Staying Alive and Other Stories

INSIDE OUT I discovered the crack in the space occupying what is normally thought to be the substance between what is real and what is not–quite by accident. It was at a bar called The Lunatic Fringe, just after midnight. Why I had never noticed before the strange things that showed themselves openly, but without actually identifying themselves as being particularly different or strange, I have no idea. It was probably because I had always ignored the small little voice inside my head, which seemed to make itself known after the hour of midnight, that begged me to ask them. It was on one particular Saturday summer’s night that they showed themselves particularly willing to invite the unsuspecting into their world. For a little fun, as it would turn out. Fun and a desperate plea for a life that they, apparently, weren’t allowed to possess. At first look, they appeared to be human. But they weren’t. What they actually were, I really don’t know, not even to this day. All I knew is that they existed between the hours of midnight and sunrise. Where they went outside those hours I could only guess at, and it was my guess that they disappeared into the storehouses of evil and wicked imaginations that everybody and their brothers owned but, strangely enough, were not cognizant of. It all started when a fairly young woman sat down next to me and asked me if I would buy her a drink. She looked plastic, and possessed the marketable beauty of a 1950's Barbie Doll. I glanced at my watch. It was 12:01. It was getting late and the act of looking at the time made me think of how I was old enough to be her father. I bought her the drink that she wanted, and I fully expected her to stay for a while and chat with me. When it suddenly looked as though she were going to leave and go somewhere else, it dawned on me that I would have to make the next move, since she was the one to make the first. “What’s your name?” I asked. “Are you sure you want to know?” she replied in a sultry voice. “Why shouldn’t I?” I then asked. She chuckled ominously. I wondered why. “Because you might not like what you hear,” she said. The only reason I could think that she would say such a thing was that, perhaps, her name was the same as her great-grandmother’s like Mildred, or Olga, or Grace. I suppose some women’s names sounded so bad that they turned men off when they heard it, ostensibly killing off any chances of a midnight rendevous. However, I now determined that I was not one of those guys and, with a pretty face like hers, any name would suffice. There was one exception that I could think of, and that was the rather animalistic act of having sex with a woman whose name you didn’t know. While the thought remained kinky, it was not my style. “Try me,” I said. “Well, for starters, you can call me your inside out.” “What the hell does that mean?” I then asked. “Exactly,” she replied. “Exactly what?” I asked. “What the hell,” she then said. Her reply produced my first thought about her. Up until now I had refrained from making any judgements based on sight alone, fueled by first impression, but now I was certain that she probably was just fresh out of a mental asylum. It was either that, or she was heading in that direction. Instead of totally ignoring her, I chose to carefully measure my words. “I see,” I said politely. “No you don’t,” she snapped. “Then would you care to explain?” I asked her, trying to be as judicious as I could. “OK,” she began. “For starters, I have no home, except for yours.”