The Bodyguard (story 101 "PROXIMITY")

PROXIMITY
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is beside the jack-o-lantern. Walking. And stumbling. He’s not exactly beside her because she’s a little ahead and has taken his hand in hers and keeps looking over at him as if she’s afraid he’ll pass out again. He still has the bag of ice taped in place from where he forehead bonked the table at the coffee shop. When the jack-o-lantern wouldn’t let its staff call 9-1-1, they’d insisted on the bag. But she’d put it on—making sure his already broken glasses were nestled safely on his nose and being careful to keep his wire projecting far enough into his ear.

The bodyguard touches the wire as he looks around at the fleeting neon. Friday night high school kids and booming cars fill the street. His elbow grazes the stylized portico of a storefront. He looks at it, thinking how much it resembles a baby’s crib. Then he realizes he doesn't know how he got here, which ratchets him up even a few more notches on the nervousness scale. Ahead, the high-schoolers are laughing again. From the irreverent tone, he decides they are up to something. And so, like you’d expect, he reaches for his gun. BUT IT’S GONE. Red waves lash against each other in his head. Their foam scalds his throat. Did the jack-o-lantern take it? He looks over at her. For the first time he notices the geography revealed by her dress and the troubling way her black tights snake down her legs. But clearly there’s no place for his gun there. And she has no handbag.

Before he can fret more for his gun, he’s struck by a far more calamitous realization. Her hand is touching his! Not only that—their fingers are entwined. Although the tenderness does feel perversely nice, its promiscuity rips through him like the teeth of a shark. But then, suddenly, this pain is ruptured by another far more intense and physical. A squeal from his wire pierces into his ear.

They know.

For weeks he’s felt he might be under observation in regards to his possible ascendance to the next level in their echelons power: This proves it. They’re nearby. Somewhere. Watching. He’s sure of it. He struggles to contain his elation. His fellow soldiers of safety—with their tight lips, guns, discretion, and darkness—they’re somewhere near! Yes, obviously this dreadful noise can only mean he is being standardly punished for breeching the covenant in letting himself be touched. But what that implies is still irrefutable: They are here. Somewhere. Which means they must know how vigilant he’s been in not allowing himself to eat. And surely such abstinence must mean something. If only he could see even their muted silhouettes. He’s long been craving such a sign—not that he’s ever dreamed or even permitted himself to consider such a happy day could happen as to be brought back in from exile, and again have proximity to the heaven of their shiny black shoes. Obviously, yes, the return is happening at the worst time. But, still, it’s what he’s secretly so yearned for. Obviously, yes ,also, in these narrow seconds he’s failed. Guilty, gunless—he’s horribly compromised and non-compliant with the jack-o-lantern’s—ohmygawd! Her web! It’s touching him!

Suddenly a white wave crests through him. As he’s churned around by it, he hears the blue tulips of his ribs again begin to hum. Then sees himself lolling starboard toward the pavement.

The Bodyguard ("Pilgrim" story #100)

PILGRIM
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother isn’t storming around inside her home anymore. She’s been stopped dead in her tracks and by what she least expected. That damn, dusty old battered photo album. This past week she threw it away three times. Somehow it never seems to stay there where it belongs. It’s as if it were ganging up on her with the detectives. But all these images of the doomed town where she grew up—they have nothing to do with anything—and it doesn’t matter who took the pictures. The past is the past. It’s long since all under water. And, anyway, she’s much too busy now with her plans for the future.

After all her ponderings about the volcanic lingerie museum, she’s decided Hawaii might not be a bad place to hide. And also honeymoon. Her seeing that newspaper article had to be a sign from Jesus. It’s obviously what He wants for her. And who is she to say “no” to her Everlasting Redeemer? As soon as her bridal shower and perfect wedding are complete and her and her bridegroom are safely outside the city limits, she’s going to release her Savior from His Victorian seclusion and give Him a big kiss. She’s so happy that (despite the obvious setbacks) everything is turning out so well. Yes, her Hindu probably won’t at first jump for the idea of tiki torches and colorful umbrella drinks in Hawaii. But she knows it’ll only be because of how busy he’s been planning some mystical hoo-ha newlywed treks for them across India—or some other equally absurd spot where you probably can’t get hot water (let alone clean towels). She’d allowed him to think she’d be tickled by such a frivolous adventure, just like she’d let him think a lot of things. She knows the dawn of his true awakening lurks around the next bend. Once they’re lawfully fused into one entity—that will be the moment his eyes open. He’ll be Christian before he knows what hit him. Other transformations will follow. In the end, after all her construction work, she knows he’ll be happy. Happy as a clam. And she can see the new him now as clearly as Hawaii.

But she’s not actually looking at Hawaii. She’s staring at the photo album. It’s open on her lap to a snapshot of an old bicycle in that dingy mining town of her childhood. A baseball card is clothes-pinned through the rusted spokes of the bike’s front wheel. She can’t see this baseball card in the photo, but she knows it’s there. She can hear it. Flapping. It’s so pathetic, she can’t believe such a sound ever made her happy. But what is she thinking? She has no time for this, she’s supposed to be on the lamb! The ketchup detectives are coming for her ring and to stop her from the island pilgrimage Jesus so passionately wants her to make. She must hurry. She has to hop into her car and speed to the bridal shower and everything else on tonight’s tight schedule. For crying out loud, she hasn’t even booked plane tickets yet! She must close this ratty album. The past is the past. A card flapping against bike spokes has nothing to do with tonight’s journey.

The Bodyguard ("Sugar" story #99)

SUGAR
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother is on the lamb. Or she will be soon. It’s why she’s trying to focus. Unfortunately, her mind keeps leaping. This morning’s newspaper had an article about a lingerie museum built atop a dormant Hawaiian volcano. Although her imagination has toyed with ideas, she can’t let herself consider what would be in the museum or who would climb a volcano to see such things. She must focus. She must decide what to bring along on her getaway. Jesus is already in the trunk of her car—bound head-to-toe in her Victoria’s Secret silk panties—squeezed in right between a not-quite-red hat and her ancient Ouji board. Although well over a decade old, the Ouija board remains pristine and untouched inside its original plastic wrapper. Despite this fact, she’s binging it just the same, because she knows, if she ever were going to use it, now would definitely be the time.

Speaking of which, she isn’t sure how much is left. Five minutes? The warning phone call was, at best, cryptic. But she knew it was true. Her cigar has friends at the police station. It made things easier. Not that this is easy. She’s never been on the lamb before so the stress of deciding what to take is making her teeth buzz. She can’t believe it’s come down to this. Those horrible detectives, she can always smell ketchup on their breath. Its stench follows them around like a cloud or a jealous lover. She certainly wouldn’t mind hearing they were trapped atop of a not-so-dormant volcano. Maybe her Eternal Redeemer should be up there as well for all His smugness of late? No. Despite the awful trouble He’s perpetrated recently, she decided (unlike Him) to be benevolent. It’s why she liberated Him from his tinfoil purgatory and cocooned Him instead in the gentler restraint of Victoria Secrecy. Her lips arc into a smile at how bedeviled He must be trying to inch Himself back from what His thoughts must not touch. After this, it’s certain she’ll be retroactively absolved of her few petty and fleeting transgressions. However, just to be on the safe side, she thinks it a reasonable idea (and probably in her Savior’s better interest) to let Him languish a bit longer. Obviously she doesn’t want Him suffering too much—still—she thinks it only appropriate that He be brought down a peg or two for acting like such a big shot all the time up on His crucifix. Plus, to be honest, she thinks she’d have to say Jesus isn’t her only candidate for a too-big-for-his-britches trophy. The Archbishop is also a front-runner. To not let her wedding be the way it had to be? What in Satan’s toenails was the man thinking? He should be damn glad he’s not shackled in Victorian splendor in her car trunk beside the Ouija board! Who could be so high-faluting almighty important that he couldn’t return even one of her twelve calls this afternoon regarding the need to reschedule his presence at her wedding to a tad bit earlier? Okay, yes, a whole two months earlier... Yes, tomorrow is already now to be the BIG DAY... Yes, it’s inconvenient... And, yes, it’s not at all what she wanted—but none of that is her fault. She didn’t create this brash new urgency. For it, the three detectives and their cloud of ketchup are entirely to blame. Those damn detectives! It had never been part of her plan to let them retain custody of her ring. So what if the ring played a role in some international crime? That had nothing to do with her. Who were they kidding? But she knew if she didn’t act fast, the mess would just escalate even further. And she wasn’t about to let some pencil-pushers and judicial red tape interfere with her perfect ceremony. Now it would just have to happen sooner than planned. Much sooner.

That’s why, tonight, at exactly five PM, she walked into the police station and informed its clerk she was fetching the ring for one of the young lawyers at her firm, who needed to re-examine it again for evidentuary purposes. Needless to say, she didn’t use her real name on the forest of paperwork they made her sign. Yet, quite miraculously, the ketchup detectives had somehow already (in two hours) divined her true identity. She’s pretty sure she knows who their damned snitch is, because only her parish priest knew her secret. No other soul had a clue. Not even her Hindu. Yes, with the many awkward and unusual turns her life has taken lately, she hadn’t wanted her beloved to get the wrong impression. In fact this morning when he asked about the abrupt swap in their ceremony’s date, she’d looped her arm through his, smiled over and tenderly kissed his cheek. That’s when she noticed his eyes had the same glint as those of the dead fish she’d just seen hanging on a spear in the newspaper photo of the lingerie museum. She didn’t like her Hindu’s eyes looking sad like that. So she told him how much she cared for him. She didn’t want him to worry himself unnecessarily. She knew most men are really little boys and, if you’re ever to give them the truth, it can only be in the tiniest of portions with lots of sugar on top.

The Bodyguard ("Moons" story #98)

MOONS
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is making himself think only about dirt. Or is trying to very hard. It’s what he sometimes does in emergency situations. And usually it works. If he can fixate on dirt, he can usually keep away from the disturbance of things like that wafer-thin web of skin between the jack-o-lantern’s fingers—which right now he can’t seem to take his eyes off of. And because he’s trying so hard to think only about dirt, he’s also keeping himself safe from the beauty of her eyes. The particular dirt he’s holding in his mind is the dirt in his mother’s backyard where the radishes grow wild beneath her diseased elms. He knows the jack-o-lantern is whispering something to him about his mother. Unfortunately his dirt-work isn’t working well enough to blot out all the jack-o-lantern’s words. Through his haze of worms and roots scuttles in the uncanny notion that his mother has (because of some bizarre series of mounting problems) moved her wedding up to the day after tomorrow, yet right now might be either in jail or desperately off in hiding somewhere. It’s terribly confusing to the bodyguard. He can’t let himself out of the dirt. If he does, he knows what could happen. Yet, at the same time, there’s enough genuine concern in the words of this torn girl to make him feel maybe he should try and rise to hear her. But no, as a professional, he can’t leave himself open to the salty trap between her fingers. He must keep himself earthbound and dirt-driven. Dirt is the word. Dirt is the world. But still, he is a man of safety, a man of honor and integrity. A visionary. Which means, as a member of the elite, he could view a detached listening as a noble service provided to a commoner. Plus, there is the obvious and irrefutable fact of his golden certificate of safety—which means it shouldn’t matter that the jack-o-lantern has the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen. Or that he has any wants or wishes at all. But, just the same, he doesn’t fully trust the scenario.

Not sure what else to do, he touches his wire. Then re-aligns his fractured glasses on his head and peers out at the shining chatter from the coffee faces. Through his damaged lenses, the room does seem rather katty-wampus, but he cannot let this deter his quest as he busies himself trying to monitor, assess, and rank the threat potential of the establishment’s various clientele. Without allowing even the slightest flex of his shoulders, he pivots his head, scanning. He sees everything. Almost. He cannot let his gaze wander near vicinity of the jack-o-lantern’s hands. Doing so could inhibit his proprietary status and further breech a perimeter of official decorum. Besides which, such tainted data would certainly mar his current inquiry. Even considering such a possibility makes him so fearful he resorts to emergency procedure. For the greater good, he visualizes dirt wedged between his teeth and stuffed down his throat. The tactic proves fruitful. All trace memory of pleasantry on his lips is immediately purged.

He also tries to fortify himself against any further encroachment by the jack-o-lantern’s words. Toward this limit, he looks at nothing on the table but its salt shaker. However, after a bit, his surveillance strays to the tabletop’s cobalt blue surface, which glimmers like an arctic pool. At first it gives comfort as it seems like a place one could drown. But then it troubles him, because from within its depths he begins to see movement. Something molten. Stars. Or moons. Twin flickerings there beneath the salt shaker. His brow ripples as he watches these smooth, trapped moons. There’s a dubious clarity to them he can’t fathom. What’re they doing down there? They don’t seem to offer safety, but instead seem harbingers of something else. Whatever they portend, the bodyguard already knows there’s going to be trouble. This is confirmed when he notices how quiet the jack-o-lantern has become. She isn’t talking anymore. He doesn’t know when she stopped, but her silence is getting him jittery again—in the extreme. He doesn’t like change. Especially this kind. It’s confusing. But he won’t look up. He can’t. He keeps his mind in the dirt and his gaze focused on the flickerings. He’s looking at them when it occurs to him they could be the reflections of her eyes. In effect, she could be watching him through the table—staring up from its watery depths. But these other eyes of hers, these tabled moons seem disasterously more potent. He can already feel himself being penetrated and revealed by them. They’re permeating the boundary of his broken lenses, bypassing all his roots, rules, regulations, radishes, and dirt—slipping into the very core of his silence. There’s no time to protect his directives or normalcy, the invasion is happening much too fast. Which is why, without even so much as a tremor, he feels his heart come to an abrupt stop.

The Bodyguard ("Driver" story #97)

DRIVER
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is on his knees. He doesn’t remember getting the napkins, but they are mooshed in a sodden gob in his hand as he wipes the floor around the feet of the jack-o-lantern. He is wiping and wiping. There is long since no more mess, but he is still wiping. His effort has captured the attention of the coffee shop staff, but the jack-o-lantern keeps waving them back. She won’t let anyone near. The bodyguard senses this out of the corner of his eye. And he is about to get up and sit with her again when the worst sacrilege occurs.

His dark glasses slip off, then spiral down at the freshly sanitized floor. Both lenses instantly fracture. They are supposed to be factory-tested against such breakage, but the bodyguard can’t deny what is before him. And it’s happened far too fast to seem real. He plunges to the floor and peers closely at them. His lips open and close—then open and close again wide like the lips of a blowfish. He can’t believe this. His neck muscles flash into a spasm. Now his whole body begins to rock and thunder uncontrollably from side to side. The jack-o-lantern puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. He reacts by whirling on her with a crooked growl and mouthful of teeth. She doesn’t understand! How could she? He spins back to the injured glasses and huddles there, afraid to touch them. Afraid he might somehow hurt them worse. But what could be more catastrophic? They were officially issued with his gilded certificate of safety. They are everything—the very bedrock of who he is. He should never have entered this coffee house with all its garish lights and looky-loo people watching him. That’s when it occurs to him where the real blame hides and who the real enemy is! These watchers. And now he knows then he can’t reveal anymore about the internal injury they’ve just inflicted on him. It would go against his professional edict. As part of the elite, he has sworn not only to be normal, but also to uphold dignity. To maintain grace under pressure. No matter what. That’s why he focuses on keeping himself from any more thought as he rigidly aims his fingers out toward his glasses.

Once they are back on his face, he is back in the driver’s seat. It matters not that the lenses are now somewhat ruined. He is still in control. He can overcome the impediment. He’s had adequate training. He rises gain to the perch across from the jack-o-lantern and baptizes himself anew by letting another almost microscopically small, yet relentless and victorious smile pass over his lips. He is ready now for her to tell him why they are here: His new mission. But then his smile slips away, because again he notices that thin sensuous web between her two smallest fingers.

The Bodyguard ("Good" Story #96)

GOOD
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard can feel the web of skin against his lips. And it bothers him how much he enjoys it. The jack-o-lantern’s behavior is stunningly odd. But what surprises the body guard even more is his own reaction to it. He does not push her hand away. Instead, he lets her smell get into him. It’s probably some kind of ointment partially extracted the bodies of crushed squids, but he can’t deny how pleasant it is. He doesn’t think he’s ever smelled anything so moist, soft, and sweet—yet also slightly salty. It’s quite terrifying. He hates it. He must make her stop this strangeness. Which is when he realizes the web of skin isn’t there anymore nuzzling his lips. And now, it seems almost as if it never was.

Confused, the bodyguard looks into her wintermint eyes. Not for long, but too long for him. The intimacy makes him feel completely compromised. He has total mission-failure. Time to abort the location. Without a word, he abruptly lurches up. In the process his thighs bump the table. This tips over the two paper cups and their differently tinted brown substances, causing a flood of steaming liquid to gush across the cobalt blue table at the jack-o-lantern and splash onto her blouse, staining it and scalding her. She yelps in pain. Everyone turns to look and the bodyguard’s hand goes instinctively toward his gun. But he doesn’t pull it out. He doesn’t do it even though he wants to and knows, in this instance, it is the right thing to do. Instead, he stands stock still, stricken and staring at the brown puddle forming on the floor from the steady dripping from the table. He should get a napkin. Or several. Maybe a pile. He could use them to absorb some of the mess. But he doesn’t. He’s stuck there with his hand on his gun.

He can’t believe he hasn’t pulled it out. He can’t understand himself. Plus, the jack-o-lantern seems to be in pain. He knows he should probably let go of the gun and try to assist her. He wants to. He can see her face. He knows she is in need of something. He sees how her re-stitched on lower lip trembles. So fragile. Maybe if he shook the salt shaker onto her blouse to stop the stain. No. He doesn’t know her that well. Besides, it would go against his executive directive and he can’t be non-compliant. At least not to that degree. There is a chain of authorization and duty to be respected. And obeyed. He doesn’t want to break any rules. All he wants is to close his eyes. Yet he knows he won’t do that either. He hates having so many thoughts happening at once. What is making things even worse is having all these people’s eyeballs on him. If he had his gun out, they would all go away. He knows it. It was part of his training. He worked hard to complete that training. It wasn’t easy for him, but he did it—which means he is now proudly certified. At the big awards ceremony he was even given an official plaque, within which rested the most profound treasure of all—his certificate of safety. Gold leaf. Embossed. Signed by several high-ranking government officials with elite and perfectly abbreviated letters after their names. It makes him feel good to think about those abbreviations. But it’s a different kind of good than it was having that flap of skin against his lips.

The Bodyguard ("Salt," story #95

SALT
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is staring down into the paper cup in front of him. Steam rises from the brown liquid inside it. He can feel the wetness linger up past his cheeks. The sensation upsets him and twists him into being even more impossibly fitful and jittery. In response he scuttles, scrapes, claws the chair yet again along the fault lines in the floor with his feet—pretending to adjust the chair, pretending to try and get more comfortable. He doesn’t want to keep doing this (normalcy always), but can’t seem to stop himself. All around him dozens of conversations are occurring. He can feel the wall of their disjointed buzzing pushing in. He isn’t supposed to be here. Not like this. He’s glad he has his gun. But he doesn’t touch it. He won’t let himself. He’s trying to keep a low profile. Fit in. Blend. But he notices how people keep glancing over at him and the jack-o-lantern. Maybe it’s because neither of them are talking and everyone else in the coffee shop is.

He looks back into his cup. He has no idea what the brown substance in it is. She bought it for him. He had one sip, but that was fifteen minutes ago. Maybe. It could have been a shorter span of time. Much shorter. He doesn’t really have any idea how long they’ve been sitting here not speaking to each other. Whatever the jack-o-lantern is up to, the bodyguard isn’t happy about it. She obviously expects him to do something. Or say something. But he won’t. He tries to restrict his professional field of vision to the tall paper cup and not look at the multiple scars across her face or the thin web of skin between her two smallest fingers. He tries to think positive thoughts—like being an army of one. He doesn’t like being out of the shadows and feeling the steam from the brown liquid she ordered for him with its very long name. A name which sounded suspiciously foreign and possibly illegal. Thinking about it makes him want to touch his gun, but still, he doesn’t. And won’t. Instead he re-adjusts his tinted glasses again. Then slowly and stealthfully slips his hand up toward the wire going into his ear. Just in case. Just to be sure he’s still attached. Just to validate his linkage to the chain of command. Just to keep himself in place and keep from scraping the chair on the floor again (normalcy always). And just to give himself some relief from all these hivish eyes looking and looking at him. Quite obviously he would like to touch his gun as well, but he doesn’t. And won’t. He’s glad he can maintain such control. The tiniest of smiles shimmies across his lips at the thought of how impressed his superiors would be to see him exerting such authority. Discipline is what makes a warrior worth his salt. He heard this somewhere. He doesn’t know where, but it’s a code he’s lived by ever since.

That’s when he notices a salt shaker on the blue table beside his cup and wonders why it’s there. This is a coffee shop. There is no food here. Do some people put salt in their coffee? He looks around to see if anyone is. None are. They are all too busy chatting. No one seems to be paying attention to their drinks. This is when the jack-o-lantern suddenly takes his hand in hers and reaches her other one up to place the wafer-thin web of skin between its smallest fingers over his lips.

The Bodygurad ("Integrity" story #94)

INTEGRITY
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard has his eyes closed. He may be enveloped by a throbbing blue-tulip light from his ribs beneath his dark suit—nonetheless, all conditions remain normal. Secure. As they must. And he is most certainly not allowing himself to breathe. Not now. He has the situation under much too tight surveillance for that. He is an army of one. He cannot allow himself to become entwined in civilian matters. He was carefully trained and transformed into a superior version of the him that went before. He was given integrity and honor. Which is why he also cannot listen to the blue music from his ribs. He doesn’t care if it is a song about breath. He won’t let himself lose perspective. Not now. He won’t open his eyes. Things were clarified in his training. Made crystal. He is part of the elite. A maintaining element. He is to keep things as they are. He must. Normalcy always. And always be normal. He has such duty. He was charged with that responsibility the way some people are hit by lightning. His professional integrity is not something he can back away from or pretend blindness toward. Duty is duty.

He cannot let this torn girl muddle his resolve, exploit the moment, and take him from his designated post in the alley. The discussion she seeks at a coffee shop simply cannot be permitted. First off, he does not drink coffee. Secondly, he has never been inside a coffee shop. So obviously she must release his arm at once. She must stop this tugging. He has been authorized to intervene in emergencies. He is part of the elite. Doesn’t she realize this? He cannot open his eyes. Not now. He is still safe. What does she think she is doing? His mother is not in trouble. That couldn’t be. But the music of the tulips is growing so loud. What if he can’t maintain himself against it? What if his dark glasses come off? What if he breathes? Or does somehow open his eyes?

Then he realizes these are all questions. Which is obviously and completely against regulations. So he breaks free of the jack-o-lantern’s grasp and opens his eyes—but only a very little bit. And only very briefly (probably less time than it takes a camera to click a perfect picture). Only long enough to run off and hide behind some barrels before again adjusting his dark glasses and enclosing himself yet further behind the finality of his wafer-thin eyelids.

The Bodyguard ("Singularity" story #93)

SINGULARITY
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is standing there in the alley looking into the eyes of his mother’s future maid of honor, but he can’t see the jack-o-lantern girl. His mind is elsewhere. His hands dangle—whitened knuckles twisting in the wind. Her breath is tinged with wintermint, but he won’t let himself smell it. Words are being spoken to him, but he can’t hear them. Why? Because this isn’t supposed to be happening. He’s on duty. Isn’t he? No questions! He cannot allow it. There can be no doubt. He is a professional. An army of one. End of story. He is part of the elite and is not listening. He can’t.

He is picturing something else. Himself, elsewhere. Successful. A champion with a sniper’s bullet exploding into his sternum as he leaps up, euphoric and heroic, in front of a movie star’s mother. Right there above the red carpet rolled stiff to the hubcaps of their limousine parked in front of the twinkling cinema complex on opening night. Free popcorn. Cameras flashing. People’s lips ripping open in screams at the gunshot. It is the most perfect moment. But he can’t hold onto it. The perfection slips out of his grip, to be replaced by what he most explicitly must not permit—the wintermint-scented jack-o-lantern still there and still talking. In her eyes he sees himself reflected. Or rather, his mirrored glasses. Seeing the calmness of these insect-like mirror eyes soothes him. He still has distance, can still be the army, still be on the outside. Alone. Singular. Even now. Even with her here so perilously near. He can ignore his semi-ignited state. Can keep his troops together. Maintain an equilibrium of armored readiness.

Thinking such, he moves his hand slightly toward his pocket where he put his gun, just to be sure it’s still there and that all is well. Which is when a few more words slip across the threshold of the jack-o-lantern’s re-stitched on lips, and seep out through the air toward him: “I’m worried about your mother. It seems she’s in some trouble.”

The Bodyguard ("Echo story #92)

ECHO
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is being watched. He tries to maintain his stride with his usual momentum, but he can feel it—someone is following him. He hates it. This being out in the open like those he protects is not how things are supposed to be. It’s why he curls off the street, huffing into an alley for the comfort of shadows. He hears the echo of footsteps dogging him. Although he wants to see who is at his heels, he won’t turn his head. That would draw attention. So, instead, he gets his gun out. Just in case things escalate.

Its precise lines feel good against his palm. Their beauty calms him. But only a little. What he really needs is a crowd, or, even better, some office building. A place full of deliberate and dark-suited silhouettes just like him. Briefcase or no briefcase, they would accept him as one of their own and allow him to pass untroubled through their busy glass hive. Amid their stream of expectant faces, phones, and doors his directive would not be an issue. He could blend, become again invisible—which is what he needs most. Because to be unseen is to be unquestioned. Secure. And security is what he is all about. Or is supposed to be. Questions are to be avoided. So, as he was taught, he does his best to smother the multitude blistering through his head and to focus instead on duty and the necessity of the moment.

But he can’t see any doorways or tunnels up to the glass hives above the alley. The only objects visible are some wooden crates, a dead rat, two used condoms, and dozens of cardboard boxes of National Geographic magazines dumped over and split open—revealing dark cars, cathedrals, and exotic people far away. People who probably need protection. Ordinarily, of course, he would be leaping out of his shoes to offer such service, but right now this is not something he is even able to consider because right now… He hears the furtive cackle of footsteps. A sound getting closer. And closer. In desperation, he taps his wire. There isn’t even static. Could need a new battery. Been over a year. Hasn’t it? Or has it? He isn’t sure. And although he knows he shouldn’t be asking questions, in his training they’d instilled the need to keep track of such things. “When on duty, you have to look out for yourself.” It’s what they’d said. And was all they said on the subject. They never mentioned anything about anyone looking out for you. Certainly not about anyone tracking you. It goes against everything he’s supposed to be. He’s failed, clearly failed the most elemental command—to be invisible—which means now he’ll never rise any further upward within the regime. His future is now as good as over. He knows it. He’ll never again be able to do his duty. Not properly, at least.

But worse than the fact of whoever is back there mirroring his steps, is the realization he’s been stabbed in the back by his own questions. This thought is so devastating it allows something to happen that should not ever happen—he lets himself feel something. And because of this, his hand turns into a fist and he slams this fist hard on a dumpster. It booms loudly in response. Reverberates. Echoes. Then all it quiet. Terribly so. That’s when he feels a set of fingers glide down onto his shoulder and turns to see the obliterated face and too-beautifully-blue-to-be-true eyes of the jack-o-lantern girl.

The Bodyguard ("Steps" story #91)

STEPS
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother is back on the street outside the hat shop walking fast back to the law office and counting, as she always does, how many steps it takes. The clicking off of numbers is so deeply entrenched in her experience of mobility that she barely recognizes she’s doing it. But she does know it’s happening and can usually spout her precise count at any point in a journey—even those few jaunts she’s made to the dwelling place of the man from whom she buys her laundry detergent. Twenty-three stairs up to his floor of the old apartment complex, with the third and eighteenth ones squeaking much more than they need to.

Not that she is thinking about that man. Or his disheveled home with all its crooked smells and any of what happened there between them in the kitchen—or rather, the place he calls a kitchen, but which is really just a battered Coleman cook stove beside a 50-gallon propane tank with a water jug duct-taped to its side. She isn’t thinking about any of that. Nor the ponies. She is not that kind of person. She is someone who knows how many times it takes to crank the manual pencil sharpener on her desk to achieve a perfect point. She prefers the manual sharpener and has told her superiors so stringently and often enough now that the subject is happily not broached anymore. By anyone. Such silence may be a little victory, perhaps, but it’s one she wears proudly on her shoulder now as she makes her way through the crowded sidewalk.

She can’t believe these people are allowed to go free in the streets. If it was her world, one thing would be certain—they’d all have to take a bath. And lickity-split about it, too. No dawdling allowed! No way. Which is a topic she keeps wanting to mention to the secret policeman. He has some serious issues to deal with in that area. But she knows it is going to be a tricky conversation to navigate as she’s heard that in Poland, until quite recently, it was against the law to have a bath tub. She heard it on one of her radio talkshows. She’d wanted to call up and ask for more useful facts about Poland, but was afraid someone might recognize her voice, and then somehow put two and two together and get a number that was not one she wanted to hear. That kind of number would certainly throw a monkey wrench at her and make her lose track of everything. Which is absolutely NOT what is needed, because right now she needs all the help she can get to simply keep up with her feet.

The Bodyguard ("Impression" story #90)

IMPRESSION
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother sees a uniformed cop outside the hat shop window. She isn’t sure how far it makes her jump, but it’s too far, that’s for sure. The other two customers are staring at her. Not sure what else to do, she gives them the bride-smile she been honing for weeks in her bathroom. It works. Perfectly.

Despite the pain it begins to cause, she keeps the smile tight on her face, turns, and checks herself in one of the many mirrors. If only her abominable pair of homosexual photographers were here. This is the look, the look for her wedding book. This is exactly what she’s after!

Drawing on her reservoir of inner strength, she maintains the smile and rotates her head tautly back toward the window where the cop was. If he is tailing her because of anything connected to her engagement ring, she wants him to have the right impression. She pivots her head again. Looking. No. He doesn’t seem to be around. But, just in case, she stands there awhile. Not moving. Holding the smile. Keeping everything nice. At least until she sees her secret speed by in his big, loud car, leaving a trail of cigar smoke and black sputtering oil behind him. That’s when her smile caves in on itself and something else takes its place.

The Bodyguard ("Freedom" story #89)

FREEDOM
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother is still in the hat shop. But she’s changed her mind. Not about the ponies. And obviously not about getting within six feet of any of the red hats in the place. It’s her pair of identically-clad prize-winning homosexual photographers. She has decided to stand her ground on their trophies and launch her thousand-fold fleet of wedding photographs from there. Archbishop be damned!

The ceremony’s documentation will be perfect even if she has to exert a little more force than might seem, at first, ladylike. The long term is what is most important now and it’s why she can’t let herself fret too much about whose toes get flattened for things to be as they must.

It’s something she learned from her Eternal Redeemer. He’d smiled down at her once from his correct and legal position on the nice silver cross in her kitchen—nodded at his palms—and whispered that perfection always has a cost. Somewhere. It’s never for free.

The Bodyguard ("Mystique" story #88)

MYSTIQUE
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother is not letting herself think about the ponies. She is in a hat shop. Not a proper place for pony-thought, even if she were to indulge in it. And she isn’t. And she’s not looking at any red hats either. That would be as bad—or perhaps worse—than letting ponies onto her field of thought.
There are a couple black hats that meet her fancy. Very proper. Very elegant. Nothing sordid about them. Not a drop. One even has a bit of a veil. Something to peek through and create some mystique. She likes the idea of mystique and doesn’t care what the hell Jesus has to say about the notion. He is still in his well-deserved purgatory of tinfoil on the two nails in her kitchen wall and is not likely to be getting out any time soon if He doesn’t change his tone, shape up, and fly right! Snickering is not to be tolerated. Not from anybody, especially not someone who is your Eternal Redeemer. Obviously she can’t do anything about her porch-monkey neighbors, but Jesus is a different matter. His smirking can be dealt with.

The ponies were not her fault and you’d expect a guy like Jesus would figure that out. But did He? No. He makes it into this big production and will not let her off the hook even when she promised to take Him with her to mass next Sunday. Such recalcitrance obviously upset her. But all morning long it’s been growing worse, which is why she’s now here at the hat shop—so she can calm down and figure out what to tell her yoga instructor when she calls him up soon as she goes to back to work. She knows the truth that she lost their honeymoon money on the ponies is not going to be good for any of his chakras, especially if her betrothed learns she’d been at the ponies with the secret policeman and so near that case of dreadfully moist Philippino cigars.

In truth, her yoga instructor would simply not believe it. He would think it was an elaborate joke and praise her for it, then go sprawling into yet another bouquet of Hindu apologies about his brother and the engagement ring catastrophe, which was so completely not anything she wanted to hear. Sometimes she didn’t know who was worse—Jesus or her future groom. But she had to admit that she couldn’t imagine the yoga instructor would last long in her tinfoil purgatory. He didn’t have near the stamina Jesus did. Nor as big a set of biceps. That’s one thing she did openly tell Her Savior, He looked pretty good without his shirt on.

The Bodyguard ("Saved" story #87)

SAVED
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother is decided. Like a battleship tossed onto dry land by a tornado, she stands at the top of the rickety stairwell. She’s outside the secret policeman’s door with her hand up ready to knock. But she is not going to let it happen. Cigar or no cigar, this is not who she is.

This afternoon she was more herself when she was, for the first time, face-to-face talking to her two prize-winning homosexual wedding photographers in their perfectly matched white sequin suits. She’d kept her poise as she’d told them that she’d tried, but it was impossible. She just couldn’t use them. That the church frowned on it. That she’d gone as high up its ladder as the archbishop himself and had threatened to drop Jesus on his cross from the top floor of her law office—but it didn’t work. The archbishop had just stared at her as if she’d had mustard on her lip and wasn’t sure if he should be the one to tell her about it. Bastard! So smug in his conical hat. When she was in school they’d put those kind of hats on the dumb kids and made them sit in the corner with their nose against the wall. The photographers had been silent after she said this about the archbishop. Then they'd spoken together and in such perfect and singular simultaneity that it made her drop her purse. They wanted to know what the basic problem was with them being in her ceremony. That’s when images of what they probably did in private invaded her mind and she’d had to erase them by visualizing her three most favorite laundry commercials—which, thankfully, had worked. She’d heard the TV music, seen the beautiful, sparkling images, smelled the newly improved lemon freshness and been saved.

Now, she looks at her hand up there, cocked and ready to knock on this door—and she can feel it already moving toward the wood. It’s as if she’s not really there and is watching it from somewhere else, somewhere where she has a diet soda on ice and a bowl of microwave parmesan popcorn in her lap. She wants the laundry detergent commercial to come on in her head and rescue her like it did this afternoon, but it isn’t. She can see her hand keep moving down toward that darkly stained door. She wonders if maybe she shouldn’t have said what she said to the archbishop about letting go of Jesus, letting Him plummet downward. She thinks it’s probably what’s responsible for this. Usually she’s able to make herself smell lemon freshness in emergencies, and usually can then keep her body in control.

The Bodyguard ("Ties" story #86)

TIES
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother is very careful about her twist ties, especially the ones she gets off her bread sacks. She has to be because they are red. She doesn’t wear clothes that color or have any red-tainted furniture. To do so would be wrong. It would make Jesus pout, be unhappy, and would churn His stomach just like cigars do. Her lipstick may look red to some, but it isn’t. Not really. She’s very conscientious about this. She doesn’t want to offend. She has several dresses that also may seem almost red—but again, when you look closely, they are not. It is important to her to look closely at such things and to keep perspective. Red is a color she would probably enjoy having around, but she knows her place in the grand scheme of the cosmos and that Jesus should always have the last say in such things as furniture and lipsticks. This is why, to please Him, as soon as she takes the red twist ties off her bread sacks, she immediately hurls the vile abominators into the trash. When she does, she makes sure her back is not to Jesus on His cross. She wants Him to see how much vigor she puts into the action.

Once, right after she’d done so, the phone rang. She knew who it was. She could smell the cigar through the phone even before she picked it up and she shot a quick, worried look over at Jesus. The cigar had an old smell, as old as the Bible. She told the cigar she couldn’t talk. She told it she was busy. Not to get angry. Could she call back? As she’d whispered these words she’d had her back to Jesus and her voice as low as it could go. Why did her Savior have to be such a jerk? After she was off the phone, she’d smiled at Him and said she needed to pick up something at the store. Then she’d dashed outside and hurried down the three blocks to the Minute Mart where there was a pay phone.

Wouldn’t you know it, the booth was red! She couldn’t enter it. She knew how that would look and what people would think. But she also knew the loud car spitting its oil everywhere would come fast if she didn’t call back. So she went nearer to the phone and its irrefutable redness. It had been painted by hand. She could tell because of the lush brushstrokes. Whoever had done it had been very thorough, passionate, and dilligent about the work. It was perfect. It had clarity. She had her face up against its glass, only inches away when she realized she was trembling--that being even this close was dangerous, that some of its pigment might somehow come off and extend through the air.

The Bodyguard ("Lunch" story #85)

LUNCH
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother is out to lunch. She’s away with her secret policeman. It’s why, even though her brand of detergent isn’t on sale and she doesn’t really need any more, she’s buying some. Two boxes. And some extra floor wax, too. The thing of it is, she missed the smell of that dreadful cigar. Craved it. Needed it so bad that her teeth hurt. Not that she could admit this to him—or herself. But it’s certainly one huge reason she’s nuzzled in so close as he fumbles with the second detergent box, trying to scan it into his register.

She can see in his eyes that he’s upset. She knows how much he wants them to stay a secret. And, obviously, so does she. But all the same, she couldn’t take not talking to him. Hearing his odd, broken English. Especially not now with the advent of this ring thing and the added fact that less than ten minutes ago she spilled coffee on one of the most superior or her superiors, making the man scream and curse so blue-facedly she thought she’d inflicted such harm that he could never father another child. It wasn’t funny and she didn’t laugh. Yet she wanted to. Which was the worst, because it was so unlike her. It’s as if she’s becoming another person. Someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing, and has absolutely no sense of what’s appropriate in a given moment. Besides which, she hates to laugh. Hates it almost as much as she hates being clumsy. She never spills things. She’s precise. She’s measured. She counts her footsteps to the water cooler and knows exactly how many raisins are in the carrot cakes she bakes for the families of all of the law firm’s clients who die. That’s who she is. She’s not the brittle girl standing here sniffling after this slouchy lout for a whiff of his awful stogy.

She’s thinking how absurd this is, how despicable, how it’s the most outlandish thing—when he accidentally brushes her wrist in giving her the receipt. This is when she’d planned to tell him about the three cops in her kitchen last night, and to again remind him that she’s engaged, and how she must get her feet anchored back down on solid ground.

But these words don’t happen.

Something else does. A laugh. High pitched and nervous, it skitters about like a trapped bat with a broken wing, and makes her want to die.

The Bodyguard ("Limbo" story #84)

LIMBO
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother can see the writing on the wall. She knows which end is up. She’s not a fool. She thinks it’s a crying shame, but she also knows there’s only so much you can do. Only so much anyone can do, until, at a certain point—that’s it—you must cut off all ties with the person. No matter what the cost. Even if it means at lot to you to have the relationship and is something you get a lot out of in return for what you invest in it. At some point, when things get bad enough, you have to be willing to do the unthinkable. And she is.

And this is exactly what she says to Jesus where He hangs smiling on her wall. It’s not a warning, she tells Him. It’s an ultimatum. She doesn’t care if He is her Eternal Redeemer. She will not tolerate Him bad-mouthing her anymore about the engagement ring and its new problems with the police. Nor take any more guff or mashed potatoes about her developing friendship with the secret policeman. Her business is her buisness. She is giving to Caesar what is Caesar’s; giving to you, Jesus, what is yours; and keeping the rest to herself—thankyou very much! And she doesn’t care what Jesus may want to say about the ring, it IS hers now and that’s the end of the story. It’s why, even though Jesus is back up where He belongs on the two nails in her wall, He’s still in limbo covered with two layers of gold tinfoil. Punishment? Most certainly. And well deserved. Sure, she can’t see Him on account of the foil, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know the guy. He’s smiling under there. She knows He is. Just like always. How can anybody be expected to trust somebody who’s always got a grin going like they just swallowed five mango-peach cream pies? Eternal Redeemer or not, it’s more than she needs right now with everything else falling apart in her life and the yoga instructor saying maybe they should postpone the wedding a bit—at least until the police get everything with his brother sorted out.

Postpone the wedding? Of course she’d slammed the phone down on her Hindu. How could he even bring himself to say such a thing? Was he insane? Then she’d turned around and there was Jesus smiling at her from his pretty silver cross.

The Bodyguard ("Monster" story #83)

MONSTER
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother is at work. Reading. It’s some dusty law textbook she’s been told to go through for a case. She’s supposed to find something in it for one of her superiors, but its words don’t make sense. It says the destiny of the law is to absorb, little by little, all elements that are alien to it. She doesn’t like this idea and thinks it’s ridiculous. It’s like turning The Law into some horrible science-fiction monster you’d see late at night on TV when you can’t sleep because you ate too many sardines. She sees the law differently. For her, it’s more of a distant Southern gentleman. Someone you can call on if you’re bored, or lonely, or in some kind of trouble. Certainly not some monster with a spaceship or spiked tail. It’s more like someone you’d play cards with. Maybe bridge. A smart partner you’d want to have on the other side of the table. Like Jesus. Even though she isn’t sure Jesus would keep a close enough eye on the game to count cards, she knows The Law would. Jesus would probably be too busy chatting and nibbling on chips and salsa. She’s pretty sure this is why He ended up on His cross in the first place so long ago when The Law came looking for Him. Still, she thinks it would probably be better to have Jesus as a partner in a game of bridge than The Law. The Law would be too much of a crinkled tight-butt. The Law would keep complaining that your turn was taking too long and claim you were looking at its cards. Stupid Law. So what if you were looking at its cards? It’s only a game!

This is when the bodyguard’s mother looks up and glances around at the other offices. It’s still early. No one knows yet about how the police were at her house last night and confiscated her engagement ring. She knows she should tell her superiors. It could become a thing. It’s something she should nip in the bud, be the aggressor about. She should tell them she wants to file a wrongful search and seizure suit against the police. But that would certainly get her on TV. Not only that, it would make even more of a fuss and further undo the perfection of her wedding. And that ceremony cannot be messed with. Not under any conditions. Which is why this incident is so terrible! She feels herself breathing too fast. Getting red. Like her skin is on fire. Like she might faint…

So she closes her eyes to calm herself. When she does, she sees Jesus smiling on the other side of the card table with a chip in his hand and a joke on his lips and she knows there’s nothing to worry about.

The Bodyguard ("Breath" story #82)

BREATH
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother thinks there might be some kind of trouble. The police are outside and she didn’t call them. Naturally, at first she was convinced her son had perpetrated some awful new thing. With him it was easily possible. Anything was. She just hoped his name or face didn’t get into the newspapers, or on TV. You never knew who would see such a thing and what they might say. Maybe she could sweet talk the police into keeping things quiet?

But that was before—what worries her now is how the police have left their obscene red and blue lights twirling full blast in front of all her porch-monkey neighbors. It sets her teeth on edge. The display is indelicate and unattractive. Every other time the police have come to question her, they’ve shown better courtesy. None of this Las Vegas floor-show stuff. And never before have two cars arrived at once. What in the name of hygiene is going on? And why do they need to have their guns out? Do they think he’s here? She rotates her engagement ring nervously around her finger for a moment and considers dashing for the hat box and her tiny blue gun—just to keep things on an even footing. Then she thinks about throwing open the door and just telling them it’s a mistake. To relax and turn off their lights. He’s not here. But, as she thinking this, she looks down at the flickering stone on her finger. Then thinks maybe it isn’t a mistake at all. Which makes her wonder exactly how long it would take to get to that hat box. Or out the door and away, off between the diseased elms toward Canada, like that poor crippled woman did in the movie on TV.

Either way, she’s glad the house is tidy and that she had the foresight to do the kitchen floor this morning. A lot of guests will no doubt be traipsing across it tonight. She looks down at it and is reassured because, in the light flashing in from the squad cars, she can see how nicely it sparkles and even a dim reflection of her smiling face. This makes her wonder how her breath smells, which is why she wheels around and breathes softly on Jesus. With such things, she knows she can always count on him to be honest.

The Bodyguard ("Fun" story #80)

FUN
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is following someone. Or he thinks he is. It’s hard to be sure. Even if he concentrates, within the crowd he is still having trouble being sure of the person’s singularity. And that is probably the most essential and unwavering aspect of his duty. It’s a word they planted in his brain several times every day of his training. Singularity. You must know in an instant all of your subject’s distinguishing features. What sets your him or her apart from any other him or her. Their singularity.

The bodyguard doesn’t want to panic. He knows he can find his someone again among all these fun-seekers. It’s an amusement park. There’s the Tilt-O-whirl. There’s the cotton candy. There’s the funhouse with all its mirrors, which keep changing your shape and singularity. He knows his person is probably in there. They have to be. He’s searched everywhere else. Their safety must be in danger. He’s their shadow. They’re lost without him. They may not know this, but he does. He can see their terrible need. Can smell it. It’s like the popcorn stuck on the bottom of his shoes. They can’t get away from the safety he will bring them. Not really. Not even in there amid the noise and bright, penetrating distractions where the fun lives. Even in that castle, his person’s singularity must be protected and upheld. He may not wish to or enjoy it, but it is his duty to step in among the fun and maintain the status quo. He may dread the idea even more than his mother hates cigars, he may want to chew glass to avoid thinking about becoming part of this fun—but that is of no consequence. His someone is unattended inside there and his station in life requires him to bear up, cross the threshold, and meet what awaits inside those squiggling radish-red rubber walls.

As he steps toward the doors, he touches his dark glasses to make sure they are secure and taps his wire, hoping to receive some last minute word that will absolve him of this horror. None comes. The clown-mouth of fun is open wide, waiting to consume him.

The Bodyguard ("Traffic" story #78)

TRAFFIC
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother thinks it can’t be coincidence. To begin with, she doesn’t believe in such things—especially not when it comes to something like a car. THAT car in particular.

One thing is certain beyond all else, you can’t take anything lightly when traffic is involved. With traffic there’s no distance. And no control. Not with all the other idiotic drivers sipping whiskey, crunching fluorescent chips in their smelly mouths, and watching portable TVs. It’s why she so often thinks ahead and brings Jesus down off her kitchen wall to accompany her on her journies. She always makes sure to gently kiss his forehead before stuffing him and his nice big cross into the glove compartment. She wants to be sure He's happy. With The Holy Redeemer on board, she figures she has at least a bit of a fighting chance to get where she’s going.

Which, today, is a place she’s already pretty afraid to go.

She smiles into the rearview mirror. But it’s not real. She’s just checking her lips. She wonders if her fear is visible. She can’t tell. But she’s glad the lipstick is so razor-perfect. This morning she spent half an hour on each lip. Not enough for just her to be satisfied. Not today. Not when she’s going where she’s going—and meeting who she’s meeting.

Right after kissing Jesus and right before she stowed Him in her car’s glove compartment, she’d spun a cocoon of tinfoil around Him. Two silver layers of the stuff. She needed to. She wanted to keep Him safe from seeing what is ahead. Safety is important. So is control. She needs as much control as she can get. It’s possible (very possible) the man from the market might get carried away again with his cigar and this time it will not happen in her own hygienic home. This time it will happen there, in whatever ramshackled room the ex-secret-policeman hangs his coat. And, although she wants to, she knows she can’t carry Jesus in there. No. No way. Not even with The Redeemer swaddled and secure like a morsel of fine Swiss chocolate. No, she’ll be alone in there. It must be so. Sweet Jesus is wonderful, certainly, but also so much like a child. He would not understand. Ever. No, when and if her skin touches the cigar, she has to be completely and utterly alone.

Which obviously isn’t the case NOW! Not with this herd of imbeciles in their petrified cars! For her, even worse than being trapped near these disreputable lowlifes, is the fact that she’s certain she knows the vehicle two cars behind her—as well as its driver (even if she hasn’t ever actually met him). In fact, their relationship is why she’s so sure the scoundrel’s car being back there is no coincidence. Before she was captured by this traffic snarl, she’d seen that car, that evil hunk of metal. Following her to her little rendezvous? Had to be. What other explanation could exist? Certainly there’s buckets of vehicles exactly like it. Still, she knows with ever fiber of her nicest silk suit who sits grinning inside that car back there. It’s her Hindu’s brother. She can already smell his horrible Safari cologne whispering in through her window.

The Bodyguard ("Blade" story #77)

BLADE
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard wipes himself down with gasoline. His head’s spinning. He’s by the docks… Maybe. Smells like it. Or did until he washed himself with the fuel. Now the place doesn’t smell like anything. Now it’s like him. Clean. Pure as the moon. He can see its perfect shape above him, that shining silver blade moving across the darkness. Can hear it pulling on the water around him. Such a pretty blue sound, like someone’s tapping on his skull with a stick. He can’t believe he was once afraid of it. Would actually hide, climbing under his mother’s porch among the forgotten rusting Yuban Coffee cans to escape it.

He puts his palm up toward the moon to feel its light course through him. But in his hand he feels something else. His fingers prickle as if touching skin. And not his own. Which is so terribly troublesome an idea that his wrist instinctively snaps back to his dark glasses and his wire to confirm their status. All is secure. All is as it should be. Then he lightly strokes his breast where his gun waits. Yes, everything’s okay. But, just to be sure, he scans his perimeter once more.

It makes no sense. He can’t see why, suddenly—after all this time—he felt this. It’s absurd. He’s safe. He’s alone. No one is here. So how could it be that he so distinctly felt the sharp scars on the face of the jack-o-lantern girl—their bald whiteness under his fingers?

The Bodyguard ("Heaven" story #75)

HEAVEN
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother is sitting on her couch looking at a cruddy old photograph album. It’s from her mother. It’s an accident that she has it out. She was looking for something else in the closet when it slid out with her postcard collection off the topmost shelf, hit her shoulder, then split in half along its binding as it met the floor. Most of the pictures are of strange people she doesn’t know anything about. They stand beside dirty brick buildings and are covered heel-to-head in soot and ash, grinning like chimps. Everything in the town seems broken and this bothers her. Terribly. She doesn’t want to look at this pile of scraps. She never has before. She doesn’t know why she is now. The ex-secret-policeman who sells her soap is supposed to be coming over and she doesn’t have any lipstick on. Stupid photos. Her dead mother isn’t in any of them. A book like this belongs in the trash, not on her lap. It smells like old eggs. But she can’t close it. Can’t stop herself from looking into the ancient faces.

She decides this must be her mother’s drowned town. Stupid place. So filthy and tired. Everyone clapped their hands as the river swelled and the cleansing waters came to take it all away. Like a bad dream. At least this is what her mother’s friend had said. So now the iron-ore mine, post office, these buildings and streets are all underwater—hundreds of feet down. And the disinfecting hydroelectric dam that did the good deed is providing everyone with light and letting vacuum cleaners roar. Good riddance, little town. The only thing built on high enough ground to survive was the prison. In the album’s last picture it’s still there, alone, shrouded in fog. Like heaven. And all around, as far as the camera can see, there’s nothing but motionless gray water. She thinks this photo must have been taken from some kind of boat. It feels that way. As if nothing solid were below the one who clicked the camera’s button.

The image leaves the bodyguard’s mother in a wistful mood. But after she closes the book and sees the dirty smudges it has left on her dress, she gets so angry she can’t get the thing into the trash fast enough. And it’s only after she has and has already slammed the cupboard door closed on it that it occurs to her it was probably her mother who took those photos. So what, she tells herself. It’s too late. Trash is trash—and the past is past. The line must be drawn somewhere. But she can’t stop looking at the closed cupboard door and thinking about the strangely beautiful way the old prison looked in the fog. Like it was floating.

The Bodyguard ("Blaspheme" story #74)

BLASPHEME
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is caught up in the task of retrieving his wire from the murky liquid. Doing so, he’s careful because he knows how easily it can be damaged when it’s not connected to him. And, although he’s hesitant to admit it, he also suspects some of the wire’s power may come from him. Certainly not as much as is so obviously the other way around. But some. Of course, he’d never ever openly admit such an outlandish idea. That would be a blaspheme from which there could be no recovery. If it were discovered he felt such a thing—all would, for him, without doubt, be over. Everything he’s worked for. In an instant. Gone! And that idea, even to consider, is too much. For him it would be as if some large steel instrument were to pluck out all his bones and leave him there. A puddle of leaky meat on the floor.

Thinking this makes his fingers begin shaking and his hands splashing so wildly in the dark muck that he can’t get hold of what he so terribly must. It makes him even more afraid and desperate to get the wire back where it belongs and always has—in his ear—which also has begun to glow red with a fierce ache from the object’s absence. As each second ticks past, he can feel the pain spreading from his ear throughout his head. Tick. Tick. Pressure is building up in there. Tick. Tick. He bites his lips trying to stop it. Tick. Tick. This ticking gets him wondering if his head might be sculpted out of one of the plastic substances his superiors showed during his indoctrination on explosives. Then, just for a moment, he believes this might be so.

The idea is odd—so odd that it stops him. He can’t believe what he let himself consider. And, in that instant, instead of fear, he’s overcome by laughter. It booms out and echoes back like he’s in a cathedral.

The Bodyguard ("Grace" story #73)

GRACE
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is against a wall. Flat as a sponge. He’s ankle-deep in black fluid and his forehead is being thumped against the bricks. Reddish wet echoes boom all around. He cannot proceed. The passage so deep beneath the city has been sealed. But there’s no going back—that way is not allowed. It’s not in the plan. The risk would undo him. He knows he’s being monitored and his actions now will determine his advancement within his organization, permitting him to rise even further in importance and responsibility. So he readjusts his dark glasses and continues the thumping until the most terrible thing happens. It’s so awful that at first he cannot believe it. His wire has slipped out of his ear.

He falls to his knees and peers into the dreary soup. He wants to hold his nose to block its smell, but instead splays out his fingers and makes circular motions with his hands, searching for his precious device. It would be easier if there were light. But then, he wonders if this all might be part of a trial. He knows too well without the wire he is nothing. Could its loss be yet a further pre-ordained test of his devotion to the group? Could it be that the wire’s plummet was not at all accidental, but something intended to happen at this particular time and place? The bodyguard smiles in certitude. He’s so eager to show his nothingness in the face of the elite force he is a part of that he lowers his head and takes some of the dark fluid into his mouth, swallowing it fast before letting himself gag, cough, feel its sting, or make the least bit of noise. To his surprise, it is at this very same moment that his fingertips are graced by the touch of the lost wire.

This series of happy events proves too much. Before he can stop it, before he even realizes it’s happening, something gets free beneath his tinted glasses, trickles down his cheek and is lost in the ooze. A tear. Terrified it’s been detected, he looks around at the bricks.

The Bodyguard ("Lips" story #72)

LIPS
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother is with her Hindu. They’re at his apartment and he’s trying to kiss her. But she won’t have it. She’s too busy worrying about his brother. She’s not one who likes to worry, but at times like this, what else can you do? He and the brother share this place and she can feel the brother here—even though he isn’t. It’s not just the Safari Cologne and Wild Tiger Hair Gel, it’s the way things are arranged. Her Hindu’s fingers did not put these plants in place on the windowsill or pick out the spices in the spice rack. She knows her Hindu. It’s why she didn’t want to come here. This was her Hindu’s idea. He said they wouldn’t stay any longer than it took to pick up the coupon. Soon they are scheduled to yet again attend the salad place which serves the cajun-style potato skins he seems compelled to eat at least twice a week. After they met up and were arranging their plan for dinner, like always, he needlessly chirped on and on about his meticulously clipped two-for-one coupon to the salad place. Only this time he was shocked to find that it wasn’t on him. He’d forgotten it. Or so he said.

She wanted to believe in this, but she knew her Hindu. She knew he’d wanted to get her inside his place for a long time. So here she is. But she isn’t happy. Certainly it’s all very beautiful and expensive—the kind of place you often saw in magazines, the kind of place you dreamed of as a child, a place blessed with more glass and chrome than you could shake a stick at. But she isn’t happy. She can’t be happy when she’s afraid. And when she’s afraid, the last thing she or anyone would want is a pair of wet, foreign lips abusing her neck.

Which is why the slap happens, why it isn’t her fault, and why she so quickly rushes away afterward without any effort to apologize, explain, or arrange a later rendez-vous over cajun-style potato skins with her hungry Hindu. In her heart she’d felt the brother’s presence, felt his wounded eyes watching them. And she knew that no matter how perfect the apartment might appear, with such a sinister man you could never put the salt and pepper shakers where you wanted. He would always return them to where he thought they belonged.

The Bodyguard ("Always" Story #71)

ALWAYS
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is deep beneath the stones of the city. Ahead is a rounded archway. He can’t see very well. He sloshes forward in some kind of thick liquid. It’s cold. It smells. And behind him there’s a squeaking. Probably a small animal with sharp teeth. But he isn’t afraid. He’s beyond that. His skin has grown close to his bones. His eyes have gotten bigger. And he can feel them swelling even more. He can see the plan now. The pattern. The vision. What he’s part of. Up there his wire finally sang and sent him here. That’s why it hardly matters that his arm is bleeding from where he slipped, lost his grip, and the rusted steel mesh got him. He has instructions at last and is doing what he’s told—moving across the city’s wet borders, circling forward toward his post. Committed. Alone. Moving fast and feeling the purity of his motion. His teeth twinkling at the idea that all those discreet nights confined in cardboard were not in vain. His star is finally on the ascent. His ribs jut and shine beneath his dark suit. As he runs forward he feels them pulse brightly against his skin. Blue as tulips. It’s so wonderful he almost wants to remove his suit coat and shirt to let the ribs light his way.

But he knows he can’t. No more than he can take off his dark glasses. His uniform is his uniform. It is so and that is that. He does not get to decide the regulations. Such things come from above. Even if it has become somewhat soiled and torn in places—the uniform is what he was issued and he won’t tamper with it. It’s not what’s done. Besides, his mission has top priority. Certainly it might be nice to have a new suit.
No. He can’t allow himself to even come near such thoughts. He has been called. that is what matters. His comfort is of no concern. Not to him. Not to anyone. He must keep moving. Must shut his eyes, grit his lips, and go forward.

Like always.

The Bodyguard ("Embers" story #70)

EMBERS
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother is in her house. She’s at her kitchen table. She has the windows covered tightly with her nice, bright pink floral curtains and has made sure Jesus and His cross are snuggly wrapped in a cashmere blanket and safe inside her dresser drawer among her brassieres and panties. Better for Him to be tucked in there going totally crazy thinking about what He shouldn’t be, than to be out here. It’s the middle of the afternoon. She should be at work. She knows this. It’s what’s going through her mind as she stands and goes over to the dresser drawer to make sure it’s closed tightly enough. Nosey Jesus. Sometimes she hates Him even more than she hates cigars. Why can’t He and the neighbors just mind their own business?

Then she checks her lipstick in the mirror. Just to be sure. It’s perfect and must be because she’s afraid of the man at the market who sells her detergent. She doesn’t know what he might do if her lipstick is off even by the smallest fraction. His car will soon pull into her driveway with its old, loud motor spewing gray smoke and spitting oil everywhere. The beast. He will want to light his cigar in her bedroom, but she won’t let him. Not again. She told him so the last time, and she meant it. It’s not her fault that he laughed after she said so. He was once a communist. In Poland. A secret policeman. That also was not her fault. She couldn’t be responsible for what people did in the past. But she could be responsible about the present and about making sure he kept his greasy Russian cigars in his pocket. She had strict laws. Proper decorum in her house was one of the most important things for her. His sandpaper laugh, rude vocabulary, and brutal oil stains did not fit. So what if he put his Polish hands on her in a way the yoga instructor never could? She’s not a sausage. It can’t keep happening. She’s going to bring it to an end.

And when she is on the altar in her wedding gown, it will be. Forever. She’s told herself so a dozen times and so she knows it’s true. Thinking about this and wanting extra protection from the market man, she rushes into her closet, pulls out the lacy dress, and slips it on as quickly as possible. In the mirror she sees herself. The wedding gown is as radiant and perfect as her lipstick. She will not let the market man in. Not this time. Never again will his beat-up old car be making everything filthy and out of control. But behind her she already hears his harsh laugh rumbling, and, mirrored in the shadows, sees the dull orange embers trembling off his cigar down onto her carpet.

The Bodyguard ("Outside" Story #69)

OUTSIDE
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is walking. He’s in the city. It’s morning. The sun is a dull glob behind a tree. There are a thousand doors or more. He sees them all. He sees their colors. Some are made of wood. Some of steel. Some have fabulous, intricate designs carved into them. Some have no design. Many are very old, but not all. The newer ones are usually loud and not for him. He is looking for the right one. He was given a picture, but was not told where it was. He knows time is a factor because it always is when he is working. There is no way around this for him. It is why he must hurry. It is why he cannot enjoy any of the smells from the different doors. He has lost the picture of the door he is looking for, but cannot let this stop him. He knows it in his head like he knows how his lips look in the dark. He will find it. This is not something has any say in. The word came from the wire. His joy in this fact is almost more than he can tolerate.

He feels the doors with his fingers. Some of them at least. These doors may not be the right ones, but he cannot help himself, cannot hold himself back from their surfaces. He flattens his palms against them and a kind of music rises out, and up into his wrists. Like blood. Or fire. He wants so much to leave his hands there where the flesh of the doors is so vibrant. But he knows better. He knows he is failing when he takes this time for himself because it is time taken away from his duty. The right door is here. Somewhere. He can feel it throbbing in his brain. Like a tumor it calls to him and his feet start to race and pulse toward it. This way. That way. Over there. So many doors. His duty lurks and throbs and waits and somehow he must get his palms onto the door to which he has been assigned.

A dog barks as the bodyguard bumps into its owner. The people who are staring only get in his way. Why will they not leave him alone? He is not running into time, he is running out of it.

The Bodyguard ("FLickering" story #68)

FLICKERING
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother has her ring. Diamond, of course. Almost as big as a nickle. Might be bigger, she thinks, if she were younger. But she doesn’t complain. It’s not her way. Especially not about this. Not when she considers its source. Better to keep away from that. She doesn’t want people knowing anything about her Hindu’s brother or what he does for a living. Quite obviously, she has not invited the man to the wedding or made any effort to meet him in the flesh. But she has shown the flickering ring to Jesus. She put it up to His face so He could see it better from where He hangs by the two nails in her kitchen.

“Forever,” that’s what the advertisement said. Looking at the ring, she isn’t completely sure. Her Hindu didn’t want her to have it before the ceremony. Silly man. He did not understand. Not even after she explained several times she wanted Jesus to see it. However, in the end he’d let her take it and assured her that his brother would not be the wiser.

“Forever,” what is that? Her Hindu thinks he may come back as a bug. She lets him believe this. For now. It’s easier. She knows Jesus understands. It’s there in His eyes. And she can tell the redeemer knows a good stone when He sees it. That, too, is in His eyes. She hasn’t shown the ring to anyone else. She’s made no mention of it. Not to anyone where she works. Not to her neighbors. Not even to the man who sells her the laundry detergent which keeps everything so clean. It’s true, yes, she was briefly tempted to reveal her secret to that man.

But right before she did—as her items for purchase scooted along on the belt toward the man’s scanner—she’d felt something of the hunter flicker on his lips. Her Hindu’s lips never get wet with such danger. Which is good. Still, somehow, the flicker did something to her. She’s not sure what, but she knows she won’t go to any other checkout stand.

She doesn’t tell Jesus about the flickering man and his lips. Jesus can be such an idiot. And so nosey. It’s why she decided it was better to just flash the ring in His face and leave it at that. Jesus doesn’t need to know where the ring money came from. Nobody does.

The Bodyguard ("Trapeze" story #65)

TRAPEZE
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother and her yoga instructor are walking arm-in-arm beside the river. The setting sun lights the trees, turning them into a carnival of color and texture. Each one seems to ring with secret music. She is so happy to be here and near them—these luminous trees, these circus dancers—that for a moment she forgets herself. Her feet move lightly, tapping lightly on the stones of the path. The crimson rhythms pierce her. Her body swirls around. She can feel herself becoming lighter, becoming one of the circus trees. It’s an exquisite feeling until she notices the shirt tail hanging out of the back of her Hindu lover’s pants and her face goes flat. Why does he do this to her? The beast. Her arms are as stiff as the concrete rail. It is over. She knows that now. Despite the fact this man has the best posture she has ever seen, she cannot be with him. If he really cared about her and about what was happening inside her, it would be different. But it isn’t. He and his horribly crumpled shirt tail will have to find someone else. She walks ahead, her shoes thundering down.

He looks at her whisking away in such banging anger and is not able to understand it. He wants to stop her, wants to ask what has happened, why her shoulders have narrowed so much they are now pinching into her neck, turning it purple. But this is not his way. He focuses instead on his own breathing. Making it slow and measured. Steady. He concentrates on the radiant energies within himself, letting them flow as the river beside him flows. His love of life’s slender thread is pure. He knows this. And it’s perhaps because he is concentrating so intently on the pulsations of his pure love that he doesn’t see the small gap in the path of stones which trips him and sends him spinning and howling over the embankment, cart-wheeling down toward the river.

When the bodygaurd’s mother hears these screams and looks back to see her instructor flailing and falling into the river, she does rush to help him. But not quite right away. Before she can stop herself, a laugh comes out of her that, although it isn’t exactly nice, is somehow sweet. A little like those she laughed as a child when her father took her to see the clowns, cotton candy, and the sparkling women flying high through the air, high above everyone on the trapeze.

The Bodyguard ("Reception" -- story #64)

RECEPTION
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard has still not eaten. But this isn’t what’s bothering him. Something else is. After what happened last night, he can’t go near the restaurant again. He knows this. The thing of it is, his wire seems to work best there. And, above all else, he knows he must receive his message. Must find out what is being transmitted. The owner of the restaurant spoke of serious consequences if the bodyguard returned. The bodyguard had listened to the words. They were the words of someone trying to be fair. The bodyguard knew this. But he also knew he had no choice. Duty was duty.

From where he stands across the street, he can see inside the restaurant, into its windows where its owner is busy at a blackboard erasing the daily special. There won’t be any more cream of broccoli soup tonight. This is no big concern for the bodyguard. He doesn’t like cream of broccoli. He never has. It’s something else he wants. He touches his dark glasses thinking about it. He won’t cross his fingers anymore. The time for that is past. The city keeps changing sizes. Streets disappear. He needs something he can hold onto. Something solid. Not cream of broccoli.

He marches from the curb onto the street. When he does, the owner there in the window doesn’t see. The owner is watering a plant beside the sign which tells people to wait to be seated. But there are no people there. No one is waiting. They must already all be at their tables. Eating. Chewing. Sucking on their food. But the bodyguard cannot permit images of their meals into his mind. Such thoughts must be stopped. They must be chained to the ground. He must remember this mission is about his message. He must keep his eyes on the owner. So he stops to do so. When he does, he hears something in the distance. The people’s teeth clacking on their meals? No. Too loud. Can’t be that. And, even if it is, he can’t let himself think of it. Food is food. Duty is duty. And he is an army of one. He must remain united within himself. Invincible. He must receive his signal. Thinking this, he puts their teeth and food out of his mind and keeps creeping closer across the street, dodging between cars. But, suddenly, there, the owner—he’s in the doorway. Yelling. And the words have nothing to do with broccoli. They are the ones you say to an animal right before you shoot it.

The Bodyguard ("Glass" story #63)

GLASS
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is hungry. He’s not eaten in awhile. It might be a few days, but it could be longer. He’s also started to feel a shaking inside, which seems to be somehow connected to the hunger. He is excited by the sensation because whenever it happens the wire in his ear also crackles softly—as if a message were being transmitted. But he doesn’t want to get too excited by the possibility. He knows this isn’t appropriate. Much better to be patient. Better to maintain himself as he is. Remain on guard. He also knows well the need to discipline his thought. Keep it away from food. Overcome his desire. The subject was an important element of his training and the bodyguard listened carefully to everything that was said.

Right now, as he walks past a restaurant, he repeats to himself many of the words from his training. He did the same thing yesterday when he went past this restaurant. But today, unlike yesterday, he is so close to the restaurant’s window he can smell the food through its glass. The people eating at the table try and pretend not to see him. The people at the table have ordered some of the best items on the menu and are doing their best to enjoy the delicacies. The bodyguard looks into their faces as they chew. He can hear their teeth click. Before they were talking, not now. Now they are only eating. The bodyguard does not let himself look at their food. Or their teeth. He doesn’t want to make them nervous.

But then, within him, the trembling begins again and he can’t help himself. Against his will he makes a low whimpering-whooping noise. He does so because he’s sure he hears a message coming over his wire. In his excitement he begins to thump his forehead against the window. Again. Again. And again. Harder and harder. Each time he does, the crackle over his wire repeats and grows in strength. Becoming louder and louder. The people at the table have stopped eating. They seem unable to move or even call out to the waiter for help. The pounding against the glass continues getting more urgent until at last the waiter across the room notices. But by that time it is already too late because the glass has begun to crack.

The Bodyguard ("Bloom" story #62)

BLOOM
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is observing children at a playground. He adjusts his tinted glasses. There are no parents in the vicinity. This troubles him because the children are very young. He glances around, checking the area for suspicious types. He’s glad he’s here to keep things on the up and up.

He moves closer and the children stop playing. They grab their toys a bit tighter and do not take their eyes off him—even when a cloud drifts in front of the sun and everything loses color. The bodyguard can tell how afraid the children are because of how quiet they’ve become and how quietly they glide toward each other. The bodyguard wants to tell them not to worry. That now everything is okay; he is here. He raises his hands high into the air to show the children how safe it is. Yet, for some reason, one child near the merry-go-round lets out a terrible scream which blooms above the swingset like some exotic red flower.

The scream has such a high-pitched tone that it makes the bodyguard think the child has stepped on an old nail. And maybe the child has. But maybe not. It could be this child is testing the bodyguard’s response. Or maybe it’s some sort of trick. The bodyguard touches his dark suit near his breast pocket, checking to make sure his gun is secure. He knows it’s better to be safe than sorry. Especially in situations like this.

The Bodyguard ("Perfection, Story #61)

PERFECTION
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother is at work in the law office. She’s going through the official documentation of her future bridesmaids. Mostly it’s photographs. The bulk of them were taken not long after the bridesmaids had been allowed to go back out onto the street without bandages. It surprises her how nicely they all smile in the pictures. She’s glad they are smiling, even though it looks as if it must have hurt. She always prefers it when people are happy.

As she examines the smiles, she’s careful to touch the photographs only along their edges. She knows better than to mar them with fingerprints. Doing so could create a problem for her with her superiors, but it is also something she would not do anyway. She’s not that sort. Courtesy, cleanliness, and a razor-keen attention to etiquette are big issues for her. Etiquette is part of why her wedding needs to be as perfect as possible, and why it’s so good the women in these pictures are smiling. Plus, this way she can estimate in advance how things will look when the bridesmaids are up in front of everyone during the ceremony. Especially how it will look for the two award-winning photographers she has hired to preserve the event for eternity.

She chose the two photographers not only because of their national awards, but also because of how nicely they looked beside each other in their advertisement. When she talked to them on the phone they also seemed very polite. Almost too polite. In fact, something in their voices made her wonder if perhaps they were not homosexuals. Then she worried about this fact more and more because she wasn’t sure if they would be allowed into her church. She’d even gone so far as to phone that giraffe in black pants who calls himself her priest and asked for his input on the matter—and had been told to go back to sleep. It was two in the morning. Couldn’t it wait? NO, she’d said, it most certainly could not! This wasn’t about fishing or farming or waiting, THIS was about a wedding. Quite obviously her perfect one needed the precision and prestige of those national awards behind it; but, just as much, it needed God’s blessing. Was it completely impossible to get the Church’s approval? It couldn’t be. She wouldn’t stand for such nonsense. And why should she? There had to be a way to allow the two vile abominators and their marvelous cameras onto sacred ground.

The Bodyguard ("Angels" story #60)

ANGELS
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is going to Mexico. He doesn’t know the country’s language, but has decided not to let this ruin the arrangement. He did not get the mission information from his wire. However, he’s expecting to soon. Very soon. In the mean time he’s walking around, biting his lip, and waiting.

He can see the place in his mind—what he will be protecting—that island there in the middle of dry land with all its white faces, prayer books, blonde hair, and men with many wives. He can almost hear them singing. The chosen ones. Always busy. Always working. Just like him. He doesn’t know much about Mormonism, but he imagines this is just what they are looking for. At least from him. Detachment. He will be a tool for them. Their guardian. He will not be part of their colony of shimmering buildings any more than he will be part of the country itself. It’ll be perfect. He might even need his gun.

He touches the gun in the pocket of his suit and traces his finger along its ridge. Caressing it. He thinks about its birth in some little town near Jerusalem and the happy man there who built it so beautifully. For it to have lines so clean and pure that man must have been a believer in God. It would be nice to meet such a man. But not while on duty. If the bodyguard were on duty and in Mexico, he might be forced to use the beautiful gun against its maker. He would not want to, but the choice would not be his to make. The gun’s maker would be the one responsible. If the maker didn’t want death, he would never walk up unannounced like that while a hundred sweet voices broke the sky with songs of angels and the pleasures of redemption.

The Bodyguard ("Comfort" story #37)

COMFORT
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother is out in the park on a walk. She’s with her Hindu. She likes being seen with him. It seems everyone knows he is of a different belief system. She likes this. She wants someone to stop them and say something. She wants to be able to stand up for him. She knows his belief system is only temporary, but still, for now, she wants to protect it. Later, after they’ve been united by the church and the law, she will undo their differences. She hasn’t told him this yet, and doesn’t plan to. The saving of his soul is going to be a wonderful surprise—a secret, belated wedding gift. For now, when she is with him in public, it is as if she is at the circus with a beautifully feathered bird on her shoulder, but she knows the thrill cannot last. She knows it just as she knows she must get him another pair of shoes. A pair more proper.

She likes it that her beloved can do such things as he does when they are alone and he contorts for her, but these are not things her neighbors can appreciate. Nor Jesus. That is why, when the Hindu is at her house, she takes Jesus off the wall and puts Him in a drawer. She would like to put her neighbors in the drawer as well, but instead, she simply draws the shades. She knows Jesus doesn’t mind being in the drawer because she has a red towel in there to make it more comfortable for Him and the nails He hangs from.

Likewise, she knows that once the circus is over and proper shoes have been purchased, Jesus can go back up and stay on the wall where He belongs. But not yet. For now it must be this way. And she’s happy Jesus doesn’t scream in that drawer. She doesn’t like it when that kind of thing happens. She never has.

The Bodyguard ("Secrets" -- story #30)

SECRETS
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother has a set of antique Christmas ornaments carefully swaddled in blue tissue paper in her attic. Because she can’t sleep, she’s up there now going through her prized ornaments. Touching them. One by one. It’s nowhere near the Christmas season, that has nothing to do with why she is up there. In fact, lately, even during the holiday itself, it’s gotten so she doesn’t bring down but a few of the decorations. She can’t. They are too valuable.

She is sure if she sold them, she would never have to see any of the torn girls in the law office again. She thinks it might be especially nice if she didn’t have to listen to that jack-o-lantern girl—but the bodyguard’s mother knows she can’t do that (not until after the wedding, anyway). And there’s no way she could really sell the ornaments. To do so would be a crime in itself. Letting them go, letting who knows what kind of giraffe in black pants approach them, fondle them, tell them what to do and when? No, she cannot possibly let that happen. As long as she is alive, they will be free and safe in the boxes in her attic.

The shepherds and wise men roam around in a black cardboard one that once contained Russian vodka. But not the Holy Family. It and its attendant farm animals are in a better box—a wooden one that journied all the way from China for the task. The bodyguard’s mother likes to touch this special box and trace her finger over the strange Asian lettering on its sides. She doesn’t know what the box is trying to say to her and doesn’t really want to. She likes it that it has secrets. In fact it makes her feel better that the box protecting Baby Jesus can’t speak. In a way it’s perfect. In a way it’s as if someone has cut out its tongue. So now, instead of jabbering on about its pitiful past to whoever comes along, it can do only what is necessary.

The Bodyguard ("Blood" -- story #28)

BLOOD
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother is in bed. There’s no sound. But she thinks there should be. A drip or something. A faucet. That would help. She doesn’t like it this quiet, so she reaches over and twists the radio on to one of her talkshow stations. They’re talking about detergents. Detergents. For ten minutes this is what they discuss. What is wrong with them? She can’t believe people sometimes. Detergents—of all things! And at this hour of the night? She almost wants to call up and tell them how stupid they are. But she can’t. No way. She doesn’t do that kind of thing. And if she did, it would trouble her for days—her losing her cool with the whole world watching on the radio, and over something as silly as soap…

Cleaning techniques for blood stains is what the next caller is calling about. She isn’t sure if it’s a man or a woman, but the voice is urgent and coming all the way from Florida. Using ice water is suggested by the next caller. Or salt. The bodyguard’s mother can’t believe this. Salt? On blood? Have they lost their stupid minds? She flicks on the lamp and picks up the phone. But then she catches herself and puts it back down. Somewhere out there some poor fool is trying to clean blood with salt. She wishes people weren’t so dumb. She wishes they could all be more like Jesus. If Jesus called a talkshow program, she knows he’d talk about something sensible. Not bloodstains. Not salt. And certainly not in the middle of the night. Oh hell, yes. Jesus? She figures if Jesus wanted to He could write a book about stains. He has to know a lot about them. She knows it because whenever she sees Him in pictures His clothes are always whiter than anybody else’s—which happens to be one reason she respects Him so much.

It’s also why she’s certain if He were to call a talkshow, it wouldn’t be to talk about detergents for ten minutes. She knows it because she happens to be pretty good with laundry herself—and, although she knows such talent is a sign of virtue, she keeps the knowledge private. Like Jesus would.

The Bodyguard ("Simple" -- story #26)

SIMPLE
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother thinks it will be nice for the girls with torn faces to be able to come to her bridal shower. She’s even said so to her husband-to-be. But she picked a bad time because she said it during yoga class when she was supposed to be doing the breath-of-fire to cleanse one of her chakras. She can’t remember which chakra the technique was supposed to be healing because while her Hindu love god was instructing the class about the matter she was busy looking at his lips and how they kept sensuously touching his teeth, stretching across the sharp, hard, white blades he used for eating.

Two of the torn girls who will be playing games at her bridal shower don’t have any lips. Not really. Instead they have waddings of skin that were taken from their ankles and placed where once they had lips. The process was supposed to make them have bigger, richer, more beautiful lips, but somehow it didn’t work out as intended. The bodyguard’s mother helped with the paperwork on that case, and so knows their doctor had successfully performed the procedure on hamsters prior to trying it on the two girls.

She looks again at her yoga man, at his lips and at his teeth as he talks more about the chakras in the bodies of her class. She is glad he smiled just a little bit ago when she told him about the torn girl and the bridal shower. She could tell by the lines in his forehead it disturbed him to be interrupted like that in front of everyone, but she knew from what his lips did that everything was okay. It was clear who was in control. It isn’t important that she can’t bend her body as much as everyone else because she can bend the teacher. Once she even showed him her secret blue gun, put it in his mouth, and told him to suck. She was glad he did not make a fuss. She hates it when people make a fuss. And that’s what she doesn’t want with her bridal shower—nothing fussy. Just a simple and traditional affair that won’t embarrass her in front of Jesus, but still something loose enough so the torn girls will be able to have fun.

The Bodyguard ("Communion" -- story #25)

COMMUNION
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard, before anything else, knows himself to be one thing: A man of honor. The people who hired him didn’t tell him what the word honor might mean apart from his employment with their firm, but they repeated it often and with special inflection while they were inducting him and the other recruits into service. They used other words as well, words like vision, duty, brotherhood, heroism, loyalty, and patriotism. They made the recruits put their hands on their hearts and make a vow when the wire was first inserted into their ear. It was with the wire that he truly became one with them. It was then that he first heard them from within. The wire is sacred because of this. If he is to be the man of honor and vision they repeatedly said he could be, he knows the pathway to such status could only be reached by means of the wire. That is why he rarely removes it and feels so terribly afraid whenever he does.

The whole time he’s in the shower his eyes never waver from that wire. He can soap, shampoo, and even clean between his toes without looking away from it and its promise. The horrifying vulnerability he feels at such times is not something he can put into words, or would even want to. In fact, he’d much rather have the wire in his ear and a loaded gun in his face than be alone. Death would be candy compared to being without vision, honor, duty, and the other special words that were bestowed on him. He knows the words have power even a bullet between his eyes can’t remove.

As a man of honor, he does not question what the wire asks. He has become one with it. He has become both its altar and its sacrifice. He has entered into its communion.

The Bodyguard ("Recognition" -- story #23)

RECOGNITION
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is leaving the supermarket. His hands are caked with cookie crumbs. Many more are inside him. He is thinking about them. He stands in the supermarket’s doorway waiting for it to open up and release him to the outside world. No one said anything to him the whole time he was in the store and now he is ready to leave, only the door does not seem to see him enough to open itself and let him through. He waves his hand up in front of its sensor. Nothing happens. The bodyguard begins to worry about this. He needs to go out. Why won’t the door recognize him? He looks up at its sensor with a threatening expression and talks aggressively into the wire in his ear. He tells the wire he needs a team to come in and take the door out of the equation. Then he glowers at the door. And waits. But still, nothing happens.

He continues to wait until a pimpled kid in a blue apron with the store’s logo on it comes up behind him and coughs. The kid nervously stares at the bodyguard, then points down to the floor where a handmade sign has fallen. It says “out of order” and advises its readers to use the other exit. The kid picks up this sign and presses its tape against the electronic glass door with the heel of his fist. Then, because the bodyguard still hasn’t moved, the kid looks over at him again and smiles an even more desperate smile and points twice to the door at the other side of the store. But the bodyguard still doesn’t move or make any kind of smile in reaction to that of the kid. So the kid’s shoulders pinch together and his eyes get huge as he lowers his head, looks at the ground, and walks quickly with a wide soundless stride toward the jumbo sacks of dogfood by the manager’s small glassed-in room.

The bodyguard watches him go. He can feel the oatmeal crumbs tingling on the tips of his fingers. There is something erotic about it. It reminds him of being in his church’s doorway as a child. After dipping his fingers in the cistern full of holy water and wanting to lick them clean, but knowing very well what would happen if he did.

The Bodyguard ("Zoo" -- #20)

ZOO
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother is upset again with her priest. She doesn’t like it that he thinks he can tell her how to behave and the proper procedure for a wedding. She even puts her fingers in her ears sometimes when he is talking to her. She thinks he must have glandular problems because his neck is so long. In fact, if she were to compare him to any creature in the animal kingdom it would have to be a giraffe. God’s giraffe, that’s what she tells herself he is. She thinks with his twitching ears where he belongs is behind bars at the zoo, not up in front of everybody telling them what Jesus did and did not think was okay to do in a church.

It’s not like it’s her fault she’s divorced, that her first husband was insane, and that he actually had the nerve to threaten her to either get rid of her little blue gun or he would leave her. Now, obviously, she’s not the kind of person prone to violence, but this was too much and was said right smack dab in the middle of a hotdog casserole dinner she’d made especially for him from the back of Better Homes & Gardens. Here it was, a man, again, trying to tell her what was right and wrong in her house? Of course she slapped the husband. And hard. You bet she did. And then sent him packing off to Wenatchee, or Houston, or wherever the dickens he came from. She loved that little gun like it was part of her own body—and if some stupid man thought he could get between her and it, well, there you go. Goodbye.

She just wishes she could somehow say “goodbye” to this giraffe in black pants who thinks he’s got a radio from Jesus jammed up his rear end broadcasting the daily tips and how-to’s of God’s wisdom on weddings. So what if she had her son out of wed-lock and now is going to marry a Hindu? She knows Jesus doesn’t mind. She’s talked to Him about it several times already while she was brushing her teeth. She even thought she’d seen him smile a little once, like maybe the nails in his palms were tickling.

The Bodyguard ("Caught" -- #18)

CAUGHT
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is getting a haircut. It troubles him because he doesn’t feel it’s appropriate to have an apron covering up his suit. He tries to tell this to the woman cutting his hair, but she won’t listen. She gently pushes him back into the chair and clips the plastic apron around him anyway. It’s for your own good she tells him. Besides, it’s the only way I can cut anyone’s hair. The bodyguard considers this.

When the woman touches his hair and says it’s good hair, he softens some. But then he catches himself, sits back bolt upright, sucks in air, and holds it. It is important to remain alert. He scans the mirrors and doorway. Good. They are alone. The woman tells him if he won’t keep still, she won’t be able to do his hair very well. As she says this, she takes his head and gently rotates it back to the center so he is staring into his own reflection. His lips have no expression whatsoever. Stiff as concrete. He is happy with their discipline, but gives no display of his satisfaction. He knows his place in the world. He knows how he should look.

This is when the woman does what she should not—when she tries to remove his sunglasses. His hand is quite a bit faster than she expects. It locks onto her wrist. Hard. And remains there. It’s a dark and glistening, primitive moment.

When at last he releases her, she makes no further effort to touch his glasses. She keeps herself busy and tries to disguise her nervousness by enumerating her son’s sports achievements. The bodyguard knows she is talking to him, but he can only hear the snip of her shears as she slices off small pieces of him. And anyway, the bodyguard does not like sports. As a child he could never do them very well. He had trouble. He was never enough there to make his body do what was needed. Plus, he was always worried people were watching him. Now he is the one doing the watching. Now he is the one in the mirror who cannot be seen.

A small smile forms on his lips at the thought of this.

The Bodyguard ("Mission" -- #13)

MISSION
by Michael Kroetch

The necessities of life are food, warmth, shelter, and clothing. The bodyguard knows this. It’s why he’s here. He doesn’t look at those around him. They have a different story than he does and he does not want to be a part of their stories. He also doesn’t want to sit beside them, but he’s hungry. He can smell the soup. He can see the cots in the next room. Unlike outside, it’s warm in here.

The line shuffles forward. Flies buzz on the clothes of the man directly ahead of him. The bodyguard wants to swat them away, but sees a thing that looks like a stab mark on the back of the man’s neck. He doesn’t want the man to think he’s up to something. He doesn’t want anyone here to think this. He has seen them looking at his suit and at the wire going into his ear. He knows he troubles them. Even with his dark glasses on, he can see it in their eyes.

He touches his rib, the broken one where the man at the Christmas pageant hit him with a chair after somebody else had wrestled his gun away. It had surprised him then how loudly the frightened baby Jesus had screamed and how high pitched the tone of the scream became. The bodyguard had thought it might cause the windows to crack. But it didn’t.

The windows in here are all cracked, yet somehow it’s still warm. As the bodyguard sits on the bench with his styrofoam bowl of barley soup, he looks at one of the cracks in the windows. It is such a thin space for air to travel through to get from the inside to the outside. He will be out there again soon. He knows this. He can already feel the wind stripping away his skin. But he won’t scream like baby Jesus did. He has been trained to wait in silence for his mission.

The Bodyguard ("History" -- #12)

HISTORY
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is at a Christmas pageant. The chair he’s in is far too small. It’s a child’s desk and he can feel his legs turning into pickles from being pinched up into it so tightly. But the bodyguard makes no noise. He doesn’t want to disturb the children’s performance. He doesn’t know any of them. Or any of the parents so busy preserving the sacred event for the future with their cameras. No, he’s here alone. And now his gun has started to cause a terrible pain in his groin region—but he doesn’t feel it would be right to pull it out in front of the Baby Jesus. He has a sense of priorities. He knows as well as the Wise Men not to create a scene. He was a child once himself and was instructed on how to behave properly. For the good of the group, you must keep yourself silent. Ignore pain.

He leans forward to listen to the children. They are so cute in their costumes as they struggle through their lines amid the flashing cameras. They have no idea that each flash could be a bullet. But the bodyguard does. He knows it from his training. He knows how fast an event as enjoyable as this can suddenly be transformed forever into something too dark to remember.

He turns his head. All around him the parents are smiling, aiming cameras, and clicking down their fingers again and again... This is when something inside him snaps: When he leaps into history. Leaps up with the tiny desk still attached to his pickled legs. Leaps in front of everyone—waves his arms and whips out his gun to protect the scene of the birth.

The Bodyguard ("Necessary" -- #11)

NECESSARY
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is with the nurse. He’s walking her home. She isn’t going to see him again. She hasn’t said so, but he knows it’s true. Her clothes are muddy on the backside from the radishes. He wants to brush her off, clean her, but can’t do it. He can’t allow himself to get too close. Safety is important and she won’t see him again. They will be strangers after this—like he is with his clients, those he serves. After this, if he sees her at all, it will only be from such an officially sanctioned perspective. But more likely, he will not. She will vanish from his world as if tonight never happened. As if it had only been something trapped and growing in his head. Like a tumor. That’s why he can’t bring himself to let her go. He does not want her to become a tumor. He likes her with the smell of radishes on her clothing. He likes how it makes him feel inside. What he feels now has nothing to do with cigarette commercials. It has more to do with the special silence he used to hear in church, when he still went, when he would be sitting in the pew right after the loud thump from when the kneeler in front of him had clanked down. That was a silence you could swim in and get clean all the