JACK CALLED IT HIS WROUGHT IRON EYE. Above the left pupil below the surface was an arabesque of wrought iron, a twirl with carbuncles above, answering the same below. He had discovered it while shaving one morning at the shelter, the little figure floating in an aquarium of protein.    Seeing it, Jack stopped and held still, a dab of blood on the menthol whiskers. Dropping the razor he leaned forward and looked deep into the eye. He laughed, almost admiring it, then looked around at the others. One of them, the girl, smiled as Jack stood at the sink, face half-shaved, wet and white, neck new-razor bloody.    “Don’t shave,” she said. “You should grow a little mustache and beard. It suits you.”    “If you’re bad you should look bad,” her companion said.    They laughed, skipping away reciting, “Devil boy! Devil boy!” sounding down the hall.    Jack leaned into the mirror, put a finger to his lower eyelid, held his breath and brought it into focus . . . They were opposing hooks, a 69 on its back like a detail from a heavy black lawn chair. He concentrated. The hooks were made of smaller parts, scales, glittering. He stared, nearly standing on his toes then moved and fell back, taking a new breath. JACK WAITED IN THE DANK CEMENT turret of his secret hiding place, the ladder towards the manhole cover beside him. He could climb twelve rungs and push the lid off, which he has done before, but no going out tonight. There was healing before he could even be with people again.    His body had graduated increasing amounts of hair over the last hour, forearms covered with a stiff pig’s mane, hands gone save the left which had a cloven hoof. Of all his physical insecurities before an outbreak Jack was comfortable with the shape of his hands. But these hands of Jack’s were now replaced by hooves. Even his elbows had taken to being nodular bovine curves, the bone wrapped with juvenile biceps taut and sinewy, his tattoos covered with hair and hide. He held up his arms, clacking the two hooves against one another, moaning    What an ugly, ugly boy I am.    Frustration with the condition brought it on more. In response to the added pressure there was an arc of yellow-red fire coming from his ass. It had started up about twenty minutes ago. In the last five minutes the flame had gotten long and stiff, blue to white gases at the center of his annular nozzle rating in about 2760 degrees C making his bottom burn. Shortly his biggest concern might be breaking his neck on the ceiling vault if there were to be any thrust in-crease from the flame.    Eight foot bat wings crept from his shoulders and he whinnied and bucked. Jewelry tinkled about his wrists, fish-net stockings snug to his legs, elegant evening heels. The cement was causing echoes down the tunnel and he sweat cold fever, shivering quickly then overheating until he began shivering again.    “Mike! Abby!” he cried miserably but with power. Again “Miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiikkke!!!” deep and resonant, a Jimmy Page Gibson open-ninth through Marshalls howling down the tunnel. It was met with a noise of quick rhythms and melody lines, bodhrans, ouds, nearly-tuned fiddles going at it as if two distinct songs were graphed against one another, X and Y, harmonizing only at intervals to create a new song, a Z which resonated sensibly as X and Y were consistently too sharp or flat of one another to be the same.    There was a nausea and Jack got up from his perch to compensate for it. He moved down the tunnel, his silly wings chafing the sides. It was a full episode, starting in the afternoon after Fatboy had come by and Jack had closed the station, finding himself dressed as an altar boy for an unseasonable Easter Mass. He made his way quietly towards the canyon brushing up against neighborhood fences. By the time he came along the path a cluster of Mexican elderberry smacked him good in the face, juice in his eyes close to blinding—he had horns, hooves, heels, wings, leather, trinkets and black jockstrap to account for. The sweet and safe adolescent guise of the altar boy was always gone by this time. And lifting the covering of the Heteromeles to climb into the vault was a trick in itself with a just a normal body—imagine being a few inches taller, hands lost, crotch in bondage with bad mascara and self-identity way up for grabs.    Jack had never felt himself change so quickly or demonstratively. There was a good chance he would not be able to walk out of this one. It could take days to return, maybe weeks. Become a monkey-mole this time, blind and depend-ent upon his cane and tin cup, little top hat, tap-dancing to make his way in the world: think dandy Rex Harrison (whom he had changed into once), Nureyev dancing to Lawrence Welk tunes (been him), the young and resplendent Dinah Shore taking the choruses, the other monkeymoles shuffling around, looking indifferent. “Not one of us,” all nodding yes, even the preterite would disown an ugly boy like Jack.    A continued scrape of the wings, one more foot forward, suddenly—fwAAACK! Jack took a header and landed on his side in the dust of the tunnel. Rolling over to right himself he took another clumsy step.    “Dammit,” he looked at his shoe—he had broken a heel. The bottom was dangling off the sole with no chance of attachment. He looked himself over. “Well,” he reckoned, “I always wanted to break a heal.” IN THE MORNING, JACK AWOKE in the cement turret of his secret hiding place. It had been a long night in the lonely adytum feeling drunken without drink. The eye ached from the night. A ray of sun shafted through the breach in the side of the vault, morning heat loosening up the canyon, the chaparrel sending ceonothus, horehound and musky oaks into the air. The jays were mak-ing a ruckus, bushtits twitting about the knitted branches. Last night it seemed that other animals had come through the vault while he struggled in fits or tried to sleep—maybe a badger or skunk, raccoon, opossum ambling on its way down one of the tunnels on its nightly trip to mark a crossroads, visit a lover, or prey.    Jack looked himself over. His hands were returning in intervals. He ran them up his legs to see if he was still standing there.    He laid flat, detecting something changing, waited, smiled, saying out loud, “Bacon,” coming through the cover. It must be coming from the station . . . They were carrying on without him, so disgusted, Jack was certain, at what they had seen.    He called out.    Later that afternoon, Jack sat with his head in his hands, every so often wretching, sometimes blood—not that there was much of any fluid left in him after all of last night. The wretching would twist him up but squeeze whatever adrenalin he had into him as a kind of grim reward for all the pain. If he couldn’t have an ounce of water then of course a bit of adrenalin would do, and it made for the best ten seconds every twenty minutes holding his head as if it was the center of the world gone crooked and he could straighten it out the steadier he held on.    Is miserum rursus.    You didn’t need a reference book to know that when you came to the pitch fork in the road there were many prongs to choose from and it appears that they are all evil. Fortu-nately, evil, true evil—in human terms—does not exist, only as a way to explain impractical behavior—just because there is a thing in the world there needn’t be an opposite. Even the hooves, the horns, the silly wings, the teeth that cut at Jack’s lips, they were a decoy meant to be like the things in any story where one is punished for not doing the right thing—just how much of the right thing is it . . .    “I might like to be plain and simple like other people,” Jack offered to the shadows. Nearly wretching again he caught his breath and stared. Even in the tunnel he could feel the afternoon winds kicking up, on schedule. It had been a beautiful summer. Everything might be alright if it weren’t for the eye. It was even deeper a compound than an arrow into the flesh. It was a carbuncle that in time seemed to have become metallic, the strangest feeling gripping his gut that it might be one of those things so settled in, grown so delicately like a tumor between the fibers, that to remove it would destroy the host. For a time Jack considered himself and the mark separated, randomly, by even an inch or a foot, it laying across the room on a piece of cotton.    He breathed quickly, his heart acting up, the bits of sand on the vault floor coming into focus.    He sucked long and deep, taking in breathes of bacon air. Tears came to his eyes as he let out, “Abbbbyyyyy!!! Miiiiiiiike!” hissing long and desperate the meek sound going only a few yards down each of the tunnels.    Across from him there was laughter and a voice which said, so salesman-like, “Brother, do I have somethin’ for you.”    Jack tipped his head a nod and peeled an eye to see.    “Well, well, well—look at you!” the voice went.    Jack pivoted with a sudden case of what doc-tor’s distantly like to call akinetic paradoxa, which had Jack wanting to move his bones but stuck where he was until the signals arrived from more roundabout locales. The voice was startling, sending arms akimbo, legs knee-bonked kicking.    “Wh’ ? Sha?” he asked blindly.    “Jack,” hands waving in his face. “Jack, it’s me. Like, errrrr-rrrrrrrrrr . . .” slipping into the trance of surfer lingo.    The ripe plum of Jack’s face raised and turned in the light to the sound. He focused on the bridge of a nose, dark beard, greenish eyes.    Targuman. “Tah’ . . .” Jack said.    “Yes, there’s a few more syllables than that, but accept-able, under the circumstances.” Targ stood, nearly twirling a lasso, looking Jack over who was teetering trying to stand. “You get some sun, cowboy? You’re all burnt.”    “No. It was dark,” Jack creaked.    Targ looked around the old place. “Not much left in here,” picking a small pocket-size book from the floor. “A Catholic Prayer Book, for the Use of Catholics Serving in the Defence Forces of the Crown in Time of War. Burns, Oates & Wash-bourne, Ltd. Publishers to the Holy See,” Targuman growled. “What do the holy see, anyway?”    Jack stared at him with the one peeled eye.    “You know,” Targ said. “You should try to get your shit together if you can. You look, well, like hell, I guess. Seriously.” From his hip he passed a jug of fluids to Jack—proof that Targuman was from around the area, the way he hid his water first before sharing it. The jug swung upwards with the water bottom swinging heavy. Since Jack was effectively blind he threw his arms up to counter and the jug bounced off him.    “Sheeez,” Targ gasped. “Nice manicure. Who did your nails?”    “Look at this one,” Jack spoke, holding out a hoof as he watched Targuman jumping to catch the bouncing water container.    Targ, scooping it up, “Wow. You could really help stomp out forest fires with that one, Pokey.”    “Fuck off,” Jack gasped at him.    Targ set the jug lightly on the ledge next to Jack, tapping the top, “Yeah, yeah. After all the drama of yesterday—which, I must tell you was quite impressive. I thought you were just another one of those snot-nosed, leering malcontents when all of a sudden, boom! Quite an act.”    Jack swallowed hard. “Thanks . . .”    “But, really—is this it? Do you just sit around all day like this? Or do you get around . . . I mean, look at you—can I take you for a walk, grandma, or what?”    “That’s just the way it is, Targ. I look like hell because I feel like hell.”    “Well, I’d do something with this gig if I were you, and I almost am you. I mean more than just show business. You could start your own religion. People would pay attention to someone dressed like you. . .” shaking his hands at his side trying to find the word, “Whatever it is that you are, I mean. They’d listen to that.”    “Well, Targ,” Jack looking himself over, the nailed hand, gelding hoof, black and gold Buscatti evening heels. “Thanks for the encouragement.”    “Listen,” Targuman got on a knee before him, touching Jack’s leg then pulling back with condolences. “Sorry!”    “It’s okay. Touch me. I don’t bite.” Targuman looked up at Jack, the dark eyes, heavy brows, full lips, horns. “It’s an honor,” he whispered, then louder as he rose. “It is an honor!” standing like a little boy scout with his hand over his heart.    “Get real, Targ,” Jack hunched over. “Get real.” Targuman flinched backwards half an inch before collecting himself. Quickly, he be began to lay out his keeps, books, maps, oranges, bread, jugs of water, packs of dirty old cigarettes. Jack continued drinking from the jug.    “Drink up, Mr. Kennedy,” Targ encouraged. “I got a magic show planned for you.”    “You got to be a pretty good magician to fool me,” Jack squeezed.    “I been doing some reading, old notes and what not. And smokin’ my old favorite, Solo Nací, to see things clearly.” He held a cigarette up to make the point. “This is the booty from when they closed the historical society down for the first time, Prop 13 and all,” Targ puffed and puffed. “I mean Thirteen, they should’ve known, right? Bad luck. How the hell can you shut down a place that has Junipero Serra’s heart in a jar. What’re you gonna do with the heart if you shut down the museum? Put it in your garage next to the old house paint?” Targ waved himself back to the point. “What I mean, sombrero, is that this old cigarette is an important antique, from a business run by Spanish soldiers in California, old vets, the Leather Coats, needing a way out—d’you know that story?” flitting a bit of tobacco from his lip. “They were kinda like the Hungry Tiger outfit only instead of flying lobsters around they grew cigarettes and mule packed them up and down California and into May’heeko. Nicotina glauca was the tobacco—or is!” he let with a howl. “Nowadays just grows in drainage ditches! Shit can definitely damage your brain, but,” puff, “Great cigarettes, seriously great cigarettes. They change my whole perspective on things like J.J. Strang and these magic spectacles that he used to see things with, translating ancient texts and all for the Mormon church,” Targ took a drag. Jack looked at him grimly. “Wanna try one?”    Swallowing, “Throw a few over there.”   Targ threw a whole pack. “Be my guest.” Jack looked at the other supplies Targuman had brought and grabbed for the bread. “What’s in those books?”    “Oh,” eyebrows up, “Those are my grimoires. I have all sorts of notes and stories in them. I just dug them up.”    “Just dug them up?” Jack dressed him. “Notes and stories?”       “Ah,” Targ waved back. “Who knows.” Jack took a hit off the jug with the pulpy Gatorade mixed with orange juice. “Can you get me some Lucky Charms?” he asked.    “I have all kinds of charms, Jack,” Targ displaying his wares. “Here,” he handed Jack a glowing datura blossom. “You’re soaking in it.”    Jack backed off, “What are you doing bringing that stinky thing down here?”    Hat tipping, “Well, I had a feeling.”    They looked at one another, Jack at the jug.    “You didn’t?”  “I did.”    “You jerk!” Jack hit him with the back of his knuckles, tossing the jug at him. “You better know what you’re doing.”    “Hey,” Targ reckoned, shushing him. “I used Abby’s blender—and I got more sitting back at the station if you need it—now here,” he poked the flower towards Jack. “It’s a sacrament. All the young boys from around here have done it through the years. You’ll like it.”    “Hardly!” Jack swiped the blossom from him. “I may be fucked up but . . .”    “Hey, anger is going to produce all kinds chemicals we have no control over. So stay cool, bro.”    Jack spat. “Stop with the surfer shit! Who you been hanging out with?”    “Nobody. No one even knows I’m here, except a turkey vulture. He watched me dig up the grimoires.”    “I’m sure he got right on the phone, Targ.”    “Not too far off,” he granted. “I’m trying to find a place for you in that very realm.”    “Place?” lifting his arms to display the now wilted mem-brane of his wings. “How about Self?”    “Self? You want Self?” Targuman with a leafy vine. “The datura,” pointing, “Your ‘stinky thing’ is the most stubborn character around you could meet, sitting wedged in the dirt, keeping its moisture like thick lungfish do—”    “Lungfish! Is there such a thing?” Jack asked, horrified.    “’Course there is, bro! Check out old carnival photos, you’ll see plenty of lungfish smoking cigarettes, blowing rings and that whole act right beside the fat lady and the lizard boy. Years can go by and they never die—droughts, fires—they hibernate underground because that is where they’re from, see? They just evolved that way—well, you know how evolution is. But when the water arrives,” Targuman licking his chops, “It drinks it up and blooms, pulsing through the hardest red, cracked clay, cracked black asphalt. The first green stem pulls itself out like a man from a crevasse leading the way,” Targuman writhing and pushing at his belt, “Then the leaves come, rich, green, well, tobacco because they are!” rubbery and smiles. “The bloom is majestic, like an ob-scure princess who should have been a queen—”    “Targ, please,” Jack waving him off. “Stop the Hallmark card stuff.”    Targuman put out a hand to fend him off. “No, no. Listen to me, for once—I’m on a roll . . . Before it had been sleeping, struggling in tight quarters. But when its time comes, wallah—paaarty! Champagne, hot tubs. She’s queen of the maypole and when she walks through town everyone looks at her with respect. The touch of her hand is like heaven. Even criminals and corrupt clan leaders hold her in high regard because of her power. She knows their secrets. She has been in on their dreams,” Targ lifted a finger. “Portfolios of dreams, Jack,” spreading a hand, trying to mesmerize the boy by putting mumbo into the jumbo with varying degrees of success, “And in that she knows who their dreamhelpers are.”    “Dreamhelpers?” Jack shifted irritably.    “Yeah, there’s another word for it, a Fornioleño one but I couldn’t pronounce it when I first learned it and when I did it sounded silly . . .” drifting. “You get the picture.” Targ cocked his head, stomped a foot, then got back on rhythm. “Did I say everything I wanted to say?” “I don’t know—you were the one saying it.”    “Well, hmmmm?” pausing, whisking through the beard, “Yes!” he snapped. “The datura and ringleaders—”    “Dreamhelpers.”    “Dreamhelpers!” Targ exclaimed, “I think you need to find a dreamhelper, brother.” He handed one of the blue notebooks to Jack, opening it. “Here, I have some samples for you to look at—”    “Samples?”    “Yeah. It’s good to know what they might look like before hand. After all, a dreamhelper will come to you when you’re on the datura and help you find your way. Even afterwards, in life, it will get you out of jams, make you stand up straight and put a smile on your face,” fingers snapping, tap dancing. “For someone like you it’s sure fire stuff, Jack. As the self-identity poster child I think you’ll understand.” Targ pointed. “Like here, look—there’s the skunk,” Targuman showed him the pages of doodled ink drawings and National Geographic cut-outs. “Skunk is Mephistis mephistis,” he smiled. “Or stinky stinky—that’s my favorite. Then there’s the crow,” pointing to each. “And the—”    “Targ!” Jack growled, a howling ninth chord.    Targ froze, apology in his eyes. “What?”    “Let me tell you something and get it straight—” Jack grew red faced, steaming, horns actually making a sound as they grew forward. “I don’t see no fucking unicorns, understand? I don’t see no faeries and I don’t see no leprechauns.”    “And you don’t speak no English either, bronco boy.”    “Lookit,” he sighed. “Just find me some Lucky Charms, will you. With soy milk. It’s all I need. Charms, soy, spoon and a bowl.”    “Soy milk?” Targuman asked. “I didn’t think you had that kind of consciousness, Jack.”    “Conscience? You don’t think I have a conscience?”    “No, no. I said ‘consciousness.’ ”    “Look, Targ,” moving on. “If you can’t do it, send Mike and Darby down here. If they don’t want to see me, then, well . . .” Jack stilled, gripped his existing wrist, shucked his horsey hoof and smoldered.    “Well what?” Targ leaned.    “Well,” feeling like a daunted schoolboy. Jack fumbled in his left front pocket. “Well, hell!” he fired back, a silver crack of electricity in the air. Targ shuddered, “Very cool. Very cool,” and left with a nod to be back later that evening. The moon had come up by the time Jack, feeling the full effects of the datura cocktail, decided to com-promise on his midnight bath. After staggering about searching, he finally had to admit there was nowhere along the “banks” of the creek he could find deep enough to take a dip, much less a swim. In exasperation he called out a spot where he might be able to lie down and let the water run over him.    He straddled the creek with a leg on either side, put his arms back on the ground and made a table out of himself. He could already feel the water running over the ends of his wings. He waited, bottom just inches from the surface of the water. “Here goes,” and he lowered himself in.    “What is he doing?” Targuman and an associate were watching Jack from a distance.    “Oh, this kid will be a push over if this is his scene,” the other said.    “Shhhh,” Targuman hushed, waving and crouching.    “You don’t need to tell me to get down.”    Targ peered from behind the mesh of scrub oak just up the side of the canyon, looking down    on Jack in the creek. “Goddamit,” Jack rolled over in the creek bed, the sound of slopping about in the air. “Ahhh,” he was now face down in the water and mud. He slowly righted himself trying to push off of the mud and water, wiping microorganisms and vegetation from himself.       “A born fool!” Targuman’s companion cracked. “Lookit, I told you this wasn’t some kid’s birthday or yacht club retirement party.”    “Hey, I got you,” the man said “At least this makes it a two-gig costume.”    Black and glistening, Jack returned himself to the vault. A complete set of hands and feet had returned after taking a few laps through Pee Water Springs. Hanging from the rungs he felt less the ass than monkey boy. The mud that covered him, although a rich green, looked flat and black in the orange light of the candles. It was silty, like Rit out of the packet, and it sat in every pore.    Jack collapsed on the ledge off of the floor and poured some drinking water for himself. How was he to know the creek’s bottom was a mousse? He was a salt water man where the sand went straight under the feet for some many feet. Even with the tide the lowest, if you lay down in the flats the tidal water will pass over you, and it is actually enjoyable, even if crabs crawl over your body, sea slugs gather at your feet. You are at least wet.    Suddenly, Jack detected Another in the tunnel. Must be one of the terd-tenders, he figured, another messenger from wild kingdom’s western union. Jack called out. “Come on through. Skunk’s been here. Hummingbird dropped by. There’s been flies, gnats, bugs, e. coli—who are you?” Jack peeled an eye towards the blackness of the tunnel. He looked at the candles. “I do believe we’re even ready for the coming of the Lord,” he baited.    After a bit of foot shuffling and a clearing of the throat, in walked a pelican.    Jack looked at the chicken-breasted bird as it waddled into the middle of the vault.    “Say wha’ the fuh’?” Jack blinked.    The pelican skirted around the edges quietly, teetering to either side, very aware of the candles and feathers dynamic. Jack sat on his ledge in complete wonder, looking at the bird who was breathing heavily as Jack visibly changed from tennis outfit to tennis outfit, evening gown, Johnny Unitas with carbuncles, horns and pointy ends as a kind of enthusi-asm for what he was seeing in front of him.    From pelican there were sparks, a flash and thunder. Blood came from his mouth and he spoke.    Targuman was on top of the vault trying listen in. He had heard the loud noises and seen the flashes but by the time he made his way through the brush, climbed up and hung his head in far enough to hear it was quiet. Then a voice from down the creek, “Hey, hey . . .”    “Right here,” Targ said in a high whisper. He ambled to-wards the voice. It was the pelican,    “That was great!”    “I told you,” pelican said. “I got the kid taken care of.”    “How’d you do the flash and explosion?”    “Firecrackers, you fool.”    Targuman chuckled. “So what’d you talk about?”    “What we talked about was what we talked about,” he took his head off. “Client privilege, understand?”    “Oh,” finger on the lips.    “Except?” he asked.    “What’s that?”    “You didn’t tell me this kid was black?” JACK SAT BACK IN THE WATER of the tub, looking up at the delphineums exploding from the vase on the sink. He felt clean and limber, completely restored after a few bowls of cereal with the boys. That milk was good and had gone straight to the bones, building up a hard shell. It was as if none of the last three days had even occurred. Before jumping into the tub he shaved. He had a fairly steady growth of whiskers and for the fun of it he used the razor to outline the shape of a Van Dyke for his upper lip and chin. He looked in the mir-ror and smiled back at himself. “There,” he breathed. “If I am good I might as well look good.” After the shave he cleaned up the sink and set the needle on the plate, wash cloth and alcohol aside. In the tub he rinsed all of the black, stinking mud from his body. It made the water turn a milky dark green. He drained it, stood up in the shower soaping himself, then ran the water again to make another tub. Abby had shut the blinds so except for a squeeze of light coming through the window above the tub, the only light came from a set of candles she had lit. There Jack soaked, sitting back with his fingers in his ears, legs up so that he floated comfortably on just his tail bone, eyeing the exploding delphineums. He occasionally looked at the change in his arms and shoulders, figuring as much.    Abby had really rigged quite a ridiculous paradise in there of hanging driftwood, ferns and seashells, the blazing orange stained glass and matching shag carpet. But the peace of it was more of a gift than Jack had ever expected. Laying back in the perfect lukewarm of the water, hot afternoon winds jangling dozens of wind chimes outside the window, Jack realized with his time to think now that so much of his life had been spent on the cusp between artificial joy and real discomfort that he could no longer remember whether life was good or not.    He smiled and stood up, still dripping, pushing the water off and stepped out of the tub. He stood before the mirror, propped a candle next to his face and looked deep into the eye. There the bastard was, same as it ever was—sixty-nine on its back, fish scales glittering. He blinked and stepped away for a moment. Unscrewing the cap of the rubbing alcohol, he poured it over his hands and washed them in the vaporous fluid. He took the needle and rinsed it in what was left as alcohol dried in the air. Jack leaned forward, looking into the mirror at the reflection of the mark. He held the needle up and glided it in as tears welled like a bubble on his eye, rising, breaking, sending a cascade of fluid down. The needle touched the arabesque and there was a sting that came not so much from his eye but from the back of his neck, down his spine to the balls of his feet. The needle and the mark grappled. Jack felt them clicking at one another and he twisted the needle so that they became attached. He pulled gently but the mark did not want to come. His teeth ached with fire. His spine to his feet were as hot as they could be before he would cry out. Jack twisted the needle again and like a tooth in need of extraction there was a sharp crack of a feeling, a release felt through the ears. The needle and the mark were attached and he slowly jig-gled the two of them out of his eye. He dropped the needle and ran the water fast, rinsing his face. Blood came from the eye and although it hurt it was a kind of pain he had never felt before. It was not bad, maybe nothing in comparison to what he had known. Jack breathed deeply and saw that the water in the sink was pink from blood, the needle and the arabesque falling onto the towel. Jack crawled back into the tub, leaned into the water and submerged himself.    Just out the window, in the backyard, Mike and Darby were in semi-command of the hose, put to work by Abby, running water over what was left of the lawn and accompanying dirt, potted cactus, succulents, bromeliads, queen’s tears. The sun was on the downward side of the horizon, winds kicking up hot and electric. Mike watered as Darby busied himself buzzing around the yard, pulling the center out of honeysuckle flowers and sucking the nectar off of the ends. Suddenly he pointed to the sky, hollering.    “Hey, lookit!”    Mike turned, water chugging forward to make a muddy hole. “Wow!”    “It’s, it’s . . .”    To the west leading a splay of contrail crystals was a white light which seemed to be passing between Venus and the crescent of the moon.    “It’s, it’s . . .”    “I know what it is,” Mike said.    “It’s Iggy!” Darby jumped up and down. “He’s going to heaven.”    “No, you dork. It’s not Iggy. Don’t take it so seriously.”    “Is it Larius?” Darb countered.  “Larius?”“Yeah. The star”    “I never heard of it.”    “Either have I, but some guys were talking about it in the parking lot the other day.” “Well,” Mike pulling his ear lobe. “It’s kind of like a Larius, only it’s a Lariat, as in missile. That’s where Ed is.”    Darby crooked up his face. The hose was running over their shoes now, the puddle spreading out to a pond. “I thought he was in the Coast Guard Reserves?”    “He is. Only . . .” Mike stopped. “Don’t ask me. I never figured it out either.”    He threw the hose into the oliander and stood next to Darb, the both of them watching the white light cruising high over the Pacific as it sprinkled a sparkling glow of pastel yellow, red, green and purple behind it.    Through the window of the bathroom, in the water of the tub where Jack had been holding his breath, there was a shudder. He rose out of the water and stood in the tub, arms high in the air as if throwing the perfect pass, pissing straight ahead, he held his arms with fists high and smiled.    It was joy. THE LAST YEAR HAD SEEN MORE than its share of book reports and home room projects dedicated to the Devil’s appearance at homecoming. Stories were traded by those who weren’t even there about how they had seen him fly off into the smoke cloud which had come to rest on the school, or others told tales of seeing the Devil again down in the canyons, howling at night. Some had even made accusations that were more true than they realized, but only a handful really knew and they had sworn themselves to secrecy.    Jack stared into the aquarium in the lobby of the restaurant hoping that Mike and Abby would make good on their promise to take care of Pulmone the Lungfish. He had become a bit of a mascot in the last six months since they had gotten him for Jack’s birthday.    “He doesn’t do much, I know,” Jack said to Abby. “But I can imagine how he feels.” Abby looked at Jack, sad that he was leaving, but knowing that he would be back soon enough. Maybe a going away party was a bit much, she figured, but Jack deserved it seeing how much he had done for them.    “We’re gonna miss you, Jack, and you know it,” she said to him, holding out the beautiful hands he had given to both her and her son. Outside a brand new Range Rover pulled up, full of the same friends of Abby’s who had taken Jack out to the caves the year before last. At the time Jack referred to them as the Longhairs, although now they all had very short hair, even those with the beards. They were heading south to New Mexico and had agreed to drop Jack off near Saticoy where he had found a job for the season as an assistant manager of a strawberry and coriander operation.    Jack slipped out the back, past the dishwasher, after saying what amounted to his goodbyes to Abby. The Longhairs eyed him as he crawled into the Rover, remembering him to be different than he was, but shrugging it off because in those days they were different too.    They dropped Jack off along 118, at a little road called Si-sa, about four o’clock in the afternoon. There he found the house at the end of the road and he walked towards it, his pack on his shoulder. He stopped at the edge of the lawn to tie his shoes up, hearing the door open and footsteps come out. Pulling the knot tight, Jack looked up and there she was, she who had the ocean inside her.