When the pale man and the glossy-lipped woman exited Blondie’s, I turned my attention to Eli, who had come out from behind his post to eavesdrop, pretending to wipe down nearby tables. “Those two were in here a couple days ago, looking for you,” he said. “Really?” “Yeah. That guy gives me the creeps.” “The woman doesn’t exactly make me feel at home either,” I said and rose from my chair. “Who are they?” Eli asked and threw the washrag down on the table. “All I know, Eli, is that I’m the good guy.” “Yeah?” “Yeah. Answer me this, in the movies, who’s the one who puts an uncomfortable kind of a pressure on the good guy?” Eli thought about it. “Well, big dog, that would either be the annoying obstacle character, you know, not quite the bad guy but might make it so the bad guy wins because they slow the good guy down, or the mentor, you know, the coach, like Mr. Miagi, cause the good guy is forced to grow and that can be quite difficult. Yoda too, that’s another example.” “Yeah, neither of those two reminded me of Mr. Miagi.” “Or Yoda.” “Yeah, I wasn’t getting a Yoda energy at all.” When I left Blondie’s I was looking over my shoulder. I didn’t want to be followed back to my house where Joe was probably still conked out on the couch, so I went for a walk up Main Street to the book store. I knew someone who worked there, a musician. “What do you say Allie?” I said as I walked in. Allie was putting books up on the shelf. She was a strange cat. She had long red hair that almost reached her ankles and she’d read every single book in existence. She could play every instrument and spoke three languages apart from english. She could sketch like Da Vinci. What was strange about her was that after she wrote brilliant music or sketched the soul of seemingly inanimate things, she tucked them away, frowned, and continued her existence strictly as a bookkeeper. No one knew how competent she was at vivid visions, but I did. “Not much,” she replied. “I haven’t seen you in a while. You haven’t been working.” “I quit, kind of.” I picked up an old book with a fanciful cover. There was a kitten whose whiskers turned into a bridge and a pair of lovers were slow dancing on that bridge and behind them was a great big yellow moon. “You like that cover?” Allie asked me. “Yes, I do. But how does it read?” “Lousy,” she said. “That’s the way most beautiful-looking people are by the way. They look great but they read lousy. You ever try and read a beautiful-looking person? It’s like talking to a brick wall. It’s like trying to swallow air with a spoon. It’s like trying to look out a window that in actuality is just a television shut off.” “All right, all right,” I said. “I believe you.” “Well anyways, say, when’s the last time you were fishing?” And she held up a copy of Huckleberry Finn. “Years,” I replied. “You?” “When I was little. I loved it but I don’t bother doing things I love anymore.” “Yeah? How come?” Allie jammed a paperback into a tight spot between two hardcovers. Then she picked up a stack of nine or ten books and carried them elsewhere. I followed her. She went down an isle and rolled the shelf ladder alongside her. “Here, will you hold these?” She asked and before I even answered she foisted the stack of books off into my arms. “Yeah, sure.” She climbed up the ladder. “You know what your problem is Rocco?” “What?” I asked. “Here give me that blue one. I can tell everyone’s problem, just give me around three minutes with them.” “Well don’t keep me in suspense.” “Here, that red one. Okay listen. Your problem is that you’re astonished whenever anyone wants remotely anything to do with you. Correct?” It was blunt, but it was Allie, and for some reason it was easier to come clean with a person when their hair almost touches the ground. “Yeah, sure.” “It quite literally blows your mind. You can leave those three on the bottom shelf, just tuck them, yeah, that’s right, thanks. Now listen,” she said and climbed down from the ladder. She looked me in the face with eyes like a kindergarten teacher. “People would like to know you.” I looked down at the ground and scratched at the back of my head. “Don’t look down there, look at me.” I looked back up. “Truth be told, I can’t tell everyone’s problems. But I can tell what your problem is because it’s the same as mine. I could sing with the angels, Rocco, and maybe you could too, but quite frankly, and you’ll understand when I say this: fuck ‘em.” “Fuck who?” “The people. But see that’s my problem. I don’t trust people. I have no faith in them as a mass, as a group. They are too good at destruction when they get together. They worry too much about impressing and surviving and striving and winning arguments.” “You’re confused about this, aren’t you Allie?” “Very. All I know is I need to protect my work. If you give it away carelessly, people will tell you what it is and what it’s worth. They’ll tell me I’m a woman. They’ll tell me I’m white. They’ll tell me I’m queer. They'll tell me I'm missing Jesus. They’ll do it all except listen to what I’m trying to tell them from the depths of me. Now tell me, how in the heck am I supposed to hand them what keeps me alive and going on a silver platter, when I know they’ll look right past it and try to explain me away in book covers?” “I suppose you have faith,” I said. “Faith? What faith? I don’t believe in that kind of thing.” “You see, you knew the problem, Allie. You’re so very clever at identifying the problem, as all good critics are. You remind me of somebody. But you see, I’ve got the answer for you. Faith.” “You want me to start going to church?” “No, I want you to know that you know nothing, that what you need is outside your understanding, but you’re going to have to reach for it as if you know it’s there.” “What’s there?” “The strength to hold on to the work and the worth, even when they are trying to tear it from you. But if you deny yourself the faith in that strength, you’ll hold onto it like a scared little kid, forever.” “But that’s just the thing Rocco, you’re just a straight white male, aren’t you? Who the heck are you?” “It’s all smoke and mirrors, Allie. People don’t really think that way. At the end of the day, or of the century, they’ll return to what gives them a good life. Sure they’ll do some damage till then, to themselves, but Allie, your work is brilliant. I don’t know about my work, but yours is absolutely necessary. You see? If you give the world a treasure so necessary, so integral to declaring that life is worth living, that love is worth having, even when saying goodbye, even in the face of death, in the face of despair; if you do that they won’t give a damn what color you are, how much money you have, or what flag you fly. They’ll take the work and carry it onwards, as you have carried your heroes in time.” “My feet hurt,” Allie said with an unfortunate look on her face. “I’ve been on them all day.” “There was once talk of a slave, Allie, Frederick Douglass spoke of the rumored story. This slave forced his master to set him free, and do you know how the slave did it? The slave revealed to him the truth, through the competence of beauty, that to be a slave master was to corrupt the soul. Do you dare have that much faith in your truth? In your competence? How much do you actually believe in the arts? In the soul? Lean on your work. Make the gamble. Bet on love.” "Then give it to the world," Allie said under her breath. Her eyes widened. She was beginning to believe, as I was myself. "Allie..." I wasn't even sure what I meant when I was saying it to her. "...Tom Gettysburg. We're looking for him. I think we'll need your help." She looked at me, puzzled.