Some people carry a secret forever. Some carry it as long as it suits them. I carried Tony Martinez’s secret for twenty-five years before he decided to unburden me. I met Tony in the most unlikely of places. The shallow woods of Sawyer County, Wisconsin in the 1970’s were a well traveled destination. But the deep woods were obscure and not easily traversed. It was place reserved for Rangers and wildlife and even the Rangers didn’t go DEEP in. Even now, in most of the acreage, there are no roads to drive and no trails to hike. You don’t go in those woods for recreation, you go in to disappear.

I met Tony because we had one thing in common. We both wanted to disappear.

I grew up in the town of Hayward, the seat of Sawyer County. I lived with my mom and Stepdad and neither one of them paid much attention to me.

Until I found the key to my stepdads safe. I had nothing against my Stepdad, but I felt no guilt in grabbing a $100 bill and having a great time with my friends in Duluth for a weekend. It’s when I took off with the whole $10,000 that I got his attention. I didn’t think twice about taking it and he didn’t think twice about calling the cops. It probably won’t surprise you if I said I was certain I could outsmart the entire Sawyer County sheriffs department. I took off to the vast expanse of Wisconsin woodlands to wait it out. Scared and totally unprepared, I ran into Tony after my first horrible night in that wilderness. I wandered into a small clearing hidden deep in the woods. I took my backpack off and lay down in the clearing exhausted, scratched and marred from my trek through the trees and brush. As silent as the insects that crawled in soil around me, he came out of his hiding spot and stood over me. I almost pissed myself when opened my eyes to see him towering over me.

An hour of interrogation and intimidation followed. I finally convinced him that I was who I said I was and he invited me to stay in his “camp” with him.

Tony was an ex-cop. He wouldn’t tell me what department he’d worked for. I found out years later it was the New Orleans Police Dept.. It was pretty corrupt in those days and he crossed the wrong people, effectively exposing himself to both the department and the crime syndicate. He was as good as dead if he was sentenced to any prison. He was as good as dead if he stayed and the criminals found him. So he fled. He went way north, ditched his car on the streets of Chicago and hitchhiked into the northern woods of Wisconsin where he’d been for 10 years. 10 years! I’d been there overnight and I was ready to cry and crawl back home. He’d learned, out of necessity and pure will, what he’d needed to know about living out there. He kept warm without a fire. He hunted without a gun. Fashioned clothes from animals and built makeshift shelters. The only things he really missed were Hershey bars and comic books. This large, muscle bound, ex-cop, who’d lived on the edge of death for many years, missed Hershey bars and comic books!

It was pretty clear to him that I wasn’t going to make it out there, based on the look of tortured confusion on my face, the defeated slump of my shoulders and obvious fear in my every movement. He talked me into going back and turning myself in, which I did. But, he also made me promise not to tell of my encounter with him. I promised to keep this secret forever, but I also wanted to help him. He said he didn’t need my help. I asked him to let me bring him Hershey bars and comic books. He said he never wanted to see me back in those woods again. I told him I would leave them in an old firewood box on the side of county road HH on the outskirts of Hayward. It was an old milling road that no one traveled anymore. He agreed. Our arrangement was every twenty days, I would leave him the chocolate, whatever comic he liked and a letter from me telling him about what was going on in the world. He agreed.

For fifteen years I dropped candy, comics and a letter in that wooden box. It was always gone when I came with a new batch and there was always a return letter on the extra blank paper I included in the envelope. Tony wrote about his days and nights in the wilderness and what he remembered about life outside the woods. He never wrote about the specifics of his former life as a cop, only that he regretted his failure to uphold the law and his duty to protect and serve. He felt like he had served a sentence and I agreed. I’m certain it was a harder life than he, I or anyone could have imagined living out there with no comfort or human contact of any kind. Many nights I contemplated telling someone about him, but I never did. I’ve never spoken of it until I wrote this piece.

One day Tony simply decided he’d had enough. He came out of the woods, walked to the nearest town (which was a little unincorporated called Taylor) and called the sheriff. After coming and picking him up, taking him down to Madison and contacting the NOPD from there, they released him. They had no criminal record of a Tony Martinez. They didn’t even have a record of him being on the police force. He was free to go. Go he did. He move to St. Louis and worked as a die cutter for a few years. The problem was, just because the law had forgotten, didn’t mean everyone else had. The very dangerous people Tony had crossed in his former life didn’t forget and they figured out not only that he’d rejoined civilization, but where he was. Luckily, Tony knew that they knew and stayed a step ahead.

Once again, he headed north. One step ahead was however, just that, one step. They pursued him northward, determined to finally settle the score.

The cops found Tony’s car on the side of a road on Highway 61 on the edge of Superior National Forest in Ontario, Canada.

I have no clue what happened; if they caught up to him, or he simply found a spot that looked good and just walked into the woods. There’s no romantic or poetic ending to this story, no trail of Hershey bar wrappers letting me know that he made it. My instincts tell me he did, but that could be wishful thinking. I do know that it feels good to finally be able to tell this story. I have wanted to for a long time, but I felt like it would have been a betrayal to Tony. I’m only telling it now because I’m certain he won’t be back.

My face is engulfed in a giant baby wipe. Well, that’s exactly how this Urban Outfitters sheet mask feels. I shouldn’t have expected much from the two dollar bin by the register, but the idea of clear skin made me buy it, regardless.

The instructions printed on the back said to wait five to ten minutes. It’s been three, and I’m already anxious to peel off this layer and reveal a visage as clear as day.

As I blink some of this mysterious, 0.03-cent-an-ounce elixir out of my eyes, my mind fixates on the near future. I’d have clear skin; all the boys would love me. I’d have clear skin; any job I ever wanted would be mine. I’d have clear skin; never would I have to ask for favors. I’d have clear skin; I’d be a valuable contributor to society.

Four minutes and twenty six seconds. Eh, close enough. I prematurely put a stop to the impending flourish of “Intro” by The xx.

My bathroom mirror is a mere turn around away. I turn to face this reflection of truth. My heart rate intensifies as I prepare to peel away this layer.

Three, two, one...

Lo and behold, my skin is glowing. Sparkling, actually. Never have I felt more beautiful, like myself. The mask is off. This is who I was destined to be, and I can see her right in front of me.

Until my eyes start to burn. My body responds by coating my retinas with tears. My line of sight drowns in this salty brine, and I wish for the time to come when I can take a second look at this sudden beauty.

An eternity passes, and I can see again. But when I face the mirror once more, I miss when my eyes could not open.

I don’t have clear skin.

Behind this mask is who I actually am: a clueless casualty of capitalism, with sheet mask chemicals in her eyes. Gone is the glimmering goddess, for she was never there.

The face-shaped baby wipe goes intro the trash, along with botox kit boxes, crumpled-up corsets, hideous hair extensions. Try as I might, buy as I may, this body in which I am trapped will never have big lips, a skinny waste, or a long, silky mane, let alone clear skin.

Surely, I’ll have to peel off many more layers before I can become the mask.

there’s been roses

growing on my ribcage

covered in thorns.

there’s been matches

gathering in my heart

waiting to be lit.

and now you’re here.

with the patience to snip

all the thorns without ruining

the soft roses.

with the last match needed

to light the fire.

and i’m here too,

sweet and firey.

loving you.

The Nephew made his twice yearly visit to the Hungarian. He brought his family of six kids and his Tasmanian wife (who’d converted) to see the Hungarian. All four girls and two boys hated the drive up from Baltimore. The girls imitated their mother. The boys had tough football bodies. They wore tallis over their jerseys. They’d never even leave the Great Uncle’s house once they got there.

The Hungarian was beautiful. He was. The tiny man, a survivor of the Holocaust, made his fortune off nursing homes he owned throughout Brooklyn. There people chose to live in compounds to find comfort in their last days whether those last days lasted as long as internment or not. He ran them not as a kapo, betraying his own people but as a kind and caring man who felt befuddled by the problems of management, even as a young man (perhaps the result of physical and psychological trauma). The details about the people whose families could not continue to pay and so were thrown out onto the street were kept from the Hungarian. Mostly, they died thereafter. Then later his wife died.

Before that, in the Hungarian's own three-story house, it was just he and his wife. He watched from his porch people wander the streets falling into a black hole of failures. One missed payment led to another missed payment and the two problems led to another. The people tried to fight the wave but failures gained momentum. The Hungarian wanted to rescue these people and also rescue his faith. Together he and his wife decided to give the empty rooms in his building to the people who could not afford to pay.

The people who lived in his rooms felt ashamed. They barely studied the Torah as they had promised. When they saw the Hungarian they bent their heads and said good morning. Then they went back to their beds or walked around the neighborhood but east.

When his wife died, a smiling old friend who lived across the street, brought the “rabbi” (as the Hungarian was known in the neighborhood) a pot of chicken soup--every Friday. Then they ate together and smirked and said a few words about the Torah and then about the neighborhood. She would leave him the leftovers, which lasted till Monday. But she too moved. Neighbors were all moving to Monsey (and some to Florida) and/or dying and the “Rich Chinese were buying up everything,” they said. The rich Chinese were smoking a lot. They complained.

The rabbi walked around the block. He sat at home and looked at the paper. He walked upstairs. He walked downstairs. He sat on the porch. Under the bare bulb that made him glow like a prophet.

He had made his will to give the building to the people who lived there.

The nephew who had only known his uncle slightly from about 30 years earlier when he was just beginning to get old now had seven of his own children and they all lived in Baltimore. So they visited at most twice a year. The family saved the rabbi from his loneliness, they told themselves. They rolled their eyes but continued to do what they were told. “Poor man with too much and with an empty house,” the parents said, “abandoned, alone, no one to take care of him, except Mrs Schlitz who comes over every Friday and the Synagogue but over there, there’s so much fighting there and the neighborhood, it’s not so nice anymore.” They filled the house with voices. Made of the synagogue a crowd of boys. The secret table no seat empty. Plenty of children to ask questions. Adults to ask about the children. The rabbi to feign prideful indifference.

The kids asked questions at passover then exchanged glances with their mother who had caught a yiddish accent..

The rabbi was sick a few months then died. The whole neighborhood knew his wishes. The tenants knew his wishes. They watched the Nephew’s visits carefully counting them. What is penetrating the rabbi’s brain. Does he care

Is he sentimental does it matter that this pack from Baltimore who never had a connection to him but slightly now visits regularly. Is family family?

I made a cup of coffee that morning. My eyes followed the cream as it swirled around in the mug. It seemed to resist mixing with the dark liquid in which it was placed. I imagined the cream was having a crisis about becoming part of a larger beverage – my coffee – rather than continuing on as its own entity; I empathized with it. I probably stared at the coffee too long as it was cold by the time I snapped out of it. But when it was finished I poured another cup of coffee, added the cream, watched it, etc. I think I repeated this motion four times, or six, or eight. I’m not really sure, but I do know that four and a half hours passed in this haze, and by the time I remembered the funeral, I had missed it.

I decided to walk to the grave site. It was only a few blocks from my apartment, across from my local church. I figured that since I had already missed the funeral there would be no harm in stalling a little longer, and so Instead of finding the headstone, I crossed the street. A church was the perfect place to deny reality, after all. For both the obvious reason, and the fact that time seems to halt within a church. People enter and exit all day, but nothing ever really happens. People can sit, and think, and pray, and talk to their hearts content, but after they leave the church will always be the same as it was before they entered. Some may say that they are stagnant or boring, but on this particular afternoon it was nothing less than complete bliss.

No one bothered me as I entered, and no one acknowledged me as I sat in one of the center pews, which was ideal. I didn’t really pray, and I didn’t really think about anything either, but I felt this was a safe place to return to my haze. This time it seemed to welcome me even more quickly. I stared at the cross, and Jesus’ dying body as I floated somewhere between wakefulness, and unconsciousness. By the time I snapped out of it, light no longer shone through the stained glass that surrounded me, and I decided I could delay it no longer.

I walked from the church, and swiftly across the street. The cemetery was small and contained fewer than thirty headstones, and so it was no arduous task to find the newest one. Sitting more or less in the middle, made of black marble, with the dirt in front of it still churned and chocolatey, it read: Here lies Harold Story 1989-2016. I sat in front of it, letting the dirt ruin my pants, and I waited until I heard the footsteps behind me.

“Have you delayed long enough?” The voice rang out, kind but firm. “It is rare someone manages this long.”

“I just wish they could have found something to write upon it, y’know?” I said, sort of to the entity behind me, sort of to no one, and I began to weep, “Caring friend, community leader, I know they aren’t true, but my god, something. No one deserves a blank tombstone.”

“You did, Harold,” the voice replied, its kindness gone, and I sniffled, understanding that it no longer mattered. I felt a strong hand grip my collar, and drag me backwards, through the cemetery, into the darkness, and away.

you don’t look sad; you feel it.

you look blue — and i am

wiping the colour from your eyes,

until i fade from sight

and my body distorts, warping

like film, spinning

on a reel that carries bone

to white skin. that changes my voice

to an echo of a song

you thought you knew.

this language is foreign to you now.

which part is love? is it all?

so much love, so much agony

for something you

can’t even touch. what do you

feel now? i remember

growing up in adelaide.

i fell in love and it killed me.

you held my hand in a tidal pool

and looked at it

like you had so much more to say.