It’s hard to believe that the Big Bang happened in less than a heartbeat, but grief and its aftermath seem to last for an eternity. Some believe there is no eternity. What is vastly finite bends. Grief will stay with you as long as it takes for you to hold its hand and move forward along the bend in the road.

Imani Cosmos may have chosen acting as her 

profession, but her only success as an actor was in playing a character with a sad secret.

♥ ♠ ♦ ♣

Fresh from her sorrows, Imani took the red–eye from New York to LA, hoping she and Geoff might start again, that things might be different.

“Damn, bae, LA’s hot.”

Geoff didn’t bother to look at Imani, his eyes were fixed on airport traffic. “Did you get more ghetto 

in Connecticut?”

Throwing her suitcase onto the back seat of Geoff’s rental car, Imani jumped into the front. “What?” 

She momentarily struggled with her seat belt. 

It was tight and unyielding.

“Not current.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

It was fire season in LA but not in Hollywood. 

Hollywood is Valhalla. Despite other people’s tragic losses, Hollywood gods continue to cavort while expanding their brands. Geoff’s ego got a top–up directing an upcoming film of the bestselling book about an astronaut, JOHN K—I’m on a Road Trip to Mars. 

That’s right, Geoff had landed the rights to a book that was already a cult classic. “What are you wearing?”

“I bought this at Mango. It’s kinda tropical, 

kinda Hollywood?”

“LA’s a desert.”

There is something to be said for the dogged 

tendency to stay the same. Consistency has a value in the unspoken ambition of habit, and let’s face it, Geoff believed in saving up his charm for when it was needed. 

“You’re saying I’ve got the wrong outfit for 

the biome?”

“It’s a lot of Hawaii, babe.”

He called her babe.

♥ ♠ ♦ ♣

“It’s called Ylang Ylang. It brings harmony.” 

Imani’s producer friend Cami idly expounded on essential oils. She and Imani were strolling the aisles of a hugely upscale LA health food store, the kind of place where LA hipsters go on dates.

“Girl, you’re Ylang Ylang in the head if you pay that much for a tiny bottle of smelly oil.”

“Imani, you’re so witty.”

In the land of discord, drive–by shootings, 

the sunny side of myopia, road rage, gross displays of wealth, casting couches, and boob jobs, how could a little oil bring harmony?

“Can I get in? You’re taking forever.” 

Impatience runs rampant in big cities, with big 

people, armed with big privilege. The woman 

standing behind Imani wore impatience like a designer outfit made in a sweatshop, “Look, are you going to actually buy something? You’ve been here for like fifteen minutes.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, sorry, I forgot your Black life matters.”

“You should be careful what you say.”

“Exactly. White people can’t say anything anymore. You can be as rude as you want, and I can’t say 

anything about it cuz that would make me a racist.”

“Your truth, not mine.” Without missing a beat, Imani began to remove each bottle of smelly oil from the shelf.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“I’m getting out of your way.”

“You can’t take all of those!”

“I couldn’t make up my mind, dear me.”

“Bitch.”

As Imani pushed her cart out of the fight and into the checkout line, Cami could no longer hold back, “Well, that was an expensive argument.”

“Argument?”

“Imani, sometimes you need to back off.”

“Where did your parents get the name Chamomile? It’s not very Korean.”

“And how would you know?”

“No offense, it’s unique.”

“Uh, microaggression or just flat–out hostile?”

“You’re missing my point?”

“Look, my actual name is Camilla because Western names count in America. You know, you should be careful, people have guns.”

“Really?”

“Sometimes I struggle with your sarcasm, Ani.”

“Why don’t you toss care to the wind and cast a black woman in your movie?”

“You slay me, girlfriend. C’mon, let’s hug it out. By the way where did you get that rubber snake choker? It’s like the inverse of chic. You know, 

I also love that you constantly wear the same uniform that has like four different variations. It’s so whimsically anti–consumer.”

“Are you wearing a scrunchie?”

Imani and Cami parted unfriendly ways in a 

frying pan parking lot. Things cooled off once Imani stepped onto the sidewalk along Fairfax and faced a fresh breeze barreling down the avenue. It was a gentle slap of clarity.

She decided to walk to Geoff’s rental house in the Hollywood Hills, shake off the residue from her encounter with a peanut gallery human getting in the way of letting Imani simply be Imani.

On the way up to the canyon, Imani bequeathed a homeless woman her misbegotten plunder, you know, the expensive oils, well, all except for vanilla and Ylang Ylang.

“Thank you?”

It was unusually cool, the kind of cool that lays bare all the ambient sounds you rarely hear over LA’s pervasive traffic. As she walked up from Sunset Boulevard, Imani was amazed by the number of birds, moreover, crows. She had loved crows ever since she was a kid. Crows were her tribe, her audience, her friends. As she conjured and pantomimed defiant heroes or bold explorers in the woods surrounding her house, the crows would caw and cackle all the while.

Something had changed in Imani. She might have been in the bloom of womanhood with everything in front of her, but she obsessed over what was behind. Like a person in their dotage, she focused on the dim minutiae of her childhood. Imani felt she had lost her future because some part of her had lost her past. But that was Imani’s secret, something very private.

A black cat emerged from a blur of bushes. 

It followed Imani all the way to Geoff’s house. It wore a collar with the name Shadow on a shiny tag. Imani paused in a memory. The only cat her father ever liked was a black cat named Shadow. 

Shadow chose Yiannis, Imani’s father. Yiannis liked to read into the wee hours, and while he read, Shadow was his purring companion. It was as if, according to Yiannis, Shadow shared in the literary fantasies of every novel he read.

“Careful, Shadow, there are coyote everywhere.”

Shadow walked right up onto Geoff’s front porch and looked up at something just behind Imani. 

Following Shadow’s lead, Imani turned to look. 

“A monarch butterfly!” It flew over Imani and alit on her shoulder while Shadow rubbed against her calves, purring—bliss and repose accompanied by a mild breeze urging the leaves of the large beech tree in Geoff’s front yard to chatter.

“You are powerful.”

“Eee!” Hurling his dim command from inside 

the house, Geoff certainly had a gift for making an offstage entrance and scaring the natives, 

“I’ve located the fulcrum!”

“Fulcrum?”

“Eee!”

When Imani opened her eyes, Shadow and the 

monarch had disappeared.

As she turned to go in, Imani heard a scratching on the porch railing. “A crow!” It had a bottle cap in its mouth, which it promptly dropped. Crows often befriend people, routinely leaving them gifts—shiny things. The crow waited until Imani picked up the bottle cap and then, flew off with a guttural gurgle. On the inside of the bottle cap, someone had drawn a question mark in magic marker. Imani pocketed the bottle cap. She wanted to believe it was a gift, that it was special, that Imani was special.

“Eee!” When Geoff reverted to calling Imani, 

Eee, he meant business. “I’ve been such an idiot! 

It’s been right in front of me! Oh, hurry up, 

you daft cow.”

According to Geoff, cow is an affectionate term 

in the U.K.

Imani opened the porch door and walked into the 1930’s Hollywood ranch–style perversion of a New England home. Lore had it, the house had a rich 

history in its short lifetime. No telling what drama 

or hilarity it saw.

Imani was in no hurry. 

She ambled down the hallway, enjoying the sound of her Doc Martens on the wooden floor. 

She traced her hand across the smooth white wall as she approached the blue glow emanating 

from Geoff’s office. She liked everything about the house except…

“There you are. Eee, I’m a genius!”

“Debatable.”

Despite all the Hollywood heavy–hitters eager to secure the film rights to the biggest bestseller since Jules Verne, Geoff got the JOHN K gig. Geoff would soon be associated with the legendary JOHN K 

as the director and co–producer of a feature film that would no doubt rise to equal cult stature, if only 

by association.

How did Geoff manage to beat out all the 

Hollywood moguls? His ambition was relentless, 

and since both author and publisher were 

anonymous, finding any representative for the book 

JOHN K wasn’t easy. There was only one name attributed to the book, A. R. Eyes, and she died in a tragic car accident, or so they say. A. R. Eyes claimed to have found the book while on an archeological dig in Chaco Canyon, New Mexico.

The other port–of–call for JOHN K was a weirdly esoteric website divided into a series of pages highlighting significant quotes from the book against a backdrop of binary code. 

At the bottom of each page was a link to a pay point featuring a revolving solar system in sync with users’ time zones and precise geographical positions. 

Once there, you’d have to wait until 11:13 pm to click on the image of the Earth and freely pay for the eBook, 

JOHN K—I’m on a Road Trip to Mars.

A few weeks after Imani arrived in LA, a pop song hit the charts, furthering the JOHN K mystery. 

K–pop + JOHN K = BOOM.

Girl, you gotta see what I see. 

Girl, yeah, you gotta know about me,

My me.

The lyrics to the song My Me detailed a 

legendary conversation with John K Mercury, or so 

the band said.

Ain’t no place

In the sky

Ain’t been to.

All I know

Is that I

Love you.

Let me float

In code, blue…

While on tour in Kansas, the band stayed with a rich, eccentric octogenarian who had an old Ham radio. One evening, the band members started playing around on the radio. After about an hour of noise, a man’s voice emerged over the radio waves, asking, “This is John K Mercury, to whom am I speaking?”

The rest is the stuff of legends.

My Me became an anthem, perpetuating the 

mystique of a book that wrapped its readers in 

emotional prose written by an anonymous author who, in a celebrity–driven consumerist culture, 

didn’t care about fame. 

“Say what?”

“Binary code! I’ve been staring at all that code 

for weeks getting vertigo!”

“Are you saying you’ve found a JOHN K contact?”

“You got it, girlfriend!”

“Geoff, please tell me you didn’t just call 

me girlfriend.

“Now, let me take you on a magic carpet ride. 

See, binary code converts to words, so all of these numbers in the background of the JOHN K 

Website convert to the phrase— If you knew how lucky you are, you would be more god than mortal, classic JOHN K quote.”

“And?”

“It’s a hashtag which takes you to a Spitter account.” 

“How disappointing.”

“Wait. Click on it.”

“You’ve got your hand on the mouse, can’t you 

click on it?”

“Come on, it’s fun!”

Imani dutifully clicked on the hashtag. 

“Okay, this is different.”

“What’s the name of the account?”

“Float in Code Blue?”

“My god, sometimes, Imani. That’s the lyric in the song My Me.”

“Wow.”

“I know, right? However, it’s a private account. 

It doesn’t allow followers.”

“I thought getting followers was the point.”

“What I mean to say is, you have to put in a request to follow.”

“Don’t tell me, you’ve sussed out the secret 

password for whomever you’re trying to reach to 

recognize you?”

“How did you know?”

“My god, Geoff, this is like a bad movie.”

“Bad movies make money.”

The private Float in Code Blue account was nothing like your ordinary Spitter page. It had a wallpaper that was animated, transporting the viewer into outer space, but it was almost like a live video because the imagery didn’t seem to repeat itself. It was also a place for JOHN K fans, who managed to find their way into the secret clubhouse, to chew the fat. 

These were people so into the book that they invested heaps of time unearthing hidden truths in John K Mercury’s words. The message threads were endless. People would trope on alternate 

realities about everything from fast food to 

politicians. It could sometimes get heated because JOHN K spoke to everyone, you know, all the passionate, paranoid, and screwed up 

Minority World tribes?

“Okay, multiply his initials, dude.”

“I’m not seeing it.”

“Don’t you get it?”

“Yeah, I get the number 1430.”

“Exactly. Angel 1430 brings tidings of a 

better world order.”

They also called themselves disciples, oh, not Geoff. Geoff was a cult, disciple, and creative messiah unto himself. He certainly wasn’t part of the JOHN K 

fandom, but he played along with a purpose.

He began by adding his two–bits on the chat threads. Once he got a few likes, he playfully 

challenged fans to write a mock film pitch for 

JOHN K, how they might envision the JOHN K story. Loads of fans responded in the chat. Most of the descriptions were about three sentences within the word limit. Geoff recorded his expansive film pitch and provided a link. It was his little podcast.

GEOFF

We start with an astronaut floating in the inner sanctum of a spaceship somewhere in dark space. He is our John K Mercury. We live with him as he moves through his routines, everyday tasks in a small vessel. We may be in outer space, but it’s just another day in forever. Why? Because John K Mercury is forever. He isn’t interested in outer space; he’s interested in inner space.

While Mercury does his daily chores, he muses and speaks aloud. His words morph into pictures—moving images through shadow–play, mutoscope visuals, painting, blurred collages.

And then somewhere mid–series, we see John K Mercury’s reality differently. This time, the camera pulls away, revealing a paper mache spaceship hanging in a massive airplane hangar surrounded by projected imagery of his memories.

But get this, as we move toward the denouement of John K Mercury’s story, we realize he isn’t in a spaceship at all. 

John K Mercury is just a guy in a suit who has barricaded himself in a random gas station’s public bathroom in the middle of the desert.

He sits on the lidded toilet above which we see the famous last lines from the book JOHN K crudely engraved in the bathroom wall.

Just as we embrace the reality before us, we hear the sound of sirens. 

The camera pulls away, breaking through the bathroom ceiling, 

up into the sky, as fire trucks gather in the desolate parking lot of the gas station. 

Doors open, and firefighters, 

armed with a hundred strategies to breach the gas station bathroom, are ejected onto the parking lot tarmac. There they stand, in the inertia of bewilderment, while the tumbleweed tumbles and the wind sings a lament.

We hover over the scene, momentarily circling like raptors, until a giddy jet stream finds us and transports us higher in the sky, into the stratosphere, up into outer 

space with its dense presence and sound.

We cut away to a man’s face 

in an astronaut’s round helmet framed 

by the red, round planet Mars 

behind him.

Pushing in closer to the man’s face, his eyes catch ours but only for a moment. He turns his head away. He’s looking at something much 

more important.

In a reverse shot, we see what 

John K Mercury sees—the blue/green Earth for which John K Mercury sadly reaches.

But we’re not done.

Cut away to behind a man sitting in the dark of his office in front of a bright computer screen, trying to write.

The phone rings, the man answers.

JOHN K

I’m stuck.

FORTHRIGHT

What do you see, John?

JOHN K

A sign? It reads…

“Geoff, that’s both genius and mildly 

ridiculous. Do you mean we’re all characters 

in a screenwriter’s head?”

“Why not?”

A month later, Geoff received a private text from an attorney who claimed to represent the 

JOHN K estate. Geoff was on a meteoric journey toward 

fame and fortune.

Imani hadn’t looked at JOHN K since she discovered the book on her mother’s bed table, 

but opportunity was possibly knocking for an 

ambivalent actor.

Imani grabbed Geoff’s copy of JOHN K and eagerly thumbed through its pages with the imprecision of a cat pawing at a toilet roll. “Oh, come on, no women?” In Imani’s mind, the book should have a minor 

character motivating the plot, a harbinger who is an early victim of an attack by a slimy alien or random spore, a character whose sacrifice is the first plot point in a sci–fi flick, a perfect fit. “Aha!”

“You’re not a name, Imani. Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, Mercury is a man.”

“Can you be sure?”

“His name is John.”

“Okay, I’ll play Forthright.”

“Forthright?”

“My god, Geoff, have you read the book?”

“Most of it.”

“You have gone so Hollywood.”

“Judging from that sentence construction, so have you.”

“Geoff, do you love me?”

“Yeah, but you might want to lose some weight… for auditions, that is.”

“You know, I stupidly thought I wanted to get back with you. All I’ve done is be your girlfriend at parties, and the only reason you tolerate me is that you think that people, oh, let’s face it, you think women will find you more interesting for being with a Black woman.”

“You’re not that Black, and you’re a prude.”

“Which part of me is a prude, my Black side, or my White side?”

Geoff’s cell phone interrupted. Perfect timing.

“Is that you, Kara? Brilliant audition. Kara, hold a moment… “

“Point well–taken, Geoffrey.”

“Eee, I’d like my book back.”

She put everything in her pipe and smoked it, but it didn’t get her high. A Westside friend told her to chant for something, and the Universe would deliver. She couldn’t stop wishing Geoff would drop dead.

At one point, she would have stayed. Geoff made her laugh, and she forgot her sorrows, but Geoff 

was toxic.

Are you judging? We all secretly thrive on toxic things—toxic food, toxic relationships, toxic vices, toxic jobs, toxic politicians, toxic thoughts.

Could she self–help? Publicly seek advice for her problems on Whatfora? Confess, publish, and play Buddha on Tedium? Ask for help from a WhoTube shrink? Imani had only one answer, “Tear it down.”

She took her Hawaiian outfit, Geoff’s copy of JOHN K, and herself on a short flight to anywhere to wallow in her losses.

As Imani walked out Geoff’s front door, there was her crow friend waiting for her. Sure enough, the crow dropped another gift—a bright, shiny penny. “Thank you, dear friend!”

♥ ♠ ♦ ♣

Nearly a week had passed. Imani’s new life rotated around sleeping and reading. Strange that after months of pandemic isolation, Imani willingly returned to it at the world–famous Caesars Palace in Las Vegas, Nevada.

The hotel room TV was on. A panel of academics discussed a movie called The Mahabharata, which was about to broadcast. In a drowsy blur, Imani smiled at the irony of a movie about eternal order airing on Caesars Palace television.

“Dharma isn’t a law. It is a set of questions evolving out of ancient times. Who are we? Why are we here? I won’t explain karma. It is too difficult for people to see it for what it isn’t. Instead, I’ll speak to how we can learn from karma, to understand the value of right action, not just for ourselves 

but for all things. It is part of the process for self–realization for only that will bring us closer to God.”

As the movie began, Imani drifted off to horns. 

They heralded a dream. She was back in high school. As she walked through the polished school hallway, she saw her old friend Tessa. Tessa had everything going for her until she collided with cruel fate in a horrible accident that left her paralyzed from the neck down. She was only sixteen. 

She later died from complications, but in Imani’s dream, Tessa was alive, young, happy, and walking. She saw Imani, ran over, gave her a big hug, and whispered in her ear, “Imani, life ‘s not a crapshoot,” just as the nagging alarm clock dragged Imani from her sleep. 

She needed that alarm clock. It reminded her 

she was alive.

♥ ♠ ♦ ♣

Armed with her new friend JOHN K, Imani 

wandered the casino counting every moment until she could get back in bed. She found herself on 

the yellow brick road at Caesars, the Appian Way— 

a consumerist’s happy place or nightmare. 

As she passed designer store after designer store, she caught a glimpse of a left–turn recess off the main floor that she’d never seen. Walking in, she 

discovered a stairway lined in plush red carpet. 

The stairs lead down to another floor. As she took her first step, a song emanated and whirled as if played on a glass armonica. The music accompanied Imani’s endless descent. 

When she finally reached the bottom, 

Imani was delighted to find a short hallway leading to a room above which flashed 

ARCADE, THE NEW GAMBLING EXPERIENCE. 

She paused at the entrance, marveling at the room’s interior. The games stood like sentinels spread evenly across a deep space with a triangulated vanishing point suggesting 

eternity. It was an Arcade with a presence more akin to an art gallery than a sweaty play space for 

fidgety adolescents. Even its version of Whac–A–Mole 

elevated the game’s humble stature to stupendous.

“Care for a drink? As long as you play, you drink for free.”

The cocktail server had a name tag pinned to her uniform: Aaron E. from Last Chance, Colorado.

“Hmm, I’d like a Sidecar, Aaron.”

“Thank you for calling me by my name, most people don’t. You gotta wonder why we even bother wearing these name tags. I haven’t made a Sidecar in years.”

“Hold the Cointreau, more lemon.”

“Gotcha.

Imani explored the arcade while Aaron made 

her a Sidecar.

Each game was a glorious example of the art in technology or the technology in art. The space was surrounded by a Rube Goldberg–style game entitled Chain Disruption, where the player would have to anticipate and prevent the chain reactions launched by a moving train. A Pop Art hologram of bucolic transitions enhanced the train’s journey. 

As it traveled, the train triggered all sorts of reactions, from falling trees to tragic collisions with bystanders to landslides—all disrupted, if not tragic.

A virtual reality challenge enlivened the general ambience with generally drunken casino revelers of 

a certain age. The objective of the game was to 

capture fairies and goblins, delivering unseen 

treasures in the expanse of the Arcade courtesy of virtual reality glasses. The miming players created a peripatetic choreography to the arcade soundtrack as they sighted, seized, captured, and dug for objects in mid–air, in the walls, or in the arcade floor.

As Imani dodged the oblivious virtual reality gamers, a stentorian announcement hit her head–on.

WELCOME TO POMPEII!

“Just a little startling.” 

The game’s robotic announcement may have 

startled Imani, but it grabbed her attention. 

The arcade game POMPEII featured a replica 

of the ancient Pompeii Amphitheater. Behind the amphitheater stood the infamous Mount Vesuvius, the volcano that destroyed Pompeii.

Imani pressed the button to engage the game. 

The now familiar voice of the game responded.

You will hear three mini–explosions.

After that, pull the lever.

You control the volcanic explosion and whether it will completely destroy the Pompeii.

Annihilate the amphitheater and the people inside: you WIN.

Destroy the top half of the Amphitheater and the people inside: you TIE.

Destroy only the top half of the Amphitheater: you LOSE.

Are you ready to bet on destruction?

“Sidecar, hold the Cointreau. You sure you want to gamble on this game?”

“Yeah? It costs a penny.”

“Think about the odds: total destruction, horrible destruction, or minor destruction.”

“It’s just a game.”

“Well, try to win, dear. I hope you win.”

“Is there a chance I could see what the three results look like? It’s just such an amazing–looking game, 

I’d love to see how it all works.”

“I guess I wouldn’t be breaking any rules 

doin’ that. Numero Uno: minor destruction.” 

There was a horrific explosion followed by the top portion of the amphitheater crumbling.

“Numero Due: destruction.” A few of the 

amphitheater blocks blew off the building in a 

deafening explosion. Lava poured out of the 

holographic image of Mount Vesuvius, turning the entire glass encasement red while underscored by a soundtrack of people screaming in pain and horror.

“Can I see what happens when you win?”

“Fraid that’s the privilege of the victorious. Do you really want to play this game?”

“Look, I haven’t gambled the whole time I’ve been here, might as well gamble on a fancy pinball game.”

“I thought you would.”

“I won’t play past my limit.”

“Are you aware that although the cost of one 

play is a penny, the lowest bet you can place is twenty–five dollars?”

“I have to bet?”

“Yup.”

“Twenty–five dollars is the minimum? Do people bet more than that?”

“You’d be surprised how much people will bet. 

People like to spend money on things that don’t 

matter and, well, casinos encourage people to take risks. You can’t play in this arcade without betting.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Casino rules.”

“Probably too much for me.”

“I tell you what, I’ll let you have one go for free, 

but then you have to promise to leave.”

“I’m surprised this place is here. I mean, I didn’t see any signage for it.”

“Caesars’ best–kept secret. But then, people know where they’re going most of the time, they just don’t know it.”

“Like we already know what we’re gonna do.”

“Something like that.”

“I find Caesars lonely.”

“Crowds amplify our loneliness.”

“I guess I shouldn’t waste too much more of 

your time.”

“Ready when you are.”

Aaron put in an Arcade card to engage the game. Three loud explosions followed. Imani was getting used to the ear–splitting bluster of the game. She craved more drama. “Is that it?”

“No, think of it like the gunshot at the top of a race. The question is, when do you pull the lever?”

She waited. She was nervous. 

She took in a breath and reached for the lever, 

pulling in a swift action chased by another loud explosion as the top part of the amphitheater blew into bits that hit so hard against the glass encasement Imani reflexively took a step back. 

As the pieces fell, sure enough, Mount Vesuvius flowed with lava, and the glass encasement went red.

The good news is you didn’t lose. TIE.

“I did not expect that. Almost everyone who plays this game crashes and burns.”

“I know I promised to leave, and I will, but I’d like to come back. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“And you won’t ever again. Sorry, but if there is a next time, you’ll have to bet.”

“Course. Thanks for the sneak peek and the 

Sidecar, not everyone gets it right.”

“I’ve been doing this for a long time, too long.”

“Do you really come from Last Chance, Colorado?”

“That ain’t no lie. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

When she reached the top of the stairs, Imani felt dizzy. Walking back onto the Appian Way, she found a bench and sat down.

“Imani, what are you doing?”

The last time Imani ignored those words, she 

suffered another summer of Geoff. This time, 

she listened and marched back to where she thought she’d been, yet she was looking at a room with the word KENO above it. As Geoff would say, 

“Why not?”

As she walked in, Imani discovered an empty and eerily silent room with no noise infiltrating from the loud casino outside. Imani sat down to read JOHN K. His words meant everything to her, ever since…

Just as she opened the book, a piercing ringtone cut the silence.

Ever the master of perfect timing—Geoff. 

He’d been calling her hour–on–hour for days. 

She knew what was coming, but she still had to hear it, momentarily stepping out of the Keno room to get better reception.

“You have one unheard message.“

Geoff had tried many tactics to elicit a response from Imani—sweet, sweeter, sweetest, civil, and then…

“First unheard message.“

“Where are you? Did you actually take my copy of JOHN K? Whatever career you thought you might have through me is over!”

“What a drama queen.”

The stupid truth was there was only one earmarked note in Geoff’s copy of JOHN K, and it was on the first page of the second chapter. But then, self–proclaimed geniuses will either indulge in excessive note–taking or in taking none at all in equally demonstrative ways.

When Imani walked back into the KENO room to resume her solace, she was startled to find a guy reading her copy of JOHN K aloud?

“Is this not the beginning of a brave new world? Let me speak to my superior, Mr.—uh… John K, John K Mercury.” Despite his noble histrionics, he ended in a question, “I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry?”

Imani responded. After all, he was reading 

from her book, well, Geoff’s book. “You’re just on the first page. That’s mine, by the way, and my advice is read on. You might get hooked. That’s what 

happened to me. That’s what happens to everyone who reads JOHN K.”