Jim took a dinner break for himself and Bernice. Munching on his overcooked steak and underboiled potatoes, he grew increasing angry and bewildered by his father's actions. How could anyone do such a thing? Especially to someone he seemed to love. Jim recognized that this might not be a healthy interest. It was a moth-to-a-flame macabre fascination with an action so repugnant and reprehensible that it began to consume him. How could anyone of the same species as he commit such an atrocity? He began searching for some aspect of this villainous man that he could point to and say: "There! That is what makes him completely different from me."

The only place to look was back at the pond.

"Hi, I'm back," he announced after thrusting his hand into the water. "I'd like to discuss my father."

"Your father?" asked a stunned Pinky. "What brought about this change of heart?"

"I don't know. Something Rose said. Called him a `patriot'. These days a lot of people wrap themselves around the flag and scream for lower taxes. Seems these `patriots' will give their lives but not their money for their country."

"Faltakaga!" Pinky guffawed. A "faltaka" was a nihilist. It's passive form, "faltakaga", was a cynic. The active voice, "faltakakoi", referred to a sceptic. Grandpa used to say: "A cynic is a militant nihilist. A sceptic is a curious cynic."

"I'm sure that's not the kind of patriot Rose meant, though," Jim continued, ignoring Pinky's assessment. "And he didn't seem like a fanatic."

"No," Pinky agreed. "If he were, that would explain why he couldn't just ignore her. What was that expression your mother used to use? `To a zealot intolerance is a virtue'? Yeah, that's it. But your father was no zealot. Maybe his bosses--"

"But even if he had been ordered to do what he did, how could he bring himself to do it?"

"Perhaps some things are too simple to understand," Pinky expostulated. "He had given her his word."

"But how could he keep it? I mean, why didn't he just tell her to run away?"

"I guess they both knew that she'd be tracked down eventually. And she wouldn't be able to do the things she had to do. Couldn't sing in public. Couldn't do anything. Besides, your family has done enough running away."

"Pardon?"

"Maybe we should talk about this later, when you understand a few things," Pinky said obliquely.

"Alright," Jim conceded reluctantly.

"Jim, do you remember when you were five and you went out in your Halloween costume one day early? And when people asked you what you were doing on their doorstep on October 30th, you told them you were practising?"

"No," Jim replied, grinning at the image that formed in his mind. That picture, was it imagination or the rebirth of a memory?

"That is," he added cautiously, "I don't think I remember."

"And the time your mother took you to the mall and you wandered off and spent your birthday money on a little red wagon. When your mother found you and asked what you were doing pulling that wagon, you said `I bought myself a surprise'! Do you remember that?"

"I-I don't know," Jim blathered, amazed that a picture of him doing so could come so easily to his mind.

"This is serious," he thought to himself, "I'm not even sure what I remember anymore!"

"No, no," Pinky calmed him, "don't worry about it. The memory might be gone, but the impact remains. You're still the same kid, surprising yourself. And others. Do you recall when your grandfather took you to the zoo?"

"Yeah, yeah, I was about nine then. I even remember what he said about them. He said: `Zoos are a place where even nature is artificial.' So?"

"Do you recall what you said when you got home and your grandfather asked you what you liked about the zoo?"

"No, not really."

"You told him that the thing you liked most about visiting the zoo was the freedom to go home afterwards."

"I said that?" Jim asked incredulously.

"You did."

"Well, I'll be damned!"

"And that was the acorn."

"What? I'm sorry, you lost me."

"That was the birth of your kiyata. That was when you chose. That was when it became evident that in your heart of hearts--"

"--in every fibre of my being--" Jim interjected, anticipating the point that Pinky was making.

"--you knew you were Wintaka."

Jim smiled broadly as he felt a warm tingle run up his spine. Finally. After all of these years he understood Grandpa's parable about the acorn. By extension, he comprehended the "acorn" of humanity.

"Bentaka," he mumbled. Fear, hope, discovery, thought, then omniscience. Omnipotence. Godhood. Our future, planted like a seed in our minds, blueprinted as clearly as our DNA.

"Exactly," Pinky chimed. "You know, in 1819 King Louis XVIII of France told a group of cadets: `There is not one of you who has not in his knapsack the field marshal's baton; it is up to you to bring it out.'"

"We are all gods..." Jim muttered, quoting his grandfather.

"...becoming human," Pinky finished.

Like the E.D. Jones canvas, an arras was lowering in front of Jim. Mysteries that had haunted him all of his life were being solved one after another. Giant dominoes were falling. A Dance of the Seven Veils was playing out before him, teasing him with secrets undisclosed.

It took a few minutes for Jim to absorb all of this. The Mensaplasms waited patiently. Finally, Jim spoke again.

"What my father did was inhuman. Can you make him human for me?"

Dark shapes formed on the surface of the pond. A vagrant lay in a back alley, shivering from the cold of a winter's night. A woman, heavy with makeup and dressed in matching skin-tight pink slacks and tube top, hovered over him.

"Listen, you, I want you to do something for me," she shouted, nudging the man awake from his drunken stupor. As the image focused on the bum's face Jim could see that it was his father. John Grasley didn't work for the "recording company" anymore.

"Wha'?" John groaned. "Who...who are you."

"I'm Ajax," she replied, lowering her voice slightly. "And I want to make a deal with you."

"A deal?"

"You can sleep in my living room at night if you keep an eye out for Spider."

"Spiders?"

"No, no. Spider. He was my...agent. Big son of a bitch. If you hear him trying to sneak in you start hollerin'. Okay?"

"Sure."

Ajax helped her new human alarm up onto his feet and into her house.

The next scene showed John in the alley again, passed out with a bottle in his hand. Soft light glistened off the glass. It was early evening. Grasley the Guard Dog was off duty, with Ajax out of the house plying her trade. A blue Olds drove up. Two men jumped out, ran up to John and began rifling through his pockets.

"Does he have I.D.?" one asked.

"Got it!" responded the other as he opened up their victim's wallet.

"Good. Let's take him."

John found himself sobering up in a room with others like him. Clean shaven and dressed in new clothes, he looked much more like the John Grasley of old. Cory's lover.

"I suppose you're wondering why we brought you here," a man in a grey suit surmised. Without waiting for an answer the businessman continued. "My name is Bettman. We have hired you as an executive in our company. For tax reasons you and the others will be holding certain assets in your names. In return, we will be providing you with all the clothes, food and drink you need. Any questions?"

Scenes ensued showing John and the other foundling derelicts drinking, playing cards, watching black and white television and blindly signing document after document. These scenes ended with John taking some of the other residents aside.

"Listen, guys," holding a bottle of cheap wine as he whispered conspiratorially. "We don't need Bettman and his partners. I looked at some of those papers they made us sign. We're rich! Each of us! We've got damned near a million bucks each. In our names! Here we are, downing this rotgut, when we should be drinking single malt scotch!"

"Single malt scotch!" one listener gasped.

"I had that once," another bragged.

"All we have to do is walk out of here, phone some broker by the name of Samuelson, and we're livin' the high life!" John said.

"Alright!" cried the wino next to him. "We're with ya!"

John looked at one member of his audience who had not spoken up yet.

"What about you, Jackson? Are you with me?"

The man smiled.

"Always," was all he said.

John stood on Ajax's doorstep and pounded on the door.

"Ajax!" he hollered. "It's me, John. Let me in."

The inside door opened to reveal a middle aged woman in a plain brown housecoat. With the screen door still closed between them, she told John that Ajax wasn't there anymore.

"She's dead," barked a gruff male voice from inside the house.

"Dead?" John asked.

"They arrested some guy," the lady explained.

"Spider?"

"Yeah, I think that was his name."

The next scenario showed Jackson and John dressed in grey suits, sitting in a diner. John was writing a letter.

"Boxcar Bill went back to Bettman yesterday," Jackson said glumly. "That was the last of them. They've all gone back to the street or back to Bettman. Except you and me."

"At least we have the complex," John observed.

"Tell me something, Grasley. Why do you care about these hookers? I mean, you don't even fuck 'em."

"Just repaying an old debt," John replied vaguely. "Besides, we're all tramps at heart, aren't we?"

"Hey, the only one we owe anything to is that bastard Bettman," Jackson spat. "And if I know him, he's gonna find a way to collect!"

"Probably. That's why I put everything into the complex, except what we need to meet expenses."

"Is that another letter from the righteous Mr. Haley?" Jackson wondered.

"Yeah."

"Read it to me, will ya? I love these!"

"Okay."

John picked up the page of paper and began reading aloud.

"Dear Editor:

I am writing once again to complain about the Grasley Building. I know that half of the residents there are fine, upstanding senior citizens who consider their apartment building a retirement home. In point of fact, it is a non-profit registered charity. And a fine one at that!

But it has come to my attention that fully half of its occupants are neither elderly nor retired. They are, in fact, brazen harlots using this edifice as a brothel. Indeed, I have it on good authority that, for a donation of fifty dollars to the building's mortgage and maintenance fund, the doorman allows patrons of this cathouse access to its hedonistic pleasure providers. Most shocking of all, the ground floor even has a clinic where new clients can be screened for venereal diseases!

"I have informed the police of this outrage and, as usual, they have decided to do nothing. Our city's finest tell me that the women are not soliciting and that, since any profits go directly to the fund, they are not living off the avails of prostitution. When I challenged the people who run the building, telling them that their operation was flagrantly illegal, the chairman of the board responded--and this is a direct quote-- `Illegal? Hell, we're tax deductible!'

"I encourage everyone to speak up against this outrage and help me remove this blight from our community.

Signed, Richard M. Haley."

Jackson was giggling hysterically by the time John finished reading his letter.

"Most editors wouldn't publish it, of course," John conceded, "but Wilson's an old friend and he's in on the joke."

"I guess a little advertising never hurts," Jackson chortled.

"Tut, tut, tut," John corrected. "Advertising such services would be illegal! This is an honest expression of outrage, keenly felt by many of our city's more upstanding citizens."

"I loved that line about pleasure providers," Jackson complimented.

"Pleasure's like freedom," John argued. "It's something we demand but will never tolerate. I read that somewhere."

Bettman sat in a leather chair in front of a desk. Behind it, in a swivel chair, sat another businessman, hunkered down behind a row of four telephones. The nameplate on the edge of his desk said "Albert Samuelson". Bettman leaned forward and laid matters out for his broker.

"I don't care about Jackson. He's an idiot. Grasley's the one I want. Now, this is how things are going to go. I've talked the bank into pulling the mortgage on Grasley's complex. He might be able to arrange another mortgage. Only if he has connections, though. In any case, he's going to need a lot of cash and he's going to need it quick. That's where you come in. Have you heard of a company called Makadon?"

"I think so. Aren't they listed on the--"

"That's them. And you've heard of Steeper Industries."

"Of course," replied Samuelson. "Everyone has. But what would Steeper have to do with some two-bit outfit like Makadon?"

"Steeper Industries is going to announce that they are evaluating a new solid state television technology that Makadon is trying to market. There isn't much Makadon paper out there, so the stock is going to skyrocket. When it hits forty five you call Grasley and get him in on it. Margin the bastard to the hilt."

"I take it Steeper's not really going to use Makadon's stuff?" Samuelson guessed.

"Hell, no," Bettman chuckled. "They're just going to pick it apart, hand it back to Makadon, say it's unsuitable, and produce their own."

"Based on what they've learned from the Makadon product," Samuelson conjectured.

"Of course!" Bettman beamed. "And Makadon's stock will be so much toilet paper."

"Jesus," Samuelson exclaimed, shaking his head, "you really want to get this guy, don't you?"

"You're damned right I do!"

"Now, what about his margin? Our company will be on the hook for it. Me, I'll be out of a job."

"Don't worry about that," Bettman assured him. "I'll make good on all the losses once we're rid of that bastard. A small price to pay..."

It was a sombre Jackson that approached his unfortunate friend.

"They really fucked you, buddy," he commiserated. "Hell, Bettman and Samuelson's company have even got the cops out looking for you. Something about fraud. I don't know."

Grasley's suit was dishevelled. His tie was loose around his neck. His shirt hung outside his slacks. Caressing a bottle of bourbon in his hands, John looked up at Jackson. Alcohol, great equalizer that it was, had reduced John's level of eloquence to Jackson's.

"That's okay, that's okay," he slurred, repeating himself. "Money's never done me much good, anyway. Never helped me make good with Ajax, never--"

"You know," Jackson interrupted, "you always talk about her like she was some angel or something. Hell, Gras, I knew Ajax too. Remember? She was a--"

It was John's turn to cut in on his partner.

"Let me tell you something about angels, Jackson," John began, his voice revealing a bitterness that bordered on belligerence. Jackson kept quiet so as not to antagonize his friend. "I've known a few in my day. The damnedest thing about angels is that they're always in disguise. Always in disguise. They sneak into your life like a thief. But they're not interested in taking what you own. Nope. They take what you are. And do you know what's the worst of it? There's no defence. None. There's no defence against angels..."

At this point John looked at the bourbon in his hand and added: "...except booze."

"So what are we gonna do, bud?" Jackson worried aloud.

"You, you're gonna stay here. Take care of things. I pulled a few strings of my own today. Got a mortgage from another bank. Here's the name."

John pulled two pieces of paper from his pocket. He handed the first one to Jackson.

"Take this, too," he went on, giving Jackson the second scrap of paper. "If you're ever totally fucked, phone this number."

"And what about you?"

"Me? Don't worry, that Bettman'll never find me. Hell, I'm going where God Himself couldn't find me."

"You're going to Winnipeg?" Jackson asked incredulously.

"Shh! Mum's the fucking word, man!"

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Remember when you and me were talkin' about angels?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think angels can be, you know, men? I mean, are there boy angels and girl angels?"

"Of course there are! Why do you--"

"Oh, no reason," Jackson assured him. "Just askin'. Just askin'."

The last scene was a picture of John, sitting at the base of a tree in a city park. Cory's guitar, battered over the years, rested on his lap. Unshaven and unkempt, he procured a small yellow book of poems from his pocket. He read a few lines, stared off into nothingness for a while, and then returned the book to his ripped shirt pocket. Tucking the guitar under his arm, he tried fingerpicking a song but stumbled repeatedly. Eventually, he gave up on this attempt, fished a pick from his pocket and began strumming. John Grasley's playing wouldn't make Liona Boyd take a day job. His singing wouldn't re-route traffic from the Metropolitan Opera. Indeed, he couldn't hold a note in an envelope. But Jim got the feeling that his father's song was not intended to dazzle anyone with its beauty. It's tone and tempo were sombre, like a requiem. Jim listened carefully to the lyrics:

Java Dreams

It's the sky and not the sea that's blue
as surface light reflects
Morning Glories sprout anew
and turn towards the west
Nature makes me think of you
as nature at its best.
I loved all I knew about you
and trusted for the rest.

Chorus:

This was the season
Of blood-cold passion
Divorced from reason
Remarried to fashion.

You fly with other angels now
I feel you all around
Morning brings me Java dreams
as memories abound
Yes, coffee makes me think of you
the sight, the scent, the sound
You're the one who carried me
and brought me safe to ground.


As the view of John zoomed back, Jim could see his father resting the instrument down on the ground beside him. John leaned back against the trunk of a tree. Zooming even further back, Jim caught his last glimpse of his father. John Grasley had finished his song and was relaxing in the shade of a tall, stately oak tree.

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