Upgrading Donny Desmond

The colored lights strobed a lacquery finish over the finale as Donny Desmond stepped to the microphone to hit the high C that began his trademark riff—sliding incrementally down an octave like someone stumbling down a flight of stairs, albeit with style and grace, to end the biggest hit song of the Desmond Brother’s career: One Bad Banana (Don’t Blow the Whole Bunch Girl). But tonight as Donny ratcheted up his golden pipes and sent a blast of air from his diaphragm up to the twin folds of mucous membrane stretched over his larynx, his voice cracked. Almost inaudible, but a crack just the same. To his horror, along with the high C came the tiniest bark, escaping out over the near hysterical crowd.

Donny stepped back and glanced around, hoping no one had noticed. His brothers were busy bowing and waving and scribbling their names on anatomically suggestive blow-up bananas (something Donny, too, was contractually obligated to do according to the Desmond Brothers’ product endorsement agreement with Chiquilla Bananas, but he was too shaken up to sign anything). Donny scanned the wings for David Shapiro. Sure enough, their manager was standing there in the characteristically fixed way that had earned him the nickname “Log” among the brothers. Beside him, Donny 2.0 flashed a perfect Desmond Brothers’ smile. Donny frowned, convinced that the doppelganger had heard it, the crack. He exited stage left, the sequined bell-bottoms of his retro-chic jumpsuit flapping like all sails in the wind, and sprinted to his dressing room. Fifteen minutes later, he skulked from the back door of the stadium and slid into a long black limousine.

The next day, David Shapiro called him into the Desmond Brothers’ sound studios. It was not uncommon for the manager to be re-mixing music from the previous night’s live performance, but it was odd for Shapiro to call him, Donny, in. He sat and waited until Log made it clear that he was good and ready to explain this rather strange order of business to the twelve-year-old heartthrob. Shapiro hit a button on the board and the sound of Donny’s cracked high C blared from the speakers. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” said Donny.

“That,” said Shapiro, hitting the button again. “That is the sound of tearing fabric—the fabric that holds the Desmond Brothers together.”

“That wasn’t tearing fabric. My throat was dry. That’s all it was.”

“No, that’s not it. Your voice is changing. You know it and I know it. And it’s only going to get worse. Do you know what that means?”

Donny knew what it meant, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“That means your time is up. That means upgrade.”

Donny slumped down in his seat. “But it’s too soon. I’m just starting to like being a superstar.”

“That’s the point,” said Shapiro. “In order for you to remain a superstar we have to upgrade you with Donny 2.0. You can’t be the lead singer for the Desmond Brothers once your voice has changed. People pay to hear Donny Desmond sing One Bad Banana in that clear-as-a-bell voice of his. They don’t want to hear some frog-like baritone groping for the high notes.”

“But Donny 2.0’s voice is going to change, too—sometime.”

“Yes. And when it does, he’ll be upgraded with Donny 3.0. It’s that simple. Donny Desmond will always be an eleven-year-old boy. And I don’t mean just in the hearts, minds, and memories of his fans. I mean, quite literally, Donny Desmond will always be eleven.”

“But it’s not fair. It’s not right. I’m Donny Desmond.”

“You’d like to think that were true. But you are just the product of your DNA, as is Donny 2.0, 3.0, 4.0 and so on. And it is fair. You signed the agreement.” Shapiro flipped a document into Donny’s lap. Donny read the title: WAIVER OF DNA EXCLUSIVITY. His eye dropped to the bottom of the document and to the name scribbled there. The happy-face “O” and the curly-Q “Y” could be no one else’s but his.

“Look at it this way. Don’t you want the Desmond Brothers to still be famous in fifty, a hundred, even two hundred years from now?”

“I don’t know. I guess so.”

“Well, this is the only way to ensure that your fame will go on in perpetuity.”

“But what’s going to happen to me?”

“You’ve got two options. You can go it alone—but I’ve got to warn you, it’s tough out there for used stars. You could end up an addict and a drunk. If you’re lucky, really lucky, you might talk someone in to giving you a radio show. But that’s about as good as it will ever get for you.”

“What’s the second option?”

“I can set you up as a domestic servant for a rich family in China. They pay top dollar to be served by used American stars.”

Donny pushed through the door of the practice room, only to find the Brothers—Albert, Shayne, Daryl, and Ray—practicing some choreographed dance steps with Donny 2.0. The silence was pregnant with filial regret. Finally, Donny spoke. “I just wanted to say bye. That’s all.”

“Look Donny,” It was Albert, always the direct one, always the one in charge. “We’re sorry about this. But that’s the way it has to be. We all signed the same agreement. One day we’ll all be upgraded too. That’s just show biz, little brother.”

Donny’s eyes stung. He raised one hand and let it flap up and down in a weak farewell gesture. Then turning on the heels of his purple suede zip-up ankle boots, he rushed from the room in a teary Diva’s exit. He may very well have been heartbroken had he not right then been so rankled by the smirk on Donny 2.0’s face.

*

 As far as Donny could tell, the Chen’s were a nice family who smiled a lot. Shapiro had been right about one thing—they were rich, richer than the Desmond Brothers could ever hope to be. The luxury harbor-front Hong Kong apartment alone must have cost a fortune. He still wasn’t sure exactly how Mr. Chen made his money, but from what he’d been told, the Chinese inventor had managed to solve China’s water shortage problem by programming an artificial hydrologic cycle to suck fresh water from the Great Lakes into immense clouds that would then carry the water to mainland China and rain down their precious load like so many squeezed sponges. Even after hearing this befuddling explanation from one of the other domestics, Donny still wondered how someone could get rich off water.

Donny was one of three domestic servants in the Chen household. The others were also used American stars. Lady Haha was the maid. In her former life, she had been the undisputed queen of glam-pop. That is, until she bought a house and started decorating. Rumors of ribboned knickknacks and quilted pillows began to circulate through the music industry like dirty little secrets. But things really fell apart after the paparazzi snapped photos of her wearing frilly pink slippers and a cotton nightgown à la Mary Ellen Walton buttoned to the collar. Claiming that she had lost her edge and that she no longer possessed the power to offend, her agency put her out to pasture and upgraded her with Lady Haha 2.0.

“You know what really hurt the most?” said Haha. “They accused me of being normal. Me! Normal! Insensitive Bastards!” She waved her feather duster in some imaginary record executive’s face. Donny took a step back.

“That’s better than being called old,” said the cook. Marlo Shreep had once been a famous movie actress known for her challenging roles. She bore the remnants of a cinema queen, but traces of her former royal self were cloistered in frumpish clothes, streaks of gray, and increasingly vague features. “What happened to the good old days in Hollywood when an actor was more than a warm body eternally in its prime?” She pinched basil into a languidly bubbling marinara sauce. “In those days you could age, grow, mature, fine-tune the thespian’s craft. That’s when respect trumped adoration.”

“Come on, Marlo,” said Haha. “Hollywood was the nip-and-tuck capital of the world. A Mecca of Frankensteins.”

“Well, yes, I suppose that’s true. Nip-and-tuck was a game we all played. But we all knew it was a game, one that could not be won in the long run. Well, most of us knew, anyway. Some were more defiant than others. My point is back then no one was waiting in the wings to upgrade you. That was before the Waiver of DNA Exclusivity agreement spread through Hollywood like a virus. I am old enough to remember being turned down by agency after agency because I refused to sign the agreement. In the end, I was left with no alternative.” She raised a wok and gazed at her warped reflection. Then her sad eyes turned to Donny. She stroked his shaggy brown locks. “But look at you, poor boy. It all happened before you were even born. You were doomed from the start and now all you have to look forward to is a life of servitude, which, I must warn you, is difficult after you’ve tasted the delights of superstardom.”

“Yeah, poor kid,” said Haha. “What are you? Twelve? Thirteen?”

“Twelve,” said Donny with a tell-tale squawk. “They upgraded me with Donny 2.0 when my voice started to change.”

“Such a tragedy,” said Marlo Shreep.

“That just ain’t right,” said Haha. “Upgrading a kid like that. Somebody should do something about that.” Lady Haha was working herself up to one of her formerly infamous tantrums. “We should all do something about it,” she said.

Even Marlo Shreep felt a sour twang in the pit of her stomach. “You’re right! We should do something about it.”

Just as tempers were starting to flare, Mr. Chen entered the kitchen. “Please return to your work, used American stars,” he said with a smile.

Donny’s arrival stirred something in Lady Haha and Marlo Shreep, opened old wounds. He sensed this. The two former superstars now went about their work with a marked lack of zeal. And they were testy and just plain miserable to be around. Donny, on the other hand, did not find his life of servitude unbearable but instead found it to be surprisingly satisfying. Certainly, there were none of the pressures associated with superstardom. No dance steps to learn, no press conferences or record executives. And Donny, it turned out, had proven himself to be a sensible butler and an adequate driver. Admittedly, driving in Hong Kong was a frightening experience and took every scrap of courage the pubescent twelve year old could muster, especially given the fact that he should rightly have been behind the bars of a bicycle and not behind the wheel of a car. Despite this, he had managed to avoid serious mishap, mainly because speedwise, he drove as if he were indeed behind the bars of a bicycle and not the wheel of a car.

But Donny’s spirits would not remain high for long. Everything changed on the evening of December 31, while he, Haha, and Marlo sat in the servant’s quarters watching Dick Clarke’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve. There, on an immense state-of-the-art plasma-photon super-S flat screen TV, quite literally bigger than life, Donny watched the Desmond Brothers performing live in Times Square. His jaw dropped open, and something in him snapped, as Donny 2.0 brought One Bad Banana to a dazzling conclusion with a perfectly executed high C riff—Donny’s trademark high C riff.

“Oh my, God!” said Haha. “He is good.” Marlo drove an elbow into the former queen of glam-pop’s ribs. “I mean, he’s good, but not that good.”

Donny rushed from the room.

“Donny, wait. I’m sorry, all right?”

“And they said you no longer possess the power to offend,” said Marlo, gulping down her third glass of wine.

“Shut up, Marlo! You’re sloshed again!” Lady Haha got off the sofa and went in search of Donny. She found him stuffing clothes into a suitcase.

“Hold on. You’re not doing what I think you’re doing,” said Haha. “Are you?”

“I guess that depends what you think I’m doing.”

“Well, leaving, for one thing,”

Donny carefully folded his favorite pair of purple Spiderman underwear then stuffed them into the suitcase.

“What are you going to do?”

“Go home.”

“Home? You’ve got no home now. It’s Donny 2.0’s home now. You don’t even really exist. You’re used. A sub-grade replica. You’ve been upgraded.”

“I have to do something!” said Donny, starting off strong but ending with a dull chirp. Marlo now stood in the doorway with a fresh glass of wine, having spilled most of the previous glass down the front of her blouse.

“Okay, okay,” said Lady Haha. “Let’s all do something, then!”

“What exactly do you have in mind,” said Marlo.

“Revenge,” said Haha, grinning so crookedly it looked as if she were right then having a mini-stroke.

“Revenge?” said Donny.

“Yeah, revenge,” said Lady Haha

“Fuckin’ A” said Marlo Shreep.

*

With a scarf wrapped around her head, wearing dark Jackie O sunglasses and sweating kaleidoscopic mudslides of makeup, Marlo Shreep looked just enough like her former self to get them onto the Warner lot. Marlo 3.0 was filming a World War II movie, in which she played an Icelandic lesbian Jew with cerebral palsy who leads the Liberation South arm of the French Resistance by traveling through the Vichy France countryside concealed in the back of a rickety hay wagon.

Marlo stuck her head inside the soundstage. Filming had wrapped for the day. She gave Lady Haha and Donny a silent thumbs-up. Together, they weaved through the movie crew who stood outside smoking and drinking green tea lattés and generally doing nothing constructive. The sight of Marlo with Donny and Lady Haha in tow seemed to arouse no suspicions.

They kept walking until they came upon a double wide trailer with the sign Ms. Shreep on the door. Marlo skipped up the stairs and entered without knocking. Haha and Donny followed.

“Watch the door,” Marlo said to Donny.

“What do you mean watch the door?”

“You haven’t seen much TV have you kid?” said Haha.

“No, not really. There was never time for TV.”

“When I say watch the door, I mean watch the door to see if anyone’s coming.”

“Oh,” said Donny. “But I don’t want to watch the door. I want to see what’s going on inside. I’m a part of this too.”

“Alright. But be quiet.”

They found Marlo 3.0 on the floor, passed out in a puddle of milky pink vomit. Empty wine bottles were everywhere. Marlo lifted the head of her upgraded self in a fistful of blond hair then let it drop to the floor with a wet splat. “Never could hold my liquor,” she said. Then pulling a blue chrome revolver from her purse, Marlo Shreep pressed it to the back of Marlo 3.0’s head and cocked the hammer. Donny held his breath.

“Wait,” said Haha. “Use this.” She tossed a pillow.

Marlo Shreep pushed the pillow against the head of her upgraded self. “This is for stealing my life,” she said and pulled the trigger.

They went for lunch at a franchise sandwich restaurant since a good sandwich is hard to find in Hong Kong. Marlo was uncharacteristically quiet, gnawing on her vegetarian whole wheat hoagie. Lady Haha kept going on about the way Marlo Shreep 3.0’s brains had hit the walls like meat stucco. “I can’t wait to get my hands on Lady Haha 2.0,” she said, stuffing an onion back into the side of her mouth. “I don’t know how I’m gonna do her yet. But it’s gonna be great. What about you Donny? You thought about how you’re gonna do Donny 2.0?”

Donny just shrugged and kept chewing.

“Come on, you two!” said Haha “Who died?” She snorted loudly.

Marlo set down her sandwich. “I’m not going to New York with you.”

Donny raised his head for the first time since they’d sat down.

“What? What do you mean?” said Haha. “You have to. We’re a team. This is our plan. You can’t bail out now.”

“What are you going to do?” said Donny.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go south to Mexico and find a nice beach. Live out the rest of my life in the sun.”

“What’s happened to you? You’re talking like an old lady.”

“I am an old—older lady. I just didn’t realize it until now.”

“Great! Now you’re an old lady. So, screw the plan. Screw the rest of us, right?”

“You know what, Haha? I liked you better before. And I don’t mean before you were upgraded, I mean before all this revenge stuff started. I liked you better as a plain old maid in Hong Kong.”

“Oh really? That’s how you really feel?” Haha stood, picked up her supersized diet cola, and made to toss it in Marlo’s face. Only when this rash act did not end with the dousing she’d expected did Haha realize that the plastic lid was still on the cup. She cursed and grabbed Donny by the arm. “Come on. We’re getting out of here,” she said. “We got a flight to catch.”

They took a taxi from JFK to her West 52^nd Street condo. It appeared from the ragtag parade of socialites, artists, and unabashed opportunists making their way into the building that a party was going on at her place. “Some things never change,” said Haha. She unbuttoned her jacket exposing the makeshift outfit she’d pulled from a dumpster behind Taco Bell. Nacho grande platters concealed either breast and a cinnamon twists packet managed to obscure most of her mons pubis. The scant ensemble was strung together with gold happy-birthday tinsel. Haha clutched Donny’s hand and pushed through the entrance, taking the doorman Rupert by surprise. “Lady Haha, Ma’am! But I thought you were at home already.”

“I was, Rupert. I slipped out to get my nephew. Say hello to Donny.” They brushed by the doorman before he had time to respond.

The door was open and the music of Lady Haha 2.0 drained out into the hallway. Inside, people in various stages of undress snorted this and that before flopping onto the scrum of human flesh in the middle of the room. Haha and Donny found Lady Haha 2.0 in the bedroom. Her well-publicized predilection for jocks was all-too-apparent. A professional baseball player, a professional basketball player, a semi-professional jockey, and an adequate polo player were all tied to the bed, each in a way demeaning to his chosen sport. Lady Haha 2.0 was stuffing sugar cubes into the jockey’s anus. She twirled around, only to behold a startling vision of herself standing in the doorway in a Taco-Bell-chic outfit.

“Well, well, well,” said Lady Haha 2.0. “Look who’s come home to roost. The maid gig is not working out well for you, then?”

“You bitch!” Haha picked up a Herculean strap-on dildo and charged. “I’ll kill you!”

Donny watched, horrified, as Haha pummeled her upgraded self with a sexual apparatus meant to bring pleasure (and maybe a little pain). Through it all, the athletes cringed and whimpered. Haha landed blow after blow, each with the righteous rage of her undoing, until the dildo was dripping with blood and Lady Haha 2.0 lay lifeless at her feet.

The diner teemed with nighthawks and insomniac accountants about to turn to stone in the first light of day. Haha sat down with coffee, hot chocolate, and a newspaper. Donny thanked her. “Don’t mention it,” she said. “That was quite something, don’t ya think? I mean, what a rush. Thump! Thump! Thump!”

The brutal beating was all Donny had been able to think about. For the first time, he began to wonder what he’d gotten himself into, and if he could ever get himself out. Just as he was about to voice his concerns, Haha snapped open the newspaper on the table and dropped a finger on it. “Would you look at that?”

Donny read the byline beneath her finger: Donny Desmond to Receive Honorary PhD from Princeton University. He felt his head wobble unsteadily on his neck. The bile in his gut churned into a hot magma. He skimmed the article.  . . . for overwhelming contributions to the field of music . . . for possessing more plain old pizzazz than any singer since Sinatra . . . this purple-paisley-clad Orpheus . . . this legendary man-boy . . .

He could read no further. All the anger, hatred, and resentment that he had been suppressing finally erupted, charring all that was decent and human within him. Donny could feel his eyes smolder in their sockets and his tongue blaze between scorched teeth. He could feel his heart go black in his chest.

“This is happening tonight,” said Haha. “It seems that luck is with us my little singing cherub.”

Donny insisted on driving. Believing him best not trifled with in his present mood, Haha acquiesced. But by the time they’d reached the Garden State Parkway exit, Haha was a nervous wreck. She demanded that Donny relinquish the wheel, complaining that at fifteen miles per hour it would take the whole day to get there.

Fifty minutes later, they had parked the rental car and were in search of Nassau Hall. According to Haha’s plan, they would abduct Donny 2.0 before the ceremony and take him to a secluded spot. “Which secluded spot?” said Donny.

“Goddamnit! Any secluded spot will do,” said Haha.

Meanwhile, a long black limo passed them and eased to a halt up ahead. The driver trotted around the car and opened a door. From the limo emerged a familiar figure—puffy hair, short and plumpish in a baby-fat kind of way. “There he is,” said Haha. “And he’s alone.”

Donny felt light-headed, until he realized that he was holding his breath. He exhaled loudly. Watching Donny 2.0 stroll with such carefree ease to Nassau Hall to receive an award that should’ve rightfully been his caused his anger to go from simmer to boil in the space of a nanosecond.

“It’s now or never,” said Haha. She pulled a gleaming butcher knife from her purse and handed it to him. “I came prepared. Now let’s go cut him good.”

They followed Donny 2.0, waiting for the right moment to put their plan into action. The pair gagged and blindfolded him as he rounded a corner alone then pulled him kicking and screaming into Nassau Hall. They forced Donny 2.0 up the narrow stairs into the bell tower at knife point. “What do you want?” he kept asking. “Is it money? I have money.” Donny 2.0 started to snivel. “Please don’t kill me.”

Donny delighted in this shameful show of cowardice. He relished the moment.

Lady Haha tugged hard and the blindfold came loose. Donny 2.0 shook his head and looked up, squinting at the shimmering reflection of the afternoon sun as it played on the contours of the brass bell. Then his eyes opened wide. “Donny? I don’t understand. What are you doing?”

“What does it look like he’s doing?” said Haha. “Getting even.”

Donny stepped forward and held out the knife, not with real conviction but not without intent, either. Donny 2.0 turned white. “I know you must be angry about the upgrade, but it wasn’t me. You know that, right? It was all Log. He’s the one.”

“Save your breath,” said Haha. Turning to Donny: “Do him! Cut him now!”

From outside came the squawk and fart of a brass band beginning to tune up.

Donny raised the knife high above his upgraded self. But he hesitated and made the mistake of looking his victim in the eyes. Gazing upon his own genetically produced doppelganger, Donny felt his resolve crumbling, until finally he knew he couldn’t do it. Donny 2.0 was right. He was a pawn. They were all just pawns. Killing him wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t bring back his glory days with the Desmond Brothers and it wouldn’t bring down Shapiro. If he were to kill Donny 2.0, by this time next week, Donny 3.0 would be singing One Bad Banana.

“Do it!” said Haha. “Cut him, you little shit, or I will!” Lady Haha took two steps at Donny and grabbed the knife. But Donny clung desperately to it. What followed was an awkward dance of life and death, banging off the walls of the cupola and rattling the bell’s clapper. Donny pushed and pulled and Haha jerked and tugged. In one final bid to save the life of Donny 2.0, Donny yanked with all his might. But Haha refused to be bested by a used pubescent heartthrob. She yanked back and the knife slipped from Donny’s grip. Haha plunged it into her own chest. She made a sour face. She grimaced and cursed.

“Goddamnit, Donny! Look what you’ve done. You’ve killed me . . . me . . . Lady—” She crumbled to the floor in a lifeless heap of last-year’s fashion trends.

Donny knelt over Lady Haha, trembling, dumbfounded by how badly things had gone. He eased the knife from Haha’s chest. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Not at all. And this wasn’t the way he was supposed to be feeling.

Then he heard a snicker behind him. Then a breathy refrain drifted to his ear, building and building, louder and louder. Donny dropped his head onto his chest and listened to the chorus of One Bad Banana. He gripped the knife tightly. His knuckles popped one by one. And when Donny 2.0 reached for the final high C note, instead of ringing out like a bell, it gurgled from his throat, a bloody riff down the front of his ruffled white shirt.

*

Donny Desmond pushed a cigarette between his lips and lit it. He sucked hard then blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. The steel door of the cell rattled open and a hulking guard with a seriously cleft Habsburg jaw stood in the doorway.

“Another visitor for you, Desmond,” said the guard. “That’s two this week already. First the old broad and now this guy. Aren’t you the popular one.”

“Yeah, lucky me,” said Donny. He tossed the cigarette into the toilet. “And the old broad has a name.”

“Whatever.” The guard stood to one side, letting Donny pass before slamming the door. “She looked familiar. Didn’t she used to be famous or on TV or something?”

Donny took a moment to consider how best to answer this question. It turned out that Marlo never did make it to Mexico. She was living like a hick somewhere in the hills of Vermont, hiding out from the law. “Her? Famous? You’re joking, right?”

Donny was expecting his lawyer, so he was surprised when he strolled into the visiting room and saw Albert slouched behind the Plexiglas. He hadn’t set eyes on any of his brothers since the day he was upgraded. That was almost ten years ago. Albert smiled. Not the same dazzling Desmond smile it had once been, but a smile just the same. Albert picked up the phone. “Hey little brother,” he said.

“Hey,” said Donny.

“You look good.”

Donny suddenly found himself ill at ease under his shaved oily head and behind the tidy black soul patch beneath his lip. He folded his arms awkwardly in an attempt to cover a graffiti of prison tattoos.

“Thanks.”

“How are things?” said Albert.

“As good as can be expected.” Donny squirmed in his seat. “I saw the Desmond Brothers on Good Morning America the other day. Back together, I guess.”

“Yeah, well, it looked like it might really be the end of the Desmond Brothers after you ran over the Log. But I was recently upgraded, so I took the reins. So far, this managing stuff seems to be working out well.”

Donny still dreamed about the hit-and-run. Every night after lights out, he got out of juvie, drove across two states, and ran his old manager down—killed him like a dog in the street. And every morning Donny woke with a smile on his face.

“It’s been a tough road for you, Donny,” said Albert. “With all the lawyers and trials. The juvenile detention and now this—jail. I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m sorry.”

There was a time when Donny may have got weepy, hearing this from his eldest brother, the one he had admired most. But that time was long gone, buried in the unhallowed ground of his past. Buried deep like the two dead bodies he’d put there. “I’m doing okay. I got something going on in here.”

“Going on? You mean musically?”

“Yeah, musically.” Donny motioned to a platinum-blond beefcake leaning against the back wall. Enema-Z was a hiphopper who was upgraded after he developed a speech impediment from a split lip that had occurred in a nightclub brawl with gangsta Whoop-dee-doo over the proper syllabic stress of muthafucka, the former arguing for MUthafucka and the latter arguing for muthafuckA. “We’ve been working on some tunes together. Seems we got a good vibe going on. Maybe we’ll do the jailhouse circuit. Who knows?”

“That’s terrific, Donny.”

A silence rolled in like a dense bank fog between them, obscuring everything—erasing faces, names, dates, places. Until the two brothers who sat opposite each other realized they didn’t know one another at all. They were total strangers. Donny wondered if maybe they always had been.

“Visiting time is over,” said the guard. “All inmates return to their cells.”

—-

Gary Anderson is a full-time test developer and editor, living and working in New Jersey. His poetry and fiction have appeared in a number of magazines, including Fiddlehead, Antigonish Review, Prairie Fire, Event, Umbrella Factory, and CV2. His first novel, Animal Magnet, was published in July 2011 by Emmerson Street Press in Thunder Bay. His second novel, Best of All Possible Worlds, will be published by WordsworthGreenwich Press in May 2012.