------------------------------------------------------------------------
   This story is copyright 1999 by Mark Meiss.  All rights reserved.

   You are welcome to read this story online, but please do not make
   any printed or electronic copies.  If you want to share this story
   with someone else, please direct them to the URL:

	http://death.uits.indiana.edu/~mmeiss/writing/

   If you enjoyed this story, want to contribute criticism, or if you
   managed to find it someplace other than the site above, please
   e-mail me at mmeiss@indiana.edu.
------------------------------------------------------------------------

			     Possession
			    by Mark Meiss
 
As soon as I pushed open the door of the coffee shop, I knew that this
guy and his girlfriend would be another pair of those people who just
don't get it.  He, with the intolerable gray sweatshirt and the wavy
hair and the big square jaw.  She, with the too-red lips and the
nasty-nailed hands always clutching at the purse and the short black
oily hair, far too short and nothing at all like the long flowing hair
on my women.  They clearly couldn't be expected to understand, but-I
checked my watch-yes, it was my time to be in the Cup o' Cabana (my
name, thanks, much better than Lottalatte) and yes, they were most
certainly and without question sitting at my table.

I exited the icy December air of outdoors and strode into the Cabana,
quickly turning around to watch the door close so that I could make
sure that the bottom of my trench coat did not catch between the glass
door and the frame.  I knew that I could not trust the door to leave
my coat alone unless I kept an eye on it.  If my coat were caught, I
would become upset, and I understood very well the importance of not
being upset and of preventing oneself from being carried away.

Then I nonchalantly sauntered toward my table, my sandals making
delicate flopping sounds against the tiled floor.  I kept a broad
smile firmly affixed to my face so that the two of them wouldn't know
just yet how utterly perturbing it was to me that they would have the
temerity to trespass like this.  I stood slightly behind the woman and
to her right and kept smiling as she sipped some horrible latt‚ thing
and fawned over Gray Sweatshirt and told him that she was his woman.

She glanced over her shoulder and caught my eye briefly, but instead
of trying to understand what I was telling her (I'm smiling for a
reason, you oil-soaked tart), she looked away and made a dumb little
laugh and started to talk to Gray Sweatshirt again.  Then she sneaked
another peek over her shoulder and caught my eye again and I smiled
harder to emphasize my point, but she quickly looked back at the table
again.

Gray Sweatshirt saw that his woman was looking at me and started to
get jealous, so he said, "Buddy, is there something that I can help
you with?"

I smiled just as hard as I possibly could to tell him that he and
Grease Head had appropriated the table, my rightful possession; that I
had no hard feelings; that I understood that he was slow to understand
these things and that it didn't necessarily reflect badly on him; but
that it was time to go because this was, after all, my time.  Not only
did Gray Sweatshirt fail to understand, but he and Grease Head had
both begun to stare at me quite openly.

"Is there something you want?" Gray Sweatshirt asked.

Well, at least he grasped that he had something that didn't belong to
him.  "Yes," I said brightly.  I reached forward with my right hand
and the fingerless leather glove sent a squeak running up my arm as I
curled my hand into a fist.  I rapped the table, once gently, again
gently, then BANG to emphasize my point.  "My table."

Grease Head made an insidiously bitchy little face at me.  "It's not
your table," she said.  "Look, we were here-"

And then Gray Sweatshirt put his hand on his woman's arm to let her
know it was time for her to be quiet, and my respect for him grew a
level.

But then he pissed it away.  "Hey, there are plenty of tables here
that are open," he said.  "Really, you can grab any one of them.
We'll be here just a little while longer and then you can move here if
it's your favorite table."

"Not my favorite table," I said.  I punched the surface of the table,
and it rocked on its little iron post and the ceramic mugs clanked and
a little bit of the vile latte stuff spilled over the side and into
Grease Head's lap and everybody in the Cabana stopped drinking their
coffee and began to stare at this pair of idiots that couldn't
understand the simplest message.  "My table."

Grease Head had opened her mouth and I knew that she would say
something so unbearably foolish that she'd require some sort of
instruction, just like the instruction I used to give before the
interference, but Gray Sweatshirt interrupted her and said, "Ellen,
look at the time.  We'd better leave now if we want to get to the
movie before it starts."

I stood there patiently, still smiling broadly to let them both know
that I bore no hard feelings, that I was a generous man, as she
pressed those lips into a suggestive pout and grabbed the coat from
the back of the chair.  "Fine," she said, and Gray Sweatshirt led his
woman out of the Cup o' Cabana.  Everyone relaxed now that the
troublemakers were gone.

I had barely begun to situate myself in my seat when one of the
waitresses hurried from behind the counter with a notepad to take my
order.  I wanted a mug of black coffee just like I had always ordered
before, but I had made it known before that I considered it an act of
great courtesy to be asked my preference.  She smiled and tittered and
ran back behind the counter to fill my cup, and I cracked my knuckles
as I waited for her to return.  I couldn't very well start until then,
since I required that there not be any interruptions if my seeing were
to be successful today.

Once I had my coffee mug held firmly in both hands, I slouched down in
my seat and began to gaze steadily at the opposite wall.  As I sipped
and stared, the voices of the yammering bohemians gradually lessened
in intensity and faded away, and the art prints in their tacky frames
shimmered and turned gray and faded into the dull background, and
after a time I couldn't see anything but flat gray, couldn't smell
anything but my coffee, couldn't hear anything but the soft murmur of
my pulse.

Yes, it would work today.  Already I saw the form of one of my women
begin to emerge from the gray void, her outline fuzzy at first but
starting to become clear, revealing the long, flowing tresses of
golden blonde hair, the curve of her breasts, the round dimple of her
navel.  She knelt down before me and interlaced her fingers behind her
neck and softly whispered, for my ears only, "Master."

And then another of my women appeared from the haze, this one
brunette, and she too knelt and breathed the sacred word.  "Master."

And there I sat, gazing with love and benevolence upon my slaves,
feeling a twinge of pity for the women beyond the haze who in the past
had spurned my offer to watch over them, to care for them, to own
them.  It was love that had motivated me to attempt their possession,
but then there had been interference, and I had been instructed in the
importance of masking my irritation.  So now I only saw my women.  If
only I could reach them through a different wall, in a different
place, at a different time.

Until then, it was this wall, in the Cup o' Cabana, daily at four
o'clock, amen.

			*	*	*

Three weeks later, I was shuffling through the foul layer of slush on
the city's sidewalks, grimacing with displeasure as the icy mixture
sloshed between the toes of my sandled feet.  I hunched forward, my
arms rigid, my hand buried deep in the pockets of my coat, as I
hurried to the Cup o' Cabana in the expectation that on the first day
of the new year I would surely see another woman offer herself to me.

But when I reached the door of the Cabana, I happened to look up and
see that the interior was darkened.  There were no goateed art
students, no pretentious young businessmen-and so much the better, for
that meant no distraction and no empty-headed fools between me and the
special wall.  A wan smile of anticipation caressing my lips, I pulled
at the door handle and succeeded only in rattling the glass.  Suddenly
concerned, I studied the window carefully until I hit upon the sign
that read, "Closed / For Rent Call 555-7734."

I frowned.  Obviously the sign had been placed there by people who,
far beyond being merely ignorant, simply did not understand the
concept of ownership.  The failure of the business to operate was
hardly material, given the fact that inside that darkened shop was my
table, without which I could not visit my women.  I remembered the
time before I discovered the shop, the horrid habits into which I had
fallen, the unfortunate lapses in judgment and restraint that had been
misinterpreted and so brought on the interference, and I resolved that
this immature poster would not keep me from my necessary business.

And so I curled my hand into a fist and drove it through the glass on
the door.  A brash, clanging alarm immediately began to ring, which
proved to be extremely distracting as I tried to unlock the door from
the inside.  It was somewhat tedious to twist the silver bar on the
opposite side of the door lock with slippery blood coating my fingers,
but before long I could hear the glass crunch under my sandals as I
stepped inside.

I sat in my usual place and looked around, but saw little indication
that the lately departed management had the courtesy to leave behind a
heated pot of coffee or even the means to brew my own.  I frowned and
rubbed some of the sticky blood back into my knuckles as I
contemplated the difficult task of visualizing my women without
coffee, and with the infernal clanging of that alarm going on and on.

The maddening din of the alarm ceased suddenly, and I looked up, my
frown still intact, to see a man in a blue uniform step into the
Cabana.  One of them.  Interference.

"What do you think you're doing here, buddy?" he asked, taking a step
toward me and reducing the size of my personal space, an action that I
consider to be the pinnacle of incivility.

"I'm always here at this time," I said.  "And this is my table."

"Yeah, well, I'm afraid it's not going to work like that today, buddy.
Had a little too much to drink last night, did we?"

Perhaps the racket caused by the alarm had affected his hearing
somewhat; after all, my ears were still ringing a bit.  "This is my
table," I repeated, hoping that I wouldn't have to repeat myself a
third time.  Something about the way Blue Suit stared at me displeased
me, and as he took another step toward me, my hand strayed deeper into
the pocket of my coat and settled gently on the butt of my emergency
means of communication.

"Look, I've already got you for breaking and entering here.  You know
that, right?"

"This is my table."

"Oh, Jesus."  He rolled his eyes and lifted the handcuffs from his
belt.  "Okay, you have the right to remain silent-"

But the action of drawing the pistol from within my coat was one that
I had practiced a thousand times before in front of the mirrors in my
dwelling, and neither one of us had enough time to blink before I had
leveled the gun at Blue Suit's chest.

"Put your gun on the floor," I said.

"I can't do that.  You know I can't do that."  Blue Suit's face
darkened and he glanced outside at the early winter twilight.

Maybe it was true, as the teachers had once taught me, that there were
no stupid questions.  However, I knew from painful daily experience
that without a doubt there were stupid statements.  I thumbed down the
safety of the pistol, and the click spurred him into action.  He drew
his sidearm, hesitated for a moment, and then placed it on the ground.

"Go over there and sit down," I said, holding the gun motionless.

"Where?"

"Anywhere!  I've lost enough time as it is."  And already under these
nefariously suboptimal conditions, the probability of obtaining a new
woman seemed almost nil, even on New Year's Day.

Blue Suit sat down heavily a few tables away and scowled peevishly at
me.

I resented the implicit accusation and felt obliged to defend myself
by reiterating the point he had refused to acknowledge three times
already.  "It is my table."

"It's not your table."

I didn't reply.  I had lost enough time already with all of this
nonsense-(but calm yourself, calm yourself, they will misinterpret,
they will take the women away)-and certainly such a comment did not
dignify a response.  I fixated on the wall behind the sulking officer,
and to my delight, the shapes of the frames began to melt and fade
away into darkness almost immediately.

But then he spoke up again and brought the whole world crashing back
into focus.  Interference again.

"It's not your table."

"God-fucking-damn it!" I yelled, pounding the table with my wounded
hand.  Apparently, I would have to deal with this imbecile after all.
"It is my table."  I paused.  "It's mine.  I can prove it."  He sulked
and did not respond, neglecting his etiquette.  "Did you go to first
grade?" I asked.

"Yes," he muttered, glaring at me.

"So did I," I said, remembering the speech just as I had rehearsed it,
just as I had rehearsed all the speeches.  Mustn't stutter, mustn't
fail to enunciate.  "And I had a desk in first grade.  If the teacher
had given my desk to someone else, I would have been angry, right?
Why?  Because it was my desk.  I sat there every day.  Nobody else
could sit there.  It was mine."

Blue Suit stared at me as if it were the first time in his life he had
heard common sense being expressed.

"Now," I continued.  "Did I pay to be in first grade?  No.  I didn't
pay anything.  But it was still my desk anyway.

"Now look at this place here.  When I have to, I go here, and I
always, always, always sit right here.  Right here, at my table.  And
I even pay!  I pay money every time to sit at my table.  That makes
this my table, just like it was my desk back in first grade.  Even
more so."

"You're a fucking lunatic," the officer said.

I shot the wall beside his head, since he obviously wasn't paying
attention.  "Okay," I said.  "If it isn't my table, then why is this
the only place-the only place-where the women bow down to me?"

This time he didn't say anything, didn't move a muscle, and I
concluded with no small degree of satisfaction that he had finally
gotten some notion of what ownership really means.  Thankful that I
could move on to the task at hand, I began to study the opposing wall
again, but the chance to elucidate my views had so agitated me that
the picture frames stayed resolutely square and vivid.

A sudden restless feeling caused me to examine my watch, and I saw
that my daily time had not only expired but had in fact run over by
nearly a minute and a half.  Blue Suit kept his eyes riveted on me as
I stood up and gently placed my gun on the floor next to his.

"My time is up."

And there was no answer in response and no motion as he gaped at me.
It was, I reflected, just my unfortunate luck that I should happen to
get one of the less intelligent ones.

"My time is up," I repeated.  "It's not my table forever, you know."