Holding onto credibility in the current environment of cynical doubt and disbelief has never been harder but I’m not afraid to say it again: I’m a Holocaust Surviving Drug Dealer in LA. My first memory of life was trying to escape Nazi Germany in the 30’s. As we were a family of acrobats, my parents hit upon the idea of rolling across the border in the shape of a four person human swastika. It took us months to perfect the routine. Sadly, it was to be our last performance together. When we were told to halt by the young Nazi officer, I lost my hold over the ball of fists that we’d made at the center of our swastika and our contraption of human forms collapsed to the road. I escaped into the bushes where I watched my parents and older brother get taken away. From there I was raised by wolves who taught me how to kill rabbits and forage through garbage cans for sustenance. We ran wild across Europe and then one day I was shot by a near-sighted hunter who, assuming I was a dead wolf, hung me up on the wall of his study. Those were the happiest days of my miserable life but, years later, when everyone fled the house in anticipation of the Soviet troops’ brutal arrival I knew that my haven wasn’t safe anymore. I escaped Eastern Europe and through a harrowing series of twists and turns I ended up, decades later, in LA where I ran drugs for the Bloods. 
  It’s too long a story to tell in such a short space but I though that you deserved the truth. As for all the other people that I’ve claimed to be over the past two months, well those are all people inside of me. I feel that there’s a computer programming geeka neurologist, a George W Bush and deaf and blind Bodyguard inside all of us. I’ve been trying to let these voices inside of me speak.
  Here’s a story that no one will doubt. 
  It’s fictional.


Funeral Number 135 


  The blond woman with the flowing dress stepped off the bus but her silk scarf was picked up by a gust of wind and thrown back inside. The driver who had looked particularly pooped that morning couldn’t have noticed the tiny swatch of pink sticking out between the closed doors at the back of the bus and he sped off to get through the green traffic light.
   One week later, I attended her funeral at a church down the street where I noticed a couple of other regulars from the 135 express. One of them was folding and refolding his morning paper the way he always did and a couple of others were listening to the tiny buzzing of their ipods. I fought off the urge to reach into my backpack and get out the tests I had to mark. The front of the church was draped in long pink scarves.
   After a while, a blond man walked up to the podium. He held the sides and introduced himself as the blond woman’s brother. I’m embarrassed to say I don’t remember any names from the day. Another regular from the 135, seated right next to me, was talking on her phone at the beginning of the ceremony and that was kind of distracting. The blond woman’s brother spoke of his sister’s love of pickled cheese. I think that’s something he said. Again, it was hard to hear. I wanted to tell the woman next to me to be quiet but her phone call sounded urgent. I think she’d called 9-1-1. Something about a woman in a pink scarf. Thank God she left right after the brother finished speaking
   Later in the ceremony, the driver himself appeared to give a talk about how the blond woman was such a beautiful sight in the morning. He waxed poetic on the subject of her hair and cloths but every couple of minutes he’d stop, step down from the front and have a coffee and cigarette. Everyone waited and there was nothing but the occasional sobbing from various parts of the large church but at that point I noticed that the 135 regulars were slowly leaving in the order that they got off the bus every morning. The blond woman smelled of perfume, the driver said. It reminded him of his youth.
   After all was said and done, I struck up conversation with the blond woman’s sister. The whole family was blond and fair and to see them together, you’d think they were a snow-bank in Alaska. The sister spoke in little chirps.
   “How do you know her ?” she asked.
    “As inspiration,” I said, mustering the small truth that I heard in my heart.
   Her sister smiled.

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