a free variable with no bounded value. Maybe very time you met her, she would be somebody else.

Sometimes I wear sunglasses while I urinate, and pretend that my pee is a solar laser beam that will cut through my pants and legs if a direct hit occurs. I'm sure glad I am only pretending though, because it wouldn't be fun to lose both my legs every day.

Sunglasses to hide the burst capillaries in her eyes, the ones that come when the blood no longer tolerates the hunger and turns its red teeth upon itself like the mad, crazed thing it is, and the body turns to dust and dying. Four days now without fresh blood.

When I wear sunglasses, the day turns shades of night, and it’s as if the blocking of the sun to my eyes cools down my body too.

There’s no frigging way I’ve misplaced three of my newest thongs. True, I have a habit of losing things like my keys and sunglasses, and once I even lost track of a Big Mac—which I found two days later in my desk drawer.

It doesn’t matter if you don’t burn. Protect your skin so you don’t end up looking like an old leather bag.” That’s what Stormy used to tell me. Kitty giggles at “old leather bag.” “Like Mrs. Letty. Her skin is hot dog-colored.” “Well, I wasn’t talking about any one person in particular. But yeah. She should’ve worn sunscreen in her younger days. Let that be a lesson to you, my sister.” Mrs. Letty is our neighbor, and her skin hangs on her like crepe. Peter puts on his sunglasses. “You guys are mean.” “Says the guy who once toilet-papered her lawn!” Kitty giggles and steals a sip of my Coke. “You did that?” “All lies and propaganda,” Peter says blithely.

What happened to your arm?" she asked me one night in the Gentleman Loser, the three of us drinking at a small table in a corner. Hang-gliding," I said, "accident." Hang-gliding over a wheatfield," said Bobby, "place called Kiev. Our Jack's just hanging there in the dark, under a Nightwing parafoil, with fifty kilos of radar jammed between his legs, and some Russian asshole accidentally burns his arm off with a laser." I don't remember how I changed the subject, but I did. I was still telling myself that it wasn't Rikki who getting to me, but what Bobby was doing with her. I'd known him for a long time, since the end of the war, and I knew he used women as counters in a game, Bobby Quine versus fortune, versus time and the night of cities. And Rikki had turned up just when he needed something to get him going, something to aim for. So he'd set her up as a symbol for everything he wanted and couldn't have, everything he'd had and couldn't keep. I didn't like having to listen to him tell me how much he loved her, and knowing he believed it only made it worse. He was a past master at the hard fall and the rapid recovery, and I'd seen it happen a dozen times before. He might as well have had next printed across his sunglasses in green Day-Glo capitals, ready to flash out at the first interesting face that flowed past the tables in the Gentleman Loser. I knew what he did to them. He turned them into emblems, sigils on the map of his hustler' s life, navigation beacons he could follow through a sea of bars and neon. What else did he have to steer by? He didn't love money, in and of itself , not enough to follow its lights. He wouldn't work for power over other people; he hated the responsibility it brings. He had some basic pride in his skill, but that was never enough to keep him pushing. So he made do with women. When Rikki showed up, he needed one in the worst way. He was fading fast, and smart money was already whispering that the edge was off his game. He needed that one big score, and soon, because he didn't know any other kind of life, and all his clocks were set for hustler's time, calibrated in risk and adrenaline and that supernal dawn calm that comes when every move's proved right and a sweet lump of someone else's credit clicks into your own account.

Beatniks are a youth cult that fight against society by wearing sunglasses even in inclement weather. This signifies their dislike of 'the sun', their sworn enemy. In the Beatniks' Manifesto they declare they will, one day, destroy the sun by using enormous pelicans that will trap it in their under-chin beak pouches and fly off to some distant place like the Hebrides and bury it beneath a pile of farmyard manure, and then the beatniks shall inherit the earth.

These were my countrymen, these were the new Californians. With their bright polo shirts and sunglasses, they were in paradise, they belonged. But down on Main Street, down on Towne and San Pedro, and for a mile on lower Fifth Street were the tens of thousands of others; they couldn't afford sunglasses or a four-bit polo shirt and they hid in the alleys by day and slunk off to flop houses by night. A cop won't pick you up for vagrancy in Los Angeles if you wear a fancy polo shirt and a pair of sunglasses. But if there is dust on your shoes and that sweater you wear is thick like the sweaters they wear in the snow countries, he'll grab you. So get yourselves a polo shirt boys, and a pair of sunglasses, and white shoes, if you can. Be collegiate. It'll get you anyway. After a while, after big doses of the Times and the Examiner, you too will whoop it up for the sunny south. You'll eat hamburgers year after year and live in dusty, vermin-infested apartments and hotels, but every morning you'll see the mighty sun, the eternal blue of the sky, and the streets will be full of sleek women you never will possess, and the hot semi-tropical nights will reek of romance, you'll never have, but you'll still be in paradise, boys, in the land of sunshine. As for the folks back home, you can lie to them, because they hate the truth anyway, they won't have it, because soon or late they want to come out to paradise, too.

Why should we, the brains of the military, have so much anxiety about our contribution to the war that we feel we have to ape Special Forces guys? To Fitzgerald commandos were just glorified jocks - pitchers and quarterbacks from suburban high schools who traded baseballs for bullets. There's no doubt they had skills. They could slither right up to the enemy on their stomachs survive on worms for days and plunk a target with a piece of lead from a mile away. All very impressive. But they couldn't speak Arabic or juggle a million intelligence requirements and 703 follow-up questions from the community while sitting three feet away from some Islamic firebrand who has no reason to talk. "Do you think those Special Forces guys are wracked with Interrogator envy?" Fitzgerald would say. "You think they're over there in their special sunglasses polishing their special weapons saying 'man if only I could do some hot-shit interrogations and write some hot-shit reports?

5,000 IU daily for adults, 1,000 IU/25 pounds of body weight daily for kids, plus twenty minutes of direct sunlight on unprotected skin per day, without sunglasses, or ten minutes of UVB tanning lamp per day (note: UVB tanning lamps don’t cause tanning damage the way UVA lamps do)

Even if he is my best friend in theory, I sometimes feel as if I share more of my life with Cate and April and even Rachel - at least when it comes to the everyday matters that comprise my life - from the alive of cheesecake I regret eating to the killer sunglasses I found on sale to the adorable thing Ruby said or Frank did. Eventually, I get around to telling Nick this stuff, too, if it's still relevant or pressing when were finally together at the end of the day. But more often, I mentally pare down the important issues and spare him the trivial ones - or at least the ones I think he would deem trivial.

Even if he is my best friend in theory, I sometimes feel as if I share more of my life with Cate and April and even Rachel - at least when it comes to the everyday matters that comprise my life - from the slice of cheesecake I regret eating to the killer sunglasses I found on sale to the adorable thing Ruby said or Frank did. Eventually, I get around to telling Nick this stuff, too, if it's still relevant or pressing when we're finally together at the end of the day. But more often, I mentally pare down the important issues and spare him the trivial ones - or at least the ones I think he would deem trivial.

At the grocery store those first days of the pandemic, I hid behind dark sunglasses and scarves wrapped around my face. I was scared that there were no eggs or pasta on the shelves. But I felt something else. A kind of familiarity. Like maybe I had been here before. And honestly, I had. When my grandmother carried the egg containing my father’s genetic code in it, that egg also contained the genetic code for his future seed. In some microscopic way, I had been there when my grandmother went to the store during the Japanese occupation and could not find rice. I had been there when she sewed those Japanese flags.

My friends were thin, pretty, naturally bronzed and accessorized with bug-eyed sunglasses. They slurped vodka straight from the bottle while they drove. They roamed the streets in bikinis by day and by night, skimpy dresses short enough to bare their ass cheeks when they bent over. They pushed up their breasts and snorted coke in the bathrooms of clubs before grinding their crotches into strangers until last call. And when the night came to an end, they romped through the filthy, gum-stained streets barefoot because they were too hammered to feel the glass shards beneath their soles. The PB girls were wild, edgy, and dangerously carefree.

the agonisingly stilted telephone call with George. Chapter 5 Disturbing Siesta Time Marigold deigned to join me for a stroll around the village in lieu of the promised dip. An enormous pair of rather glamorous sunglasses paired with a jaunty wide-brimmed straw sunhat, obscured her face, making it impossible to read her expression though I guessed she was still miffed at being deprived of her swim. As we walked past the church and the village square the leafy branches of the plane trees offered a shaded canopy against the sun. Our steps turned towards one of the narrow lanes that edged upwards through the village, the ancient cobbles worn smooth and slippery from the tread of donkeys and people. The sound of a moped disturbed the peace of the afternoon and we hastily jumped backwards at its approach, pressing our bodies against a wall as the vehicle zapped past us, the pensioned-off rider’s shouted greeting muffled by the noisy exhaust. Carrier bags of shopping dangling from the handlebars made me reflect the moped was the modern day equivalent of the donkey, though less useful; the old man was forced to dismount and cart the bags of shopping on foot when the cobbled lane gave way to steps. Since adapting to village life we had become less reliant on wheels. Back in Manchester we would have thought nothing of driving to the corner shop, but here in Meli we delighted in exploring on foot, never tiring of discovering

The troops also edged toward that timeless state common to veteran armies in which the men trusted no one less wretched than themselves. Still they did not hate. But each time they had to bundle up unopened mail for the dead and return it to the rear, their blood rose. An officer noticed that American artillery barrages now elicited raucous cheers. “Lay it on them!” the men yelled. “Give it to the bastards!” And the poignancy of young men dying young intruded every hour of every day. This farewell note was found in a dead pilot’s sunglasses case: Mother, please do not grieve but rather console yourself in the fact that I am happy. Try to enjoy the remainder of your life as best you can and have no regrets, for you have been a wonderful mother and I love you. Jim. It was enough to incite a man to murder.

Bindi and I had been in Oregon for a few days, visiting family, and we planned to catch up with Steve in Las Vegas. But she and I had an ugly incident at the airport when we arrived. A Vegas lowlife approached us, his hat pulled down, big sunglasses on his face, and displaying some of the worst dentistry I’ve ever seen. He leered at us, obviously drunk or crazy, and tried to kiss me. I backed off rapidly and looked for Steve. I knew I could rely on him to take care of any creep I encountered. Then it dawned on me: The creep was Steve. In order to move around the airport without anyone recognizing him, he put on false teeth and changed his usual clothes. I didn’t recognize my own husband out of his khakis. I burst out laughing. Bindi was wide-eyed. “Look, it’s your daddy.” It took her a while before she was sure.

The woman's body twitched suddenly, as if remembering something, and she covered her mouth with a stiff mitten. Dara knew what it was. She'd felt it a dozen times that day already. The body remembering, contorting, -He's gone, he's gone.- For a moment, only a moment, Dara felt sorry for her. As if sensing it, the woman looked at her and reached for her sunglasses, removing them at last. Her eyes heavy, swollen. 'I wish I could explain,' she said. 'You build this family. And it's perfect. It's everything you wanted. And then something goes wrong. Slowly or all at once. It was good and now it's bad, and it's his fault. Or he started it. All the ripples from his bad behavior.' Dara didn't say anything. The woman kept going. 'So, in some private part of your head, you start thinking up fantasies of escape. You tell yourself: If only he were gone, if only a heart attack, a lightning bolt, a car crash...' 'I have to go,' Dara said, turning. 'Sometimes,' the woman said suddenly, her voice choked. 'Sometimes, you think you'd do anything to get out to be free.' They held glances a long moment.... 'You're never free,' Dara said, realizing it as she said it. -When something goes wrong in a family, it takes generations to wipe it out.- Those words came to Dara, something from a history book, a book about kings and queens she once found in the den long ago. Marie, Charlie, they thought they could escape it, through leaving, or trying to. Through other people, lovers. But they both ended right back where they started. In their mother's house, her third-floor hideaway. 'I guess you're right,' the woman said. 'You blame everything on that one person.You think if that one person is gone, everything will be perfect and good.' She slid her sunglasses back on. 'But in the end, that person is you.

In interviews with riders that I've read and in conversations that I've had with them, the same thing always comes up: the best part was the suffering. In Amsterdam I once trained with a Canadian rider who was living in Holland. A notorious creampuff: in the sterile art of track racing he was Canadian champion in at least six disciplines, but when it came to toughing it out on the road he didn't have the character. The sky turned black, the water in the ditch rippled, a heavy storm broke loose. The Canadian sat up straight, raised his arms to heaven and shouted: 'Rain! Soak me! Ooh, rain, soak me, make me wet!' How can that be: suffering is suffering, isn't it? In 1910, Milan—San Remo was won by a rider who spent half an hour in a mountain hut, hiding from a snowstorm. Man, did he suffer! In 1919, Brussels—Amiens was won by a rider who rode the last forty kilometers with a flat front tire. Talk about suffering! He arrived at 11.30 at night, with a ninety-minute lead on the only other two riders who finished the race. The day had been like night, trees had whipped back and forth, farmers were blown back into their barns, there were hailstones, bomb craters from the war, crossroads where the gendarmes had run away, and riders had to climb onto one another's shoulders to wipe clean the muddied road signs. Oh, to have been a rider then. Because after the finish all the suffering turns into memories of pleasure, and the greater the suffering, the greater the pleasure. That is Nature's payback to riders for the homage they pay her by suffering. Velvet pillows, safari parks, sunglasses: people have become woolly mice. They still have bodies that can walk for five days and four nights through a desert of snow, without food, but they accept praise for having taken a one-hour bicycle ride. 'Good for you.' Instead of expressing their gratitude for the rain by getting wet, people walk around with umbrellas. Nature is an old lay with few suitors these days, and those who wish to make use of her charms she rewards passionately. That's why there are riders. Suffering you need; literature is baloney.

office, with its water coolers and soda machines and soft, quiet carpet. While temping there are breaks, and lunch, and one can bring a Walkman if one so desires, can take a fifteen-minute break, walk around, read— It’s bliss. The temp doesn’t have to pretend that he cares about their company, and they don’t have to pretend that they owe him anything. And finally, just when the job, like almost any job would, becomes too boring to continue, when the temp has learned anything he could have learned, and has milked it for the $18/hr and whatever kitsch value it may have had, when to continue anymore would be a sort of death and would show a terrible lack of respect for his valuable time—usually after three or four days—then, neatly enough, the assignment is over. Perfect. In her sunglasses and new Jeep, Beth picks Toph up from school, and he spends the afternoon at her little place, sharing her futon, the two of them studying side by side, until I get home. At that point, Beth and I do our best to fight about something vital and lasting— “You said six o’ clock.

Not knowing what to do, I started walking down St. Mark’s toward Tompkins Square. All Day All Night. You Must Be Twenty One To Enter. Downtown, away from the high-rise press, the wind cut more bitterly and yet the sky was more open too, it was easier to breathe. Muscle guys walking paired pit bulls, inked-up Bettie Page girls in wiggle dresses, stumblebums with drag-hemmed pants and Jack O’Lantern teeth and taped-up shoes. Outside the shops, racks of sunglasses and skull bracelets and multicolored transvestite wigs. There was a needle exchange somewhere, maybe more than one but I wasn’t sure where; Wall Street guys bought off the street all the time if you believed what people said but I wasn’t wise enough to know where to go or who to approach, and besides who was going to sell to me, a stranger with horn rimmed glasses and an uptown haircut, dressed for picking out wedding china with Kitsey? Unsettled heart. The fetishism of secrecy. These people understood—as I did—the back alleys of the soul, whispers and shadows, money slipping from hand to hand, the password, the code, the second self, all the hidden consolations that lifted life above the ordinary and made it worth living.

As I became older, I was given many masks to wear. I could be a laborer laying railroad tracks across the continent, with long hair in a queue to be pulled by pranksters; a gardener trimming the shrubs while secretly planting a bomb; a saboteur before the day of infamy at Pearl Harbor, signaling the Imperial Fleet; a kamikaze pilot donning his headband somberly, screaming 'Banzai' on my way to my death; a peasant with a broad-brimmed straw hat in a rice paddy on the other side of the world, stooped over to toil in the water; an obedient servant in the parlor, a houseboy too dignified for my own good; a washerman in the basement laundry, removing stains using an ancient secret; a tyrant intent on imposing my despotism on the democratic world, opposed by the free and the brave; a party cadre alongside many others, all of us clad in coordinated Mao jackets; a sniper camouflaged in the trees of the jungle, training my gunsights on G.I. Joe; a child running with a body burning from napalm, captured in an unforgettable photo; an enemy shot in the head or slaughtered by the villageful; one of the grooms in a mass wedding of couples, having met my mate the day before through our cult leader; an orphan in the last airlift out of a collapsed capital, ready to be adopted into the good life; a black belt martial artist breaking cinderblocks with his head, in an advertisement for Ginsu brand knives with the slogan 'but wait--there's more' as the commercial segued to show another free gift; a chef serving up dog stew, a trick on the unsuspecting diner; a bad driver swerving into the next lane, exactly as could be expected; a horny exchange student here for a year, eager to date the blonde cheerleader; a tourist visiting, clicking away with his camera, posing my family in front of the monuments and statues; a ping pong champion, wearing white tube socks pulled up too high and batting the ball with a wicked spin; a violin prodigy impressing the audience at Carnegie Hall, before taking a polite bow; a teen computer scientist, ready to make millions on an initial public offering before the company stock crashes; a gangster in sunglasses and a tight suit, embroiled in a turf war with the Sicilian mob; an urban greengrocer selling lunch by the pound, rudely returning change over the counter to the black patrons; a businessman with a briefcase of cash bribing a congressman, a corrupting influence on the electoral process; a salaryman on my way to work, crammed into the commuter train and loyal to the company; a shady doctor, trained in a foreign tradition with anatomical diagrams of the human body mapping the flow of life energy through a multitude of colored points; a calculus graduate student with thick glasses and a bad haircut, serving as a teaching assistant with an incomprehensible accent, scribbling on the chalkboard; an automobile enthusiast who customizes an imported car with a supercharged engine and Japanese decals in the rear window, cruising the boulevard looking for a drag race; a illegal alien crowded into the cargo hold of a smuggler's ship, defying death only to crowd into a New York City tenement and work as a slave in a sweatshop. My mother and my girl cousins were Madame Butterfly from the mail order bride catalog, dying in their service to the masculinity of the West, and the dragon lady in a kimono, taking vengeance for her sisters. They became the television newscaster, look-alikes with their flawlessly permed hair. Through these indelible images, I grew up. But when I looked in the mirror, I could not believe my own reflection because it was not like what I saw around me. Over the years, the world opened up. It has become a dizzying kaleidoscope of cultural fragments, arranged and rearranged without plan or order.

It was in the Cornish summer of his twelfth year that Peter began to notice just how different the worlds of children and grown-ups were. You could not exactly say that the parents never had fun. They went for swims - but never for longer than twenty minutes. They liked a game of volleyball, but only for half an hour or so. Occasionally they could be talked into hide-and-seek or lurky turkey or building a giant sand-castle, but those were special occasions. The fact was that all grown-ups, given half the chance, chose to sink into one of three activities on the beach: sitting around talking, reading newspapers and books, or snoozing. Their only exercise (if you could call it that) was long boring walks, and these were nothing more than excuses for more talking. On the beach, they often glanced at their watches and, long before anyone was hungry, began telling each other it was time to start thinking about lunch or supper. They invented errands for themselves - to the odd-job man who lived half a mile away, or to the garage in the village, or to the nearby town on shopping expeditions. They came back complaining about the holiday traffic, but of course they were the holiday traffic. These restless grown-ups made constant visits to the telephone box at the end of the lane to call their relatives, or their work, or their grown-up children. Peter noticed that most grown-ups could not begin their day happily until they had driven off to find a newspaper, the right newspaper. Others could not get through the day without cigarettes. Others had to have beer. Others could not get by without coffee. Some could not read a newspaper without smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee. Adults were always snapping their fingers and groaning because someone had returned from town and forgotten something; there was always one more thing needed, and promises were made to get it tomorrow - another folding chair, shampoo, garlic, sun-glasses, clothes pegs - as if the holiday could not be enjoyed, could not even begin, until all these useless items had been gathered up.

Christina died of a stroke in the fall of 1971, at the age of sixty-one. June watched the nurses take her mother's body away. Standing there in the hospital, June felt like she'd been caught in an undertow. How had she ended up here? One woman all alone, with four kids, and a restaurant she had never wanted. The day after the funeral, June took the kids to school. She dropped Kit off at the elementary building and then drove Nina, Jay, and Hud to junior high. When they pulled into the drop-off circle, Jay and Hud took off. But Nina turned back, put her hand on the door handle, and looked at her mother. 'Are you sure you're OK?' Nina asked. 'I could stay home. Help you at the restaurant.' 'No, honey,' June said, taking her daughter's hand. 'If you feel up for going to school, then that's where you should be.' 'OK,' Nina said. 'But if you need me, come get me.' 'How about we think of it the other way around?' June said, smiling. 'If you need me, have the office call me.' Nina smiled. 'OK' June felt herself about to cry and so she put her sunglasses over her eyes and pulled out of the parking lot. She drove, with the window down, to Pacific Fish. She pulled in and put on the parking brake. She took a deep breath. She got out of the car and stood there, staring up at the restaurant with a sense of all that she had inherited. It was hers now, whatever that meant. She lit a cigarette.

I don’t like stories. I like moments. I like night better than day, moon better than sun, and here-and-now better than any sometime-later. I also like birds, mushrooms, the blues, peacock feathers, black cats, blue-eyed people, heraldry, astrology, criminal stories with lots of blood, and ancient epic poems where human heads can hold conversations with former friends and generally have a great time for years after they’ve been cut off. I like good food and good drink, sitting in a hot bath and lounging in a snowbank, wearing everything I own at once, and having everything I need close at hand. I like speed and that special ache in the pit of the stomach when you accelerate to the point of no return. I like to frighten and to be frightened, to amuse and to confound. I like writing on the walls so that no one can guess who did it, and drawing so that no one can guess what it is. I like doing my writing using a ladder or not using it, with a spray can or squeezing the paint from a tube. I like painting with a brush, with a sponge, and with my fingers. I like drawing the outline first and then filling it in completely, so that there’s no empty space left. I like letters as big as myself, but I like very small ones as well. I like directing those who read them here and there by means of arrows, to other places where I also wrote something, but I also like to leave false trails and false signs. I like to tell fortunes with runes, bones, beans, lentils, and I Ching. Hot climates I like in the books and movies; in real life, rain and wind. Generally rain is what I like most of all. Spring rain, summer rain, autumn rain. Any rain, anytime. I like rereading things I’ve read a hundred times over. I like the sound of the harmonica, provided I’m the one playing it. I like lots of pockets, and clothes so worn that they become a kind of second skin instead of something that can be taken off. I like guardian amulets, but specific ones, so that each is responsible for something separate, not the all-inclusive kind. I like drying nettles and garlic and then adding them to anything and everything. I like covering my fingers with rubber cement and then peeling it off in front of everybody. I like sunglasses. Masks, umbrellas, old carved furniture, copper basins, checkered tablecloths, walnut shells, walnuts themselves, wicker chairs, yellowed postcards, gramophones, beads, the faces on triceratopses, yellow dandelions that are orange in the middle, melting snowmen whose carrot noses have fallen off, secret passages, fire-evacuation-route placards; I like fretting when in line at the doctor’s office, and screaming all of a sudden so that everyone around feels bad, and putting my arm or leg on someone when asleep, and scratching mosquito bites, and predicting the weather, keeping small objects behind my ears, receiving letters, playing solitaire, smoking someone else’s cigarettes, and rummaging in old papers and photographs. I like finding something lost so long ago that I’ve forgotten why I needed it in the first place. I like being really loved and being everyone’s last hope, I like my own hands—they are beautiful, I like driving somewhere in the dark using a flashlight, and turning something into something completely different, gluing and attaching things to each other and then being amazed that it actually worked. I like preparing things both edible and not, mixing drinks, tastes, and scents, curing friends of the hiccups by scaring them. There’s an awful lot of stuff I like.

signs. Oh, to have been a rider then. Because after the finish all the suffering turns to memories of pleasure, and the greater the suffering, the greater the pleasure. That is Nature’s payback to riders for the homage they pay her by suffering. Velvet pillows, safari parks, sunglasses: people have become woolly mice. They still have bodies that can walk for five days and four nights through a desert of snow, without food, but they accept praise for having taken a one-hour bicycle ride. ‘Good for you.’ Instead of expressing their gratitude for the rain by getting wet, people walk around with umbrellas. Nature is an old lady with few suitors these days, and those who wish to make use of her charms she rewards passionately.

Why did I obsess over people like this? Was it normal to fixate on strangers in this particular vivid, fevered way? I don't think so. It was impossible to imagine some random passer-by on the street forming quite such interest in me. And yet it was the main reason I'd gone in those houses with Tom: I was fascinated by strangers, wanted to know what food they ate and what dishes they ate from, what movies they watched and what music they listened to, wanted to look under their beds and in their secret drawers and night tables and inside the pockets of their coats. Often I saw interesting-looking people on the street and thought about them restlessly for days, imagining their lives, making up stories about them the subway or the crosstown bus. Years had passed, and I still hadn't stopped thinking about the dark-haired children in Catholic school uniforms - brother and sister - I'd seen in Grand Central, literally trying to pull their father out the door of a seedy bar by the sleeves of his suit jacket. Nor had I forgotten the frail, gypsyish girl in a wheelchair out in front of the Carlyle Hotel, talking breathlessly in Italian to the fluffy dog in her lap while a sharp character in sunglasses (father? bodyguard?) stood behind her chair, apparently conducting some sort of business deal on his phone. For years, I'd turned those strangers over in my mind, wondering who they were and what their lives were like, and I knew I would go home and wonder about this girl and her grandfather the same way.

At first Shuggie had recoiled and looked like he had never heard a worse idea. She had cried in the bath later that night, trying to dig the oil out from her skin and feeling like a fool. Shuggie had heard her there, sat in the cold water, crying to herself. She had been mostly sober, and to him it was different from the drunken poor me’s. He resolved to show an interest in the fishing, anything to make her happy again. He fixated on the planning of the day, the organizing, the list making and the list checking. He planned the lunch and the clothes, the things he would put in his school bag and the little things he would put in each pocket: tomato sandwiches, a toy robot for sharing, a little plasticky pair of sunglasses, and a Christmas cracker whistle. When he had laid out all the preparations and put everything neatly in its place, he sat on the edge of his bed like a patient little dog.

She pulled her small Ray-Ban sunglasses partway out of her shoulder bag and took three thousand-yen bills from her wallet. Handing the bills to the driver, she said, 'I'll get out here. I really can't be late for this appointment.' The driver nodded and took the money. 'Would you like a receipt?' 'No need. And keep the change.' 'Thanks very much,' he said. 'Be careful, it looks windy out there. Don't slip.' 'I'll be careful,' Aomame said. 'And also,' the driver said, facing the mirror, 'please remember: things are not what they seem.' Things are not what they seem, Aomame repeated mentally. 'What do you mean by that?' she asked with knitted brows. The driver chose his words carefully: 'It's just that you're about to do something out of the ordinary. Am I right? People do not ordinarily climb down the emergency stairs of the Metropolitan Expressway in the middle of the day - especially women.' 'I suppose you're right.' 'Right. And after you do something like that, the everyday look of things might seem to change a little. Things may look different to you than they did before. I've had that experience myself. But don't let appearances fool you. There's always only one reality.' Aomame thought about what he was saying, and in the course of her thinking, the Janáček ended and the audience broke into immediate applause. This was obviously a live recording. The applause was long and enthusiastic. There were even occasionally calls of 'Bravo!' She imagined the smiling conductor bowing repeatedly to the standing audience. He would then raise his head, raise his arms, shake hands with the concertmaster, turn away from the audience, raise his arms again in praise of the orchestra, face front, and take another deep bow. As she listened to the long recorded applause, it sounded less like applause and more like an endless Martian sandstorm. 'There is always, as I said, only one reality,' the driver repeated slowly, as if underlining an important passage in a book.

I love this song, can you turn it up?” I reached and turned the dial up on the Vance Joy song “Red Eye.” Adam bobbed his head to the music. At the stoplight I looked over at him. He was wearing the black beanie my brother had given him, his black Wayfarers, and the hospital gown. I laughed. He turned to me and smiled. “What?” he said. “You’re cute.” “Oh yeah? Wanna fool around?” He grinned. I was glad that Adam couldn’t see my eyes welling up behind my sunglasses. The car behind us honked. I hit the gas and my car lurched forward from the intersection. “How much time do we have?” I asked. “What? Are you serious?” “Yes, Adam, I am serious.” He was having a good day. He reached for my phone. “We have like an hour and a half before Leah freaks out.” I knew I was taking a big chance, but how could I say no to him? There was so much joy in him that day just because he got to go to the drive-thru at In-N-Out. “Okay.” I glanced over at him and flattened my lips. “You better not have a seizure on me.” “I can’t think of a better place to have a seizure. Although I can see how that wouldn’t be much fun for you.” I laughed hysterically. “Oh man, I didn’t mean literally on me; I meant on my watch.” “Well, Charlotte, I don’t have much control over that, but I’ll try. You know what helps?” “What?” “Alcohol.” “Really?” As we passed the Four Seasons he said, “Pull in here.” “This is too expensive, Adam.” “What? Are you crazy?” The energy in the car was tangible. “This may be the last time I ever go to a hotel with a girl. I’m paying. I have a ton of money. Come on, Charlotte, please?” His mood was instantly lighter than it had been in several days. “Okay.” I did a U-turn and pulled into the driveway of the hotel.

The yellow tape had been removed.  A squad car idled on the sidewalk in front of my house as the neighborhood awoke to a new day.  At the wheel sat Chris, the young partner of Lieutenant Jim O’Brien.  Chris glanced my way then turned away.  I couldn’t tell if it was intentional, his sunglasses obscured any hint.  O'Brien was talking to one of the investigators

fucking parking spot.” The woman hauled herself out of the front seat. Her face wrinkled with the effort and her small, old eyes leaked and blinked in the sun. Your father took a step back. He stood for a moment, shoved his hands in his pockets, and crossed the parking lot toward me, the rage fading and his face becoming again the mask it had been since I’d returned from London and, four days before, made my foolish confession—a mask I no longer had a right to question or remove. We exited the structure and pulled into a handicapped spot in front of the emergency room entrance and ran. I held my sunglasses in my left hand and clutched my purse with my right. I had forgotten my sweater. Your father flung his windbreaker over his shoulder and the zipper stung my cheek, the beginnings of retribution, perhaps, for a past that had long ago laid down the invisible blueprint of our future.

Activities to Develop the Auditory System Simplify your language. Speak slowly, shorten your comments, abbreviate instructions, and repeat what you have said. Reinforce verbal messages with gestural communication: facial expressions, hand movements, and body language. Talk to your child while she dresses, eats, or bathes, to teach her words and concepts, such as nouns (sunglasses, casserole), body parts (thumb, buttocks), prepositions (around, through), adjectives (juicy, soapy), time (yesterday, later), categories (vegetables/fruits), actions (zip, scrub), and emotions (pleased, sorry). Share your own thoughts. Model good speech and communication skills. Even if the child has trouble responding verbally, she may understand what you say. Take the time to let your child respond to your words and express his thoughts. Don’t interrupt, rush, or pressure him to talk. Be an active listener. Pay attention. Look your child in the eye when she speaks. Show her that her thoughts interest you. Help your child communicate more clearly. If you catch one word, say, “Tell me more about the truck.” If you can’t catch his meaning, have him show you by gesturing. Reward her comments with smiles, hugs, and verbal praise, such as, “That’s a great idea!” Your positive feedback will encourage her to strive to communicate. (Don’t say, “Good talking,” which means little to the child and implies that all you care about is words, rather than the message the child is trying to get across.) Use rhythm and beat to improve the child’s memory. Give directions or teach facts with a “piggyback song,” substituting your words to a familiar tune. Example: To the tune of “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” sing, “Now it’s time to wash your face, Brush your teeth, comb your hair, Now it’s time to put on clothes, So start with underwear!” Encourage your child to pantomime while listening to stories and poems, or to music without words. Read to your child every day!

another town and i notice all the citizens own a gun and many born here wish they would have been strangled by their umbilical cord. citizens waiting all their lives for a day they could wear sunglasses with wings a day to live freely without fear to throw themselves on cars. the gold belongs to those who shine it and here you cant know about the gold without knowing about the guts.

the first really warm day of May when the streets were full of abruptly exposed flesh and newly purchased sunglasses.

Abelard had on Wayfarer sunglasses, a dark blue windbreaker over a blue striped shirt, like he was on his way to a casual day of yachting. He looked cool and collected. The very opposite of me.

There exists a home for senior dogs where sick, handicapped old mutts live out their days in a homey setting. They are given a great deal of individual attention and, if necessary, hospice care. It’s run by an organization called the Djimba Foundation. There’s a drawing on the Djimba site of a blind guide dog with a cane and dark sunglasses. I am not making this up.

The combi stopped and picked up two girls wearing extra-large sunglasses who spoke in English with a nasal accent. Back in the day they would have been called manose brigade; anything that stripped you of your Africanness - whether it was the sound of your voice or the nature of your hair - was something to be admired. One day perhaps Chinswalo will speak like these girls. Maybe it was progress, but it didn't feel right. [83]

Everywhere we'd gone that day, bronze plaques kept popping up to mark some historical occasion. Here resistance fighters had dug a tunnel, here the dissidents had withstood the tanks. The whole city was like that: one giant monument to the heroes and martyrs. But what about those of us just trying to get by? I put on my sunglasses and stared out at the water.

Gaslighting is a psychological tool that psychopaths use to mess with their victims’ hold on reality during the devalue phase. It’s a form of mental manipulation that eventually causes the target to question her own sanity and to mistrust her perception of reality. The most common example is a P denying something he said or did. The P is so adamant and incredulous in his denial that his partner second-guesses herself and then finally decides that she must be confused, misremembering, going insane. I think back to the day Marco tagged and then untagged me in the sunglasses picture. How easily I decided to let it go; how easily I let myself be convinced that I was probably confused—maybe Marco never tagged the picture, maybe I was going insane from sleep deprivation.

THE SON SHINES BRIGHT THE MOON SHINES BRIGHT . SO WHY DO WE WEAR SUNGLASSES IN THE DAY AND USE FLASHGLIGHTS AT NIGHT. DO WE SEE THE RIGHT LIGHT ?

A blonde went to an appliance store sale and found a bargain. “I would like to buy this TV,” she told the salesman. “Sorry, we don’t sell to blondes,” he replied. She hurried home and dyed her hair, then came back and again told the salesman, “I would like to buy this TV.” “Sorry, we don’t sell to blondes,” he replied. “Darn, he recognized me,” she thought. She went for a complete disguise this time: a brown curly wig, big baggy clothes, and big sunglasses. Then she waited a few days before she approached the salesman again and said, “I would like to buy this TV.” “Sorry, we don’t sell to blondes,” he replied. Frustrated, she exclaimed, “How do you know I’m a blonde?” “Because that’s a microwave,” he replied.

There are about four times in a man’s life, or a woman’s, too, for that matter, when unexpectedly, from out of the darkness, the blazing carbon lamp, the cosmic searchlight of Truth shines full upon them. It is how we react to those moments that forever seals our fate. One crowd simply puts on its sunglasses, lights another cigar, and heads for the nearest plush French restaurant in the jazziest section of town, sits down and orders a drink, and ignores the whole thing. While we, the Doomed, caught in the brilliant glare of illumination, see ourselves inescapably for what we are, and from that day on skulk in the weeds, hoping no one else will spot us.

I need to be careful, she thought. But careful didn’t exist with Shane. It was like entering a burning building. You could wear sunglasses and lather yourself in sunscreen, but you’d still go up in flames.

She looked over at me but offered no response. Effortlessly, she cast her line across the narrow water, her sunglasses precluding my view of her eyes. She was at one with the rod, the water, the stream, and I felt like I was an intrusion, an obligation to be fulfilled that disrupted the spirit of the moment for her. I also felt that she was as unsure of me as I was about her.

Covered in Stephen Burrows inside-out chicness or resplendent in Chloé blouses tucked into skinny jeans tucked into $400 boots, she has never underestimated the power of a beautiful thing. She knows, without her yoga instructor’s telling her, that size 4 is the size that’s right for her. The Bendel is subtle and a little shy—she hides her Penelope Tree eyebrows under oversized sunglasses; her swinging straight hair under turbans and berets; her freshly manicured toenails beneath oversized clogs as she looks for the simple throw-on at $275. The Bendel does not eat during the day, except for an occasional asparagus. She prefers her store’s boutiques with their maximum of chic and minimum of stock. The Bendel woman is methodical and thinks ahead, and if she has stayed past the sensible 3:30, thank God for Buster, who will get her a taxi.

Later that afternoon, the mistral was blowing hard over Marseille, a hot slap that deposited the Mediterranean ocean spray onto tanned faces. Sharko and Lucie walked down the Canebière, patched sunglasses and shoulder bag for him, small backpack for her. At that time of day and year, it was impossible to approach the Old Port in a car because of the mass of tourists. The sidewalk cafés were overflowing, faces and yachts paraded by, the atmosphere was festive.

February 21: Joe DiMaggio escorts Marilyn to the airport for her flight from Miami to Mexico. She flies to Mexico with Pat Newcomb and her staff on a shopping expedition to furnish her new hacienda-style home on Helena Drive in Los Angeles. Bob East photographs Marilyn climbing the steps to her Pan Am flight, carrying a makeup case. She is dressed in white slacks and wearing sunglasses. She turns to look at the camera and acknowledges

When I was thirty, I asked a nurse to let me die. In a couple days, I’m going to play “Cheap Sunglasses” alongside the man who wrote it.

March 15: Marilyn arrives to shoot Bus Stop in Phoenix. She is photographed wearing a black fur as she disembarks from the plane with Greene, camera in hand, beside her. Then she is photographed with her co-star, Don Murray, and her director, Josh Logan. Milton Greene keeps tight control on the set, allowing few photographers to shoot Marilyn at work or journalists to interview her. Arthur Miller writes to Saul Bellow, who is in Nevada, establishing the six-week residency to qualify for a divorce: “I am going out there around the end of the month to spend the fated six weeks and have no idea where to live. I have a problem, however, of slightly unusual proportions. From time to time there will be a visitor who is very dear to me, but who is unfortunately recognizable by approximately a hundred million people, give or take three or four. She has all sorts of wigs, can affect a limp, sunglasses, bulky coats, etc., but if it is possible, I want to find a place, perhaps a bungalow or something like, where there are not likely to be crowds looking in through the windows. Do you know of any such place?” Because of the Bus Stop shooting schedule, Marilyn is not able to visit Miller.

It’s my turn. The only one I’m likely to get. I’ve got a month, Starfish.” Her eyebrows narrowed a bit at his use of her nickname, and he relaxed further as they eased into a far more familiar back and forth. Lord, but he’d missed her. “Like I said, let’s take the time we have now and find out what we find out. Then, when it’s your turn, we’ll already be that much closer to knowing what we know.” Her eyes remained narrowed, his feisty Kerry fully back at the fore. “Why is it that I feel like I just got played?” His grin got bigger. “Oh, we haven’t begun to play, love. There was nothing playful about that kiss. But next time?” He let that statement linger with no immediate follow-up. Instead, he dug the keys to his rental from the pocket of his Daks and unlocked the door to the sleek black roadster. At least he’d walked to the correct side this time. Took some getting used to, the whole wrong side of the road thing. Still, the little two-door BMW was a beauty. And about as far away from anything he’d ever driven on the station as it was possible to get. Which was exactly why he’d rented it. He looked back over to where she stood, arms folded now, defenses fully back up and battle ready. Good, he thought. Do what you need to do. Be sure of yourself, of me. Of us. Just remember, I know how to get you to lower those defenses. And he was looking forward to finding out how she’d come apart for him when he melted them completely. “Thirty days,” he said, opening the door. He tugged at the sunglasses that had been hanging down his back on a pair of Croakies and slid them around, putting them on before popping his hat back on his head. He rested folded forearms on the top of the open door, his grin still in place. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m really liking how Day One has worked out.” He tucked his long, rangy frame into the low-slung car and lowered the window as the sport engine purred to life. “Can’t wait to see what Day Two holds in store. G’day, Starfish.

During the first week of filming, it began raining in Tunisia’s Nefta Valley for the first time in seven years and didn’t stop for four days. Equipment and vehicles bogged down in the mud, requiring assistance from the Tunisian army to pull everything out of the muck. It was often cold in the morning and blazing hot by afternoon, and Lucas would begin most days in his brown coat, hands shoved deep in the pockets as he peered through the eyepiece of the camera; as the sun rose higher in the sky, he would shrug off his coat, put on his sunglasses, and direct his actors in a checked work shirt, with a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. When it wasn’t raining, high winds tore up the sets, ripping apart the sandcrawler and blowing one set, as a crew member put it, “halfway to Algeria.”7

The roar of the motorcycle stopped, and the rider whipped off his sunglasses. “Are you trying to get your door taken off?” My heart had stopped the minute I’d looked into his piercing gray eyes, but anger quickly took over everything. “Do you always swing into parking spaces when someone is opening their door?” I rubbed my leg once more and stumbled awkwardly out of my car. I realized he hadn’t answered me, and after shutting my door and locking the car, I turned to face him, a frown tugging at my lips when I saw him smirking. “I’m fine, if you’re wondering.” He sat up straight on his Harley and took a deep breath in. “I’m sorry I made you hurt yourself. I’m Kash, by the way.” “Cash . . . like money? Or Johnny?” “Um, I guess we can go with Johnny, but with a K.” “Kash with a K. Got it. That’s a, uh . . . very interesting name. Fits the image, I guess.” His head jerked back. “I’m sorry, what?” I took a few steps toward the apartments before turning to look at him, my hand waving over his frame, which was now hunched back over his bike. I wondered who he was here to see. “You know, the whole ‘bad boy’ thing you’ve got going on there. Tattoos, lip ring, Harley. Makes sense you’d have a nickname and try to make it, I don’t know, awesome or something by having it start with a K. Have a nice day; try not to almost take any more car doors off, Kash with a K.” Kash

What are some of the things a modern-day knight can do to render service? A chivalrous person will exhibit thoughtful consideration to most everyone he encounters. He will . . . 1. Hold the door open for others. 2. Place others’ needs before his own. 3. Move in to help with heavy lifting. 4. Show up at the time he promised. 5. Brings the car closer when it is raining. 6. Return phone calls when he says he will. 7. Remove his ball cap or hat when indoors. 8. Protect others in threatening situations. 9. Walk around the car to open a lady’s door. 10. Ask for others’ thoughts; consider their opinions. 11. Stand at the table until all ladies have been seated. 12. Remove his sunglasses when speaking face to face. 13. Offer his seat on a bus or in a crowded public place. 14. Defend others’ honor and guard them from humiliation. 15. Anticipate another person’s needs and offer to be of help. 16. Walk on the street side of the sidewalk when with a lady or elder.

Arianna stopped to turn towards Blu, who’d been walking slightly behind her. “Really? You wanna go there with me right now?” Arianna glared at her best friend, narrowed eyes hidden behind her designer sunglasses, not bothering to stifle the anger that seemed to come out of nowhere these days.  Blu turned her head away, but not before Arianna saw the tears

The next afternoon I left work to find that my car had been broken into and ransacked — but that not one thing had been stolen. I was so insulted that I left a note on the window that read: Dear Scumbag Thieves, If you go to the trouble of tossing my car, you could at least steal a lousy pair of sunglasses. The next day I discovered a gift card lying on the driver’s seat with this message: Here’s $500. It’s the best we can do until the holidays. P.S. Get some decent tires, why don’t you. We couldn’t sell these desperate maypops if we did steal them.

Back during the early 1920’s the Carpin brothers ran the small slapped-together oil boomtown a few miles east of Stinnett in what was little more than a den of bootleggers, gamblers and other criminals of low order. During those days of big bands and prohibition, men on the far side of the law either rose to the top of the heap or got stomped under. For a brief time the Carpins were on the top of that heap. When Signal Hill was cleaned out by the Texas Rangers in 1927, the former boomtown imploded and the Carpins, who had managed to avoid arrest and capture, had dispersed. When I went up there to look around back in the mid 1980’s there was little left. So when the girl with the bitch sunglasses and the too-cute frown mentioned Carpin’s name, I naturally questioned her on it, and she not only admitted that the man who was after her was one of those Carpins, but that he was proud of his heritage.

They wore the uniform of the desert bro. Think frat boy who never went to college. Jersey Shore without the water. Farmer’s tans made by the sun instead of a cancer machine. Ed Hardy shirts and backward baseball caps. Oakley sunglasses, even at night. Goatees or shaped three-day growth. Essentially they all looked like middle relief pitchers on vacation. The kind of guys that thought they looked like MMA fighters, but really looked like assholes.

Can you see the entry?” “Yes.” “Watch.” “It’s only two o’clock. Will be hours before he come.” “Watch.” He expected her to fidget or try to make conversation, but she didn’t. She sat behind him, a second presence in the car, quiet and still, watching. They watched for an hour and ten minutes, silent, as people came and went around them, parking, backing out, pushing buggies filled high with groceries. Rina did not move or speak for the entire time, but then she suddenly pulled herself forward, and pointed past his chin. “That window on the top floor, on the side there away from the freeway. That was mine.” Then she settled back and said nothing more. Pike studied her in the rearview, but only for a moment. He didn’t want her to catch him staring. An hour and twenty minutes later, she abruptly pulled herself forward again. “That girl. She is one of the girls there. In the green.” A young woman in black spandex shorts and a lime green top came around the corner and went to the glass door. Her dark hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and a large gym bag was slung over her shoulder. On her way back from the gym. She was lean and fit, but her breasts were too large to be natural. She looked very young. Rina said, “You see? I know this girl when they bring her here. They make her waitress, and then she dance.” “Stripper.” “Yes. And this.” The girl let herself into the lobby, then pushed a button for the elevator. Fifteen minutes later, Rina pulled forward again. “There. In the black car.” A black BMW convertible turned off Sepulveda and crept past the building as if looking for a parking place. The driver was a white male in his twenties with a thick neck and long, limp hair. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled, a day-old beard, and mirrored sunglasses. Pike

Marina leaned her head against him and sniffled. It was common in this day and age, when waiting someplace, to look around at your involuntary companions and imagine you were trapped with them someplace more dire: a hostage situation or a building on fire, something requiring teamwork and survival. Could you build the camaraderie promised in movies about such times, or would you fall apart? Phil Needle looked around and realized, quietly but sharply, that he and his wife would not survive this. Gwen's disappearance would slaughter them. YOU WANT IT WHEN? was the caption on the poster. It was talking about office work, and the sad fact, true at the time, that people want things right away and that other people don't care about that. The poster reminded people that it didn't matter what you wanted. Where was she? Where did somebody put her? Where were those ragged thumbs of hers, and her odd, tiny earlobes? Was he about to become one of those guys, clutching a photograph of Gwen, on the news every year in support of an extreme new crime law? Were they becoming one of those families used as a murmured example of the wickedness of the world, as a worst-case scenario to comfort those whose daughter was merely pregnant or paralyzed? Would there be a funeral, everyone sweating in black clothes in the summer and squinting in sunglasses? Oh God, would there be a hasty peer-group shrine, wherever she was found, with cheap flowers and crappy poetry melting in the rain? Would her college fund sit forgotten for a while in the bank, like a tumor thought benign, and then be emptied impulsively on some toy to cheer himself up? He had seen in a magazine a handsome automobile some months ago, shiny as clean water.

I’d packed my sadness, despite its enormous size. Each day I lugged it down to the beach with my towel and beach chair and sunglasses and paperback and sunblock and water bottle.

on a pair of sunglasses, a sweater and a pair of mittens. “My new little star friends gave me these,” said Charlie. “So that I could stay warm on the stars.” “I see,” said Mother. “Well let’s get you dressed. We have a busy day ahead of us.” “Yes Mother,” said Charlie. There were several other times that Charlie’s little star friends came to him in his dreams.

The day before I'm supposed to be meeting Caroline for a drink, I develop all the text-book symptons of a crush: nervous stomach, long periods spent daydreaming, an inability to remember what she looks like. I can bring back the dress and the boots, and I can see a fringe, but her face is a blank, and I fill it in with some anonymous rent-a-cracker details - pouty red lips, even though it wax her well-scrubbed english clever-girl look that attracted me to her in the first place; almond-shaped eyes, even though she was wearing sunglasses most of the time; pale, perfect skin, even though I know there'll be an initial twinge of disappointment - this is what all that internal fuss is about? - and then I'll find something to get excited about again: the fact that she's turned up at all, a sexy voice, intelligence, wit, something. And between the second and the third meeting a whole new set of myths will be born. This time, something different happens, though. It's the daydreaming that does it. I'm doing the usual thing - imagining in tiny detail the entire course of the relationship, from first kiss, to bed, to moving in together, to getting married (in the past I have even organized the track listing of the party tapes), to how pretty she'll look when she's pregnant, to names of children - until suddenly I realize that there's nothing left to actually, like, happen. I've done it all, lived through the whole relationship in my head. I've watched the film on fast-forward; I know the whole plot, the ending, all the good bits. Now I've got to rewind and watch it all over again in real time, and where's the fun in that? And fucking... when it's all going to fucking stop? I'm going to jump from rock to rock for the rest of my life until there aren't any rocks left? I'm going to run each time I get itchy feet? Because I get them about once a quarter, along with the utilities bills... I've been thinking with my guts since I was fourteen years old, and frankly speaking, between you and me, I have come to the conclusion that my guts have shit for brains.

This drugstore lipstick is doing a poor job at covering my chapped, bitten lips. My sunglasses are doing their best to hide the dark circles surrounding my light eyes. Would the wind feel this cold today if you were still here? I think back to the last real day we spent together; there was nothing special about it. It was rushed, and I remember the coffee tasting bitter. It’s only special now because it was our last. Though I wish we had traded everlasting last words, we didn’t. And we won’t. However, now when I have a cup of bad coffee, it will taste less bitter and more sweet. I will smile and savor it, like the last real day we shared together.

She was in skintight black pants, a black V-neck T-shirt and a black leather jacket. She wore sunglasses--- even though it was the middle of the night--- and her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail. She was like a sexy assassin coming to make her kill. At least he'd go out with a nice view. He needed to speak so he'd stop staring. "You know, you made fun of me the other day for trying to look incognito. I think you've taken it to a new level." "I wore my best I-don't-want-to-be-here outfit.

Over the course of an average lifetime, because of all the clutter we live in, we will spend 3,680 hours, or 153 days, searching for misplaced items. Phones, keys, sunglasses, and paperwork top the list.8

Sofia dropped her purse on the desk in her cube without removing her sunglasses. The early December sun couldn’t set fast enough to prevent her pounding headache from growing worse on her drive to work. To ease her exposure to the sun, she’d volunteered for the evening shift to support the West Coast customers. Unfortunately, the commute to work every day was still excruciating. “So … did the doc say you’re turning into a vampire?

I rang out a couple more customers as I thought about it, and...he slowly walked up to the counter and set down two spools of line. I should really figure out what the point of one being thicker than the other was. “Hi, Mr. Rhodes,” I greeted him with a smile. He’d taken his sunglasses off and slid them through one of the gaps between the buttons of his work shirt. His gray eyes were steady on me as he said in that same uninterested, stern tone from before, “Hi.” I took the first package of fishing line and scanned it. “How is your day going?” “Fine.” I scanned the next package and figured I might as well go in for the kill since no one was around. “You remember that time you said you owed me?” A day ago. He didn’t say anything, and I peeked up at him. Since his eyebrows couldn’t talk, they formed a shape that told me exactly how distrustful he was feeling right then. “You do, okay. Well,” and I lowered my voice, “I was going to ask if I could redeem that favor.” Those gray eyes stayed narrowed. This was going well. I glanced around to make sure no one was listening and quickly said, “When you aren’t busy… could you teach me about all this stuff? Even if it’s just a little bit?” That got him to blink in what I was pretty sure was surprise. And to give him credit, he too lowered his voice as he asked slowly and possibly in confusion, “What stuff?” I tipped my head to the side. “All this stuff in here. Fishing, camping, you know, general knowledge I might need to work here so I have an idea of what I’m doing.” There was another blink. I might as well go for it. “Only when you aren’t super busy. Please. If you can, but if you can’t, that’s okay.” I’d just cry myself to sleep at night. No biggie. Worst case, I could hit up the library on my days off. Hang out in the grocery store parking lot and google information. I could make it work. I would, regardless. Dark, thick, black eyelashes dipped over his nice eyes, and his voice came out low and even. “You’re serious?” He thought I was shitting him. “Dead.” His head turned to the side, giving me a good view of his short but really pretty eyelashes. “You want me to teach you to fish?” he asked like he couldn’t believe it, like I’d asked him to… I don’t know, show me his wiener. “You don’t have to teach me to fish, but I wouldn’t be opposed to it. I haven’t been in forever. But more about everything else. Like, what is the point of these two different kinds of line? What are all the lures good for? Or are they called flies? Do you really need those gadgets to start a fire?” I knew I was whispering as I said, “I have so many random questions, and not having internet makes it hard to look things up. Your total is $40.69, by the way.” My landlord blinked for about the hundredth time at that point, and I was pretty sure he was either confused or stunned as he pulled his wallet out and slipped his card through the reader, his gaze staying on me for the majority of the time in that long, watchful way that was completely different from the way the older men had been eyeballing me earlier. Not sexually or with interest, but more like I was a raccoon and he wasn’t sure if I had rabies or not. In a weird way, I preferred it by a lot. I smiled. “It’s okay if not,” I told him, handing over a small paper bag with his purchases inside. The tall man took it from me and let his eyes wander to a spot to my left. His Adam’s apple bobbed; then he took a step back and sighed. “Fine. Tonight, 7:30. I’ve got thirty minutes and not one longer.” What! “You’re my hero,” I whispered. He looked at me, then blinked. “I’ll be there, thank you,” I told him. He grunted, and before I could thank him again, he was out of there so fast I had no chance to check out his butt in those work pants of his.

Johnny’s Café was crowded. Most of the customers were truck drivers starting their hauling day on the Durban-Pretoria route, big friendly men in sunglasses and bright-colored shirts. Too friendly, some of them—in the time it took to squeeze through to an empty booth, Renie received a proposal of marriage and several less honorable offers. She clenched her teeth, refusing to smile at even the most harmless and respectful of the flirts. If you encouraged them, it just got worse.

Normalcy?” I ask, louder than is probably necessary, surprising myself with the unusual amount of animated expression in my voice. “A regular human being? Jesus, what the fuck is there in that? What does that even mean? Credit card debt, a mortgage, a nagging spouse and bratty kids and a minivan and a fucking family pet? A nine-to-five job that you hate, and that’ll kill you before you ever see your fabled 401k? Cocktail parties and parent-teacher conferences and suburban cul-de-sacs? Monogamous sex, and the obligatory midlife crisis? Potpourri? Wall fixtures? Christmas cards? A welcome mat and a mailbox with your name stenciled on it in fancy lettering? Shitty diapers and foreign nannies and Goodnight Moon? Cramming your face with potato chips while watching primetime television? Antidepressants and crash diets, Coach purses and Italian sunglasses? Boxed wine and light beer and mentholated cigarettes? Pediatrician visits and orthodontist bills and college funds? Book clubs, PTA meetings, labor unions, special interest groups, yoga class, the fucking neighborhood watch? Dinner table gossip and conspiracy theories? How about old age, menopause, saggy tits, and rocking chairs on the porch? Or better yet, leukemia, dementia, emphysema, adult Depends, feeding tubes, oxygen tanks, false teeth, cirrhosis, kidney failure, heart disease, osteoporosis, and dying days spent having your ass wiped by STNAs in a stuffy nursing home reeking of death and disinfectant? Is that the kind of normalcy you lust for so much? All of that—is that worth the title of regular human being? Is it, Helen? Is it?

An optimist is someone who brings sunglasses on a rainy day.

When it came rolling in, the money affected us all. Not much and not for long. Because none of us were driven by money. But that’s the nature of money. Whether you want it or not, whether you have it or not, whether you like it or not, it will try to define your days. Our task is to not let it. I wore sunglasses indoors, bought a Porsche, I tried buying the Clippers, I had to get it out of my system. Overcompensating the insecurity of her childhood, penny walked around with thousands of dollars in her purse. It wasn’t long before we returned back to normal. We give 100 million every year and when we’re gone, we’ll give away most of it.

talking about,” said Mother. “And what are you doing with sunglasses, a sweater and mittens on.” Charlie looked down and he laughed as he noticed that he had on a pair of sunglasses, a sweater and a pair of mittens. “My new little star friends gave me these,” said Charlie. “So that I could stay warm on the stars.” “I see,” said Mother. “Well let’s get you dressed. We have a busy day ahead of us.” “Yes Mother,” said Charlie. There were several other times that Charlie’s little star friends came to him in his dreams. His little star friends took him on

She was staring at us over the top of a pair of completely pointless sunglasses and her phone was playing what I now recognised as The Day the World Turned Day-Glo by X-Ray Specs.

Two Hispanic boys with swollen chests and enormous sunglasses walked by. One of them whistled at Nate, and then once they were several feet past us, the other turned around and cried, “Love your work!” Nate stared after them with what I assumed was anger. “My sponsor has me on this whole celebrity thing right now,” he said in a low voice, and I realized his anger was actually desire. The fact that anger felt like desire to Nate might have played a role in his little meth problem.

Over the course of an average lifetime, because of all the clutter we live in, we will spend 3,680 hours, or 153 days, searching for misplaced items. Phones, keys, sunglasses, and paperwork top the list.

Yesterday morning, I felt the same way, I saw Madilyn in the corner with her hand wrapped around a ray and it pisses me off so much you have no idea. I wanted her arm wrapped around my waist, not his, or even the other way around; I don’t know what I want at this point. She was smiling and giggling about something stupid that he said like used to do with me, it makes me sick she is mine, I can stand it, him breathing on her and kissing her nick hell I thought she was gay. I am the one that wants to be nuzzled up against her. He was bending down to kiss her, and I so wanted to kick him dead in the ass hole. Payback is a b*tch, is not! She looks up and sees me, yet does she care at this point or am I dreaming yet another dream, that’s even more freaked than the last. She was looking at me with goo-goo eyes, yet kissing him, or was he kissing her? What is going on and what is going down. Then he takes my hand and drags him over to him, pushing other people out of the way, then makes both kiss him at the same freaking time- the same freaking time! What’s wrong with an asshole! Jenny was looking over our shoulder saying damn! Just what I always wanted a three-way with Ray and Madilyn in the hallway. I don’t know what is turning me on anymore. I see getaway and get off, and that is what they both said they were turning to do. And everyone in the hallway has that simple smile on their face, like- oh yeah. I search for my sunglasses in my purse to cover my crying eyes. I just said it was to keep the glare out of my eyes when I put them on. I look in the visor mirror, and I see Liv smiling at me. Like I knew she was going to cry, yet really, I wanted to see if my makeup was okay. I start to tune myself out. I don’t hear the phones going off. I can’t hear their laughter or chirpy voices. I can’t see the houses rushing by or the cars, I just close my eyes and fade away in my daydreams. Maybe I’ll tell her that I wish I was the girl I used to be, but at the same time, I know that I won’t dare. She would think I was crazy. They all would. Jenny might just say- ‘Okay if you feel that way, you can go back to flowing me around like my shadow. Go- to be with all the losers or the speed, and don’t think about coming back.’ I don’t want that either. It gets quiet, and I open my eyes, and I keep quiet, just looking out the window, as it steams up and I have to keep wiping it with my palm. The light outside is faint and soggy-looking like the sun is attempting to roll over the horizon of tree-covered hills and peeking into the valleys. The day is overcast like the sun is too lazy to get out of bed and wake itself up. The shadows are as piercing and jagged as needles. Like the shadow, I used to be wanting to be in the group of three girls following them around in awe. I watch buzzard, black crows, vultures circling the SUV like I am dead meat. It was a scary omen taunting me, from down below. I see all of the fifty or more taking off at the same time from power lines above, following me like a creepy shadow of death.

Yesterday morning, I felt the same way, I saw Madilyn in the corner with her hand wrapped around Ray and it pisses me off so much you have no idea. I wanted her arm wrapped around my waist, not his, or even the other way around; I don’t know what I want at this point. She was smiling and giggling about something stupid that he said like used to do with me, it makes me sick she is mine, I can stand it, him breathing on her and kissing her nick hell I thought she was gay. I am the one that wants to be nuzzled up against her. He was bending down to kiss her, and I so wanted to kick him dead in the ass hole. Payback is a b*tch, is not! She looks up and sees me, yet does she care at this point or am I dreaming yet another dream, that’s even more freaked than the last. She was looking at me with goo-goo eyes, yet kissing him, or was he kissing her? What is going on and what is going down. Then he takes my hand and drags him over to him, pushing other people out of the way, then makes both kiss him at the same freaking time- the same freaking time! What’s wrong with an asshole! Jenny was looking over our shoulder saying damn! Just what I always wanted a three-way with Ray and Madilyn in the hallway. I don’t know what is turning me on anymore. I see getaway and get off, and that is what they both said they were turning to do. And everyone in the hallway has that simple smile on their face, like- oh yeah. I search for my sunglasses in my purse to cover my crying eyes. I just said it was to keep the glare out of my eyes when I put them on. I look in the visor mirror, and I see Liv smiling at me. Like I knew she was going to cry, yet really, I wanted to see if my makeup was okay. I start to tune myself out. I don’t hear the phones going off. I can’t hear their laughter or chirpy voices. I can’t see the houses rushing by or the cars, I just close my eyes and fade away in my daydreams. Maybe I’ll tell her that I wish I was the girl I used to be, but at the same time, I know that I won’t dare. She would think I was crazy. They all would. Jenny might just say- ‘Okay if you feel that way, you can go back to flowing me around like my shadow. Go- to be with all the losers or the speed, and don’t think about coming back.’ I don’t want that either. It gets quiet, and I open my eyes, and I keep quiet, just looking out the window, as it steams up and I have to keep wiping it with my palm. The light outside is faint and soggy-looking like the sun is attempting to roll over the horizon of tree-covered hills and peeking into the valleys. The day is overcast like the sun is too lazy to get out of bed and wake itself up. The shadows are as piercing and jagged as needles. Like the shadow, I used to be wanting to be in the group of three girls following them around in awe. I watch buzzard, black crows, vultures circling the SUV like I am dead meat. It was a scary omen taunting me, from down below. I see all of the fifty or more taking off at the same time from power lines above, following me like a creepy shadow of death.

or talk about it at all. I attended board meetings and private meetings, was always by Caleb’s side at all times as we worked through each day. But I kept myself strictly professional, not uttering a single word to him unless absolutely necessary. Heck, I even made sure I was never alone in the office in places where he could sneak up on me, because I wasn’t sure if I could resist as much as when we had someone with us. So sue me. I was feeling pretty confident in how I decided to separate my work life from my personal life, and things were looking up—until I heard the screech of a car before it stopped beside me, the door opening. I’d recognize his Rolls Royce anywhere. “Get in.” I shook my head, refusing to look at Caleb. We were right in front of the building, and I could see out of the corner of my eye that people were glancing at us curiously as they passed by. “No, thank you,” I clipped out, forcing myself to be polite. “I have somewhere to go.” “I’ll drive you.” “No, thank you—” “Get in the damn car, Tessa, or I’m going to get out of this car and give you a very large gift outside for everyone to see.” I glared at him, suddenly furious. He smirked at me, and I could swear his eyes were gleaming from behind his sunglasses. Glancing one more time to check that no one from the building was looking, I hurriedly got in and slammed the door, crossing my arms and looking straight ahead. The car cruised on quickly, with none of us saying a word to each other until we exited the street. “You know, Mr. Snow, you can’t just force people to do your bidding like that all the time,” I bit out, unable to stop myself. “It’s highly unethical.” “You got in the car. And it’s Caleb. Stop it with that Mr. Snow nonsense.” It was said so casually and offhandedly that I couldn’t help but glare at him again. “I got in the car because people were going to speculate again!” “Again?” Darn it. Realizing I was saying too much, I snapped my mouth shut and straightened again. I could feel him looking at me out of the corner of his eye, but surprisingly enough, he didn’t persist. Instead, he kept driving until we were out of the city’s busy streets, heading in the direction of my apartment. That made me feel better, though I still did not let my guard down in case he got ideas of inviting himself in. But

Later, Tara and other leaders, roughly the same age, lead marches through the streets. Like lambs to the slaughter, we follow. We target the banks. They’re put on notice that their day is over. It’s street theater and people who work there watch the show from windows, high above. Next, the girls lead us to the Chamber of Commerce where plainclothes ex-military protect the movers and shakers from a scattering of college girls and a collection of workers who need better jobs. They watch us through mirrored sunglasses and communicate via hidden microphones and listening devices. It’s a routine that everyone, except us, knows.

They’d show up overdressed, with black shoes and shirts that were meant to bear ties, and after a day, their noses would be burnt red, or their eyes would peer out from pale raccoon-masks, where their new sunglasses kept the skin Washington-white. They’d sit on the couches with their knees together, and they wouldn’t interrupt. They’d scowl at their agendas, or their notes—pages of typed stuff that could take days to get through ... plans on who would carry the ball on which portions of the discussion ... the Top Ten matters they had to take up with the Veep. They’d be lucky if they got to Two.

Before I build a fire in the pit in the backyard, I sneak Emmy away for a quick walk alone in the pines and along the river. The Sanpoil's current will give her strength. It's nine o'clock and still not dark. I build the fire. Aunt will need more wood chopped before September. Ray drums in his Seattle Mariners cap, and Lena dances in a buckskin dress and Emmy's funky sunglasses. Emmy and I sit side by side in camp chairs that have seen better days. My aunt's house has seen better days. My people have seen better days. Though not for a long, long time. Emmy watches Lena. Ray drums and sings. I sing too because I can't help it. I pray because I can't help it.

Our ongoing Hollywood education included the lesson that moviemaking is not finished once you actually make the movie. After that, you have to promote the movie, because if the audience doesn’t show up, all your hard work is a bit pointless. But before we could sell Crocodile Hunter: Collision Course to audiences, we had to sell it to the theater owners who were going to show it to the public. So the first stop for our promotional efforts was a gathering of movie theater exhibitors called Show West, in Las Vegas. We would team up there with Bruce Willis, who had an interest in producing our movie. Bindi and I had been in Oregon for a few days, visiting family, and we planned to catch up with Steve in Las Vegas. But she and I had an ugly incident at the airport when we arrived. A Vegas lowlife approached us, his hat pulled down, big sunglasses on his face, and displaying some of the worst dentistry I’ve ever seen. He leered at us, obviously drunk or crazy, and tried to kiss me. I backed off rapidly and looked for Steve. I knew I could rely on him to take care of any creep I encountered. Then it dawned on me: The creep was Steve. In order to move around the airport without anyone recognizing him, he put on false teeth and changed his usual clothes. I didn’t recognize my own husband out of his khakis. I burst out laughing. Bindi was wide-eyed. “Look, it’s your daddy.” It took her a while before she was sure. Our Show West presentation featured live wildlife, organized wonderfully by Wes. Bruce Willis spoke. “I sometimes play an action hero myself,” he said, “but you’ll see that Steve is a real-life action hero.” Bindi brought a ball python out on stage. Backstage, she and Bruce hit it off. He has three daughters of his own, and he immediately connected with Bindi. They wound up playing with the lion cubs and the other animals that Wes had organized there.

Jake’s books and a few items of clothing were still in there, so were the treasures he had picked up along the way—a rock which gleamed with yellow flecks that looked like gold but weren’t; an arrowhead, probably the leaving of the old forest folk, which Jake had found in a grove of trees the day after his drawing; some coins from his own world; his father’s sunglasses; a few other things which only a boy not yet in his teens could really love and understand.