By William T. Hathaway
Silver spoon into the powder. Chop a line on the mirror. Deep breathing through the straw. Suck it in … sock it to my septum. Dazzle me. Yes! That’s it, feel the power of the powder. Be the power! Hail, Colombia!
Not enough, never enough. Grab my smokes. Fumble, drop two of them. Flick the flame, butane blue … draw menthol green daggers deep inside. Suck the cheeks hollow getting more in. Pack it in.
But it only helps the top mouth, not the down mouth. Have to diddle the middle again. Need to pop gotta pop, get it in get it on. Thrip thrap thrub. Dildo or dork?
Dork! Want a dork, off him, pop him. Any dork’ll do … as long as he can do it … lot of ’em can’t, shrivel stubs … useless dorks.
Why do I want ’em when I hate ’em? And I always hate ’em.
OK, girl, get into gear and go get him. Which gear? That new frock. Makes the tits look bigger and the ass smaller.
Strip down. More deodorant. Slip the dress on. Presto change-o. A whole new me. But the same old hole.
Wristband tighter, Apache beads on suede, too wide but it hides the scar. A shame scars don’t tan … but razors rust. Slash and burn.
Outa here. To hell with locking it. Let ’em steal everything.
Slam the red Mazda. Slam bam thank you ma’am, I’m the man.
Why do I need one so soon? Had a dork Saturday and a dildo Sunday … now the achies again. Should’ve vibed again this morning — day goes better … don’t have the dreams. But I hate it, hate needing it, why aren’t weekends enough? Losing it again.
Just find one.
Where? Looe Key Resort — I haven’t been there in a month.
Into the traffic, floor it, No! Brake! SUV … screech. Watch your rear end, ass-hole! Creeping tourists. Mazda Mama, you’re too fast for ’em. Girl, we’re not of this world.
Lights flashing by — restaurants, bars, shops, all of it strung along US One, a long strip mall from Key West to Canada. Millions of dorks lined up along it.
Now the whole place is clogged with tourists … we should blow the bridges, keep them out.
Here we go, Ramrod Key. Pull in and park. Saunter past the guest rooms, swimming pool, boats at the dock, stroll into the bar, just a thatched roof on pillars overlooking the water.
Sit brazen on a stool and peruse the prospects. Bartender comes over.
“I’ll have a coral kiss.” Demurely.
The barkeep is bald, paunchy and probably has to stay until 2:30. He splashes rum, grenadine, sugar, cream and key lime juice into a blender, whirls it into froth and gushes it into a champagne glass.
Sip. Sweet-sour sparkles the tastebuds, vapor tingles the nose. Nice, but I can tell right now this isn’t going to cut it. Need something stronger than booze and snow. This is a job for Meth. Grope in the purse for the little white footballs. Slurp one down. Look around.
Not much going on. A tourist couple, suitcase folds still showing on their polycottons, sipping piña coladas at a side table. In a corner an obnoxious foursome getting loudly drunk. A few single guys: Two local lushes, one in a tropical print shirt unbuttoned to his furry midsection, the other in a Miami Marlins T-shirt stretched tight by his belly, both hunching over a game of liar’s dice. A tattooed guy with a droopy mustache wearing a mesh tank top, cut-off jeans and rubber flip-flops shooting me looks as he nurses his draft. Uninspiring.
But another guy farther down the bar is watching me. What kind of a guy? Doesn’t look too bad. Short dark hair, bland polo shirt like something out of a Lands’ End catalogue, boring pretending to be classic. That’s OK, sometimes a boring man is just what a girl needs.
He’s definitely interested. Eyes appraising, gliding like radar over my dress, x-raying me. Makes me shiver, want to run, want to slap his face with them, makes me want.
He’s trying to hide his stare by turning his head, giving me the lateral gams, the angle ogle. Lured, but not yet ready to eye lock.
Drop another speed … bitterest pill there is. Crank up the machine, sparkle plenty.
Give him my better left side, not that it’s all that great, but it’s what I’ve got and he seems interested. We can have a little talk.
Now he’s staring, eyes on high beam right on me and I lift mine and look into his. Contact! Penetration! He’s pushing right into me, through the green irises deep inside.
Give him a brief nod, then look away. Smile in profile, pretend I’m charmed by the lights twinkling on the water. That’s all it takes. He ambles towards me carrying his drink … and his napkin like a good little boy. He isn’t so little around the waist, though, but not a real porker, just a middle-aged chub. Moves steady, he’s not drunk. Wearing pressed chinos … definitely not a local. Probably a wife with a hot iron on the other end of those sharp creases. Shiny tasseled loafers … with socks yet. Does she shine his shoes too? Where is this guy from? Only bankers and cops wear shoes and socks down here. Everybody else prances in sandals.
“Mind if I join you?” His voice is deep but pinched by nervousness. He doesn’t do this every day.
He has one side of his mouth lifted away from his teeth in what’s supposed to be a smile, trying to look friendly and sincere, dashing, powerful, not too eager. Trying to look like everybody wants him so why not me. Then his whole mouth lifts up and his teeth slip back out of sight behind rather thick lips.
Don’t smile back. Give him a nod of assent but not of surrender. Move your knees to the side to make room for him while showing off your legs under the short little dress, kind that lets the breeze blow up.
A smiling moon face that shows good dental care. A missed whisker peeking from the dimple in his chin, how dear. Bit of cologne along with the smell of … oh, no, Scotch. Hate the damned smell of Scotch.
“Jack’s my name, Jack Ogilvie.” He slides onto the next barstool and sets his drink down. Little button nose almost lost in his face. Mid forties. Hair clipped and combed to hide the thinning; no weird tufts sprouting from his nose or ears. Stainless steel watch a bit scuffed but at least not a digital; expansion band, trying to look sporty. Hands clean and soft, no dirt under nails. No wedding ring or mark on that finger. Maybe he sends his ironing out. Maybe he just doesn’t wear a ring … so he can play around. Signet ring on his right hand, Uni something or other. Good — college man. Better than an army ring. Buy me a drink, Mr. Middle Management. Your middle looks like it could use a bit of management, though.
“I’m Terri, Terri Carter.”
“Would you like another drink, Terri?”
Smile, but not too gratefully. “Thank you.”
Jack holds up two confident fingers to the bartender, then settles in to check me out, eager spaniel brown eyes skimming over me. At least he keeps his mouth closed, no tongue lolling out. “You from around here?” he asks.
Nod. “I’m local as they come.” The bartender pours Glenfiddich rather than bar Scotch for Jack. Good sign. But all Scotch stinks the same.
“A Florida Keys girl, huh?”
“You got it. Wouldn’t be anywhere else. How about yourself?”
“St. Louis. Had to go to Miami on business, thought I’d come down and see the sights.”
“Haven’t been fishing yet, have you?”
“No” — surprised and a bit suspicious — “how could you tell?”
“No sunburn. You’re not all red and crinkled.”
Jack smiles, relieved I can’t read his mind. Oh, but I can. “Hey,” he says, “that’s pretty observant. I’m going out tomorrow for bonefish. Got a guide and everything.”
Bragging a little to show he’s not a party-boat type. He’s already caught on to the fishing status hierarchy.
“You a fisherman … uh, fisherwoman?” he asks with a confused shrug that says all this vocabulary is a bit strange but he’s no male sexist pig. Some of his best friends are women.
Nod and peer at him over the top of the glass. “Underwater … with a spear gun. I like to look ’em in the eye first.”
After a pause he chuckles. “All-right! The lady’s a hunter.”
“It’s a hunter’s bar. Look at the stuffed swordfish.” It floats above the bar like we’re all under water.
“Maybe I’ll put my bonefish up there tomorrow,” Jack says.
“Sorry” — shake the head, show off the auburn curls — “it’s all catch and release now. Those days are over.” Console him with a lift of my drink.
“Oh well. Then no dinner, either.”
“Bonefish aren’t good eating anyway … too many you-know-what. Maybe you’ll catch a grouper. Ugly but delicious.”
The bartender brings our drinks. Jack pushes a twenty toward him and says, “Here you go. Keep a couple of bills for yourself and feed the rest to the juke box. Something mellow.”
Jack looks back at me, his face almost swelling with interest, bodily fluids on the rise. Makes my chest tighten, breath narrow to a wisp. Hold on, girl. You can ride this tiger.
Jimmy Buffet’s rough gentle voice croons of sailing ships and sunsets, liquid embraces, languid passion and wistful good-byes. Jack doesn’t ask me to dance. No one dances anymore.
He leans closer, though, eyeing the décolletage. Thank you, Wonder Bra. “So what brings you to this little bar on this little island tonight?” he asks.
The burn of his gaze prickles my skin, shrivels my insides, flips my crazy motor-mouth switch. “The stars. They made me do it. Actually I think my star died a long time ago, but its light hasn’t gone out yet, so I don’t know it’s dead.
“But it’s really not stars at all, you know, it’s the planets make us do things. You can tell the difference because planets don’t twinkle, just bore into you with that laser light, a lot closer than the stars. And they’re hollow inside. That’s how people can live there.”
“OK.” Jack keeps his smile but pulls back a bit. “What planet are you from?”
“Earth.” A defiant cackle, let him think what he wants. “That’s the worst. It’s the prison of souls. Earth’s where they send the heavy-duty desperadoes, the hard cores. Everybody there’s a lifer. The lucky ones are on death row. The people on the other planets, the worst thing they can have when they do their astrology is the Earth rising in their chart. Makes them crazy.”
“You’re into astrology?” he asks, hoping to salvage the convo.
“That’s why I’m here, like I told you. I’m still answering your question, I didn’t forget, I never forget. I came here tonight because it’s a very auspicious time. There’s a grand cross in the heavens. Uranus, Mars and the nodes of the moon, all in opposition and squares. Very difficult but very powerful if you can handle the energy. Uranus is the planet of new beginnings. That’s tonight — a new beginning.”
Now Jack looks more wary than aroused.
You’re flapping in the breeze — reel it in, girl. You’ll spook him off.
Give him an embarrassed laugh and a look of sincerity. “Forgive me, Jack. I’ve been ranting. Nervous tension. Something about you … your presence … really makes an impact on me” — an apologetic smile — “and I start chattering nonsense.”
He leans back with a trace of amusement, pleased by the praise, which is of course well deserved. “That’s all right. I get carried away sometimes myself.”
Maybe he think’s I’m just kooky and eccentric. That he can probably handle.
My throat and lungs, my every capillary, crave a cigarette, the sharp draw of smoke like a sword that soothes as it slices. But that might put him off even more. If he was a smoker, he’d have probably lit up by now. Dork wouldn’t think of waiting or asking. I take a deep drink, try to focus on the sting of the alcohol and the sourness of the key lime, drawing them down to burn like nicotine. “Dance with me.”
“Sure.” He stands, takes my elbow and gallantly helps me from the barstool, confident he has me now.
The music has gone reggae, a ganga-slurred chant to a slow, pumping beat. Perfect for shaking your booty and letting it do the thinking.
I curve into Jack, brush against his arm, then his shoulder and back away with what I hope is a soft, teasing gleam in my eyes. He picks up the motion and sways towards me, takes my hand, leads me sideways, then glides his other arm around my back and rests his hand on my hip. He uses little nudges of both hands to steer me this way and that to the rhythm with more skill than I would’ve imagined. He’s not all middle management; the man can move and groove. I pick up on his signals with twists of my hips, head and hands. We merge to the music, eyes devouring each other. I let my mouth drop open in a sultry pout, raise my arms over my head and swivel at him, all the while flashing a challenge, daring him to take me. He raises each shoulder alternately while his belly and rump jiggle. He looks proud and happy, like a boy who’s just had a stroke of well-earned good luck.
Girl, look what you’ve wrought! Dork has turned into Dionysus — a stud!
I can feel his energy beaming at me, saturating me. Now stalk toward him on tiptoes, body a fluid invitation, lips a lascivious sneer, then back off in arrogant disdain.
But he won’t let me get away, encircles my waist with his arms. I writhe in captivity, trying to break his grip with my hips, graze his chest with my breasts, making his eyes widen and mouth sag.
The noisome foursome has gone silent, watching us. Even the dice players have stopped shaking their cups and are staring.
As the song ends, Jack takes me in a ballroom pose and dips me towards the floor, his leg between mine. I cling to his back, feeling his heat, smelling his deodorized sweat. The audience applauds. He tips me upright again and whispers in my ear, “Let’s quit while we’re ahead and get out of here.” I squeeze him in agreement.
Step out onto the deck and light up, suck it deep, relax into a tarry haze. I’m hooked, an addict, and he seems hooked enough on me to put up with it. He backs away a half step and says invitingly, “I’ve got a room right here. We can have a quiet drink.”
“Come to my place, Jack.” I give him a come-hither look, trying to seem mysterious and alluring shrouded in smoke. “I want to show you how the locals live.”
He hesitates. “Then we’d have to take two cars. Be simpler just to stay here.”
Holding the cigarette away, I step closer to him. “Leave your car here. I’ll bring you back.” Brush my hip against his. “Tonight or tomorrow morning … whenever you want.”
Jack teeters in indecision. I hold his gaze and say, “We’ll be more comfortable at my place.” Stroke his hand. “You don’t want to live like a tourist, do you?” Still mulling, he stares off across the Atlantic.
He needs to be led. Good, I take his hand and start off. “My car’s right down here.” He comes along, swallowing a burp.
The moon is ducking in and out of clouds, shining brief silver shimmers on the ocean. Jack slides onto the black leather seat of my convertible, ready to ride the hide. “Sporty wheels,” he says.
“Glad you like it. It’s little but it moves.”
He snaps his shoulder belt in — cautious. “Not as little as my rental.”
I rev the engine to rumble his buns and wonder if I should play a CD. No, better to talk. There’ll be time for music later. “Thanks for coming back to my place. I’m kind of a homebody.”
“That’s great. I’m tired of hotels anyway.”
“You travel a lot?”
“Yeah. The whole world starts looking the same after a while. Everything’s franchised … including the breakfasts.”
“Wait till you have my breakfast.”
“Cooked to order for you.”
“Sounds great. Even at home it’s Eggs McMuffin in the traffic, cup of coffee by the gear shift.”
“You don’t have anybody to cook for you at home?”
“You mean, am I married?”
“It’s tough. They blame me. So does she … but it was her idea.”
“Well, I don’t blame you.”
Turn onto a side street along the canals and drive past a down-market jumble of service businesses — laundromat, hair stylist, massage therapist, internet café — then houses, older ground-levels waiting to get flooded again, new ones built on stilts with parking underneath. Most of them shuttered now, snowbirds gone north. The wending canals give my nabe a river feeling. Park in front of an old cinderblock stucco. “Don’t expect anything fancy. It’s funky but fun.”
“I’m up for that.”
Lead him on a path of pea rock around to the back where the canal holds the moon’s reflection like a poaching egg. Frogs thrum in the mangroves along the shore. All the other buildings dark and quiet.
Walk around my boat slip, jet ski floating in it — my mermaid motorcycle. Cross the patio, slide open the glass door. Take his hand as we step inside. His eyes gleam with galaxies of lust.
Yes. He’s not dumb … he knows when he’s wanted. But will he know when he’s not wanted?
His arms around my waist. Bump bellies, lock lips, touch tongues, I pull away. “I don’t usually do this, you know … let a man move this fast. But there’s something about you.”
Grip … grab … grope. Up top to the tits. Like my little fatties? His breath louder. Oh, down there too, my not-so-little fanny. Bottom boy, eager for my beaver.
“Let’s get more comfortable.” I lead him to the bedroom.
“A waterbed … they’re lots of fun.”
“We can sail away.”
“And a ceiling mirror! You must be a connoisseur.”
“Watching doubles the fun.”
Things coming off. He gloms on with the mouth … seems to like them … and I get to pat baby’s bald spot while he nurses. Slurp. Pump me up … I’ll float higher and higher … till I pop.
Yes, press there, rub it, yes, legs too.
“No, Jack … not fair. You can’t make me naked and leave all your clothes on. I want to feel your body too. Here, off the shirt.”
Yep, Lands’ End.
“Oh, you’re quite a hunk … big strong arms.” Big fat gut. “I like a well-built kind of man.”
“You’re pretty well built yourself.”
“You don’t think my tits are too little?”
“Anything more than a handful is wasted.”
“Unfortunately I make up for it down below. There’s lots more than a handful down there.”
“Let me check it out.”
Yes, the fingers … slip and slide. “Oouu … you. How wet I am! That’s all your fault, you know. You did that to me. Just being around you turned me on. Now I want to see what you’ve got down there.” Zip and yank. “Oh, my goodness! There he is … what a nice looking fellow. And large. Let me give him a kiss.”
Seems to be able … and ardent. A hard man is good to find. Don’t want him to get too excited too soon, though. “Now I want this … in me,” I tell him.
“You got it.”
Thrill me, Trilby. Sock it to my tummy.
Oh no, his finger in his mouth … then in my pussy. I’ve had it with guys sticking their fingers in their mouths. They assume you’re all dried up. but I’m not. Hey, bozo, I don’t want your spit on my clit. Don’t need it. Finger licking is definitely not good. You do that again, I’ll kill you … swear to God. Scotch breath is bad enough.
There he goes … in his mouth again. Now he wipes it on his guided missile, right? Yep, you’ve had it, buddy. Warned you.
Slides it in. Mission control … we have entrance … we have penetration … we have lift off … all the way in. Ride it!
Want to kill him. Saturday’s guy put his finger in his mouth too.
Cool it, girl. He’s just a dork. You can’t kill him. Hate him, yes, kill him, no. Just gouge his back with your acrylics.
Kill him! Dorks die.
Forget it … get your ya-yas. Get down and grind, grapple it, wrestle his slider. He’s got you full.
No, there he goes! Squirting too soon already too late. Slip shod, squishy slop. Lunge, you grunge, you’re finished … your meat is dead. Your gun doesn’t work but mine does. Grab it.
Don’t shoot him! You’re flipping out!
Gotta gotta! That’s the last straw … broke this little camel’s hump. He didn’t pop me, so he gets popped. Pop goes the weasel. The dorks are ruining my life. Like kill ’em all. But I can’t — they’re already dead. All I can do is show them that. Jack, here’s your wakeup call. I’m purifying the planet.
Pistol in the bedtable … for the intruder in the dark. Grope in the drawer … not his drawers. Hard steel harder than him. Take that, Jack. Here’s one to remember me by. See it in the mirror. Touch to the temple. He opens eyes at the feel of cold metal. OK, gang …
In one side and out the other. Wings of blood out both holes … fly away to a better land.
He’s thrashing, lashing … going wild. Jerk is jerking me off. Get it … grab it. Almost … there … more.
No … fading … falling … winding down. Useless. Leave me hanging.
Now he’s still. The blood … no more spurts … pump stopped … but both sides seeping … all over me. You sopped me but didn’t pop me. Now get off me. Flop. Ugh.
No. I can’t believe it. Did I finally do it? Oh God, what’s going to happen? No, maybe it’s just another dream. I couldn’t have done that.
You killed him … in cold blood …now hot blood. And you’re shivering … shaking all over. What’s wrong with you … what got into you, do such a thing?
OK, OK, I’m crazy. You don’t have to tell me again. Dad’s right, I got it from mom. She just killed herself though. I murdered this poor dud. Now he’s dead, eyes half open, mouth drooling. And I’m crying.
That’s what happens when you kill people, girl — they die. What’d he ever do to you?
Licked the finger!
What’s that to kill somebody for?
That’s just the start. Then it gets worse. I just went proactive, protective first strike. OK, I’m a murderer … murderess in a red dress … watch out. So be it.
Calm down. Stop shaking. You need to think … need help.
I know I’m crazy. But if I know it, part of me must not be crazy.
That’s me! I’m the part that’s not crazy. But you don’t listen to me.
I’ll get help. Tune in to my guardian angel. She’ll help me. Elizabeth! Elizabeth Bathory, I invoke you. Be with me now in the hour of my need. Come to me.
Yes, I can feel your ethereal presence. Greetings and welcome. You know the blood is the life. You bathed in blood. Transylvanian maidens you slashed and drained and in their juice you splashed and played. Drenched in virgin gore, you washed all your wrinkles away.
Taste it. Now I can lick the finger. Prosit … toast to Elizabeth, copper tang … penny for your thoughts, Jack. You’re so quiet, all asprawl. Another one of those guys who fall asleep right afterwards.
Rollick in the hot juice, soak up the throb of it, smear it icky messy baby fun.
Bless me, Elizabeth, baptize me, initiate me as your blood sister. Now I’m worthy of you.
The drip drips. Press my lips to his red bubbling fountain, elixir fresh from the heart, living lipstick.
That’s brains, yick! Jack, you’re a mess. I blew your brains out. Well, not all of them … but enough.
Girl, you really lost it. I can’t believe you shot him.
Can’t believe how easy it was. Sorry, guy, you caught me on a bad day.
Oh! What if someone heard. Prison … death sentence!
But everything’s closed, neighbors up north for the summer. Thick cinderblock walls … no one here to hear a little .22 bang.
One less useless dork. What to do with him? Jack, you can go home now.
More Meth to get through this. Get him out of here, clean up, have to wash everything. Thank God for waterbeds — no bloody mattress.
The bullet … went out the other side. Must’ve hit the wall. Where? Should be about here. Yeah, a hole. Get a nail file … poke in and find it.
Here, stuck in the plaster against the cinderblock. Pry it out. Little ball of metal banged flat.
Take his cash? No, I hate a thief. Just get him out of here.
Big lawn and leaf bags. Three of them. He’s compostable but non-recyclable. That’s it, just reach down and grab his handle. One hand there, the other in his hair … hoist him up. Stretches it but it doesn’t come off. Grunt. Have to bend him over, double him up, stuff him in. Good thing he’s not a basketball player. Yuck, have to wash my hands again. Damn, broke a nail. Thirty dollars shot.
Cram all his clothes in another bag. Shoes should sink it.
Jack, I’ll bet you’re happier now than I am. Please don’t hold my little temper tantrum against me. Ready to go skinny dipping?
Cinch them shut.
Shakes and shivers again. I don’t want to be a killer, that sort of person. Why did I? He wasn’t so bad. Snuffle … blow my nose on the bloody sheet, bawling like a little kid now. Terrible. I made him pay, now I have to pay. What’ll happen? Have to plan. Tight control, lock down zombie mode. Elizabeth will guide me … one step at a time. Thank you, angel.
Have to do this exactly right, or they’ll kill me. How do they do it here? Needle. Well, that wouldn’t be so bad … an O.D. But it takes years before they give it to you … and until then I’d hate to wear those clothes.
I finally did it. Now maybe that’ll change me. I could be … what? Not happy, but at least not the way I am. Ritual sacrifice free the soul. I’ve gone the limit, dredged the bottom. Release me.
Get to work. See the job, do the job. This is a job for jet ski. Pull on my wetsuit.
Lug this big lunk. He could stand to lose a few. ‘Bout to give me a hernia.
Get the hand truck. That’s better. Flopping all over the place, but he moves.
Wheel him out across the patio. Load him on the ski, hang over the seat. Bungi cord him on … sit on him. All aboard … move it out.
Go slow, out to the channel. Flowing black water stretches out the moon’s reflection — puddle of spilled milk on a glass-top stove. Don’t cry, Jack … you’re better off. Now you can flirt with my sister in heaven. Elizabeth Bathory will give you a warm welcome … she knows more tricks than I do. Kiss her croissant for me.
Where should I drop him? Someplace with no night divers. Pye Key … the other side. Snag him up in a cove. He won’t stay there long, though. Tide’s too strong … he’ll float out … surprise! Let ’em find him … be a good lesson to ’em.
Toss the gun on the way, plop, bullet later, plip. Night heron prowling by on green wings, yellow striped face, round eye couldn’t care less. Mangrove shoots jutting their skinny spindle dicks up out of the water. Sulfur-iodine stink of rotting seaweed.
Sorry, Jack, iodine won’t help.
Here we go. Let this cat out of the bag. Blug, splog. Bob up and down … so heavy but still lighter than water. Marshmallow in hot chocolate … sour cream in borscht. You’re awfully pale, Jack … try to get some sun while you’re here.
I’m sorry, you know, I really am. It wasn’t your fault. I don’t know what got into me. I hope you’re OK … over there … if there’s a there.
Here I go crying again. That won’t help you either, though … you’ve got enough salt water. I don’t blame you if you’re pissed.
I’d even kill myself if it would help … but it wouldn’t. I threw the gun away anyway. And I promised Elizabeth I’d never slash the wrist again. That hurts! Harder than you’d think, get a razor in there.
Gotta run. Bye, love. You wanted to catch a fish, but now the fish will catch you. You’re part of the Gulf Stream.
Give it the gas … outa here. Waverunner, run me home.
Girl, this could get you into major trouble — especially if it becomes a habit. Once is enough. Don’t do it again!
William T. Hathaway’s first novel, A World of Hurt, won a Rinehart Foundation Award. His new one, Lila, the Revolutionary, is a fable for adults about an eight-year-old Indian girl who sparks a world revolution for social justice. No one ever told her she couldn’t end poverty and inequality, so she doesn’t doubt that she can Just Do It! Starting with the Nike shoe factory where she works. Chapters are posted on Amazon India at https://www.amazon.in/Lila-Revolutionary-William-T-Hathaway/dp/1897455844/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=lila+the+revolutionary&qid=1554472015&s=books&sr=1-1-spell. Hathaway was a Fulbright professor of creative writing at universities in Germany, where he currently lives. A selection of his writing is available atwww.peacewriter.org.