Post (Script) Mortem
Eric Andrews-Katz
The Chameleon was located on the far extreme of the French Quarter bordering on the edge of Treme. It was too far for the common tourists of Bourbon Street to frequent and was kept open strictly as a tax write-off as the mortgage was paid off long ago. Chameleon had seen several incarnations, changing with the demands of the times, and currently settled into a quiet bar ignored by all except the determined ghost hunter looking for a lark. Quickly disappointed they would leave seeking spirits elsewhere, easy to do in a city where alleged hauntings were as common as the liquor.
Over the front entrance a yellow, burnt-out bulb hung inside a tight cage. Two long rectangular rooms were connected by an open doorway, built in the classic 'shot-gun' style of housing popular at the time. The bar itself dominated the right side when entering the room, and from where I stood behind it, I could easily see to the building's back wall. A beautiful piece of Old World craftsmanship, the bar stood five and a half feet in height, carved from rich cherry wood, and was the only thing remaining from the building's original days as a notorious, mid-1800’s brothel. Four high-backed chairs bellied up to the edges, spaced apart and tucked under the crimson wooden lip that separated bartender from patron. Hand carved cabinets lined the wall behind, stocking all the usual liquor suspects. The only good lighting illuminated the bottles, and the brightness made their labels easy to read. Below the bar were two metal troughs of cracked ice and bottles of mixer waiting to be opened.
It was 11:35 on a Monday night, a slow point of French Quarter activity for locals and tourists alike. Experience told me that I would be alone until the end of my shift at four the next morning. Gazing lazily around the room, I double-checked my chore list to make sure my obligations were completed. They were. The two tables at the far back and the banquet tables along the wall were wiped clean. A bowl of microwave popcorn sat desolate in the center of every other table, waiting to grow stale and be thrown out. The Jukebox stood to the side, opposite the entranceway and dividing the two main rooms. It was plugged in although it failed to light up anymore. Only songs from the 1980's were stocked and I had grown weary of the limited selection during the six months I'd been working behind the bar. There was nothing left to do but wait out the night.
Reaching under the bar, I took out a black and white notebook and tried once again to write an opening sentence. My goal of using the downtime for creative writing had proved fruitless. Several attempts were made; all were dismissed, scratched out with several, deeply pressed black lines. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and exhaled with a long, steady stream, hoping the Muse would speak and I could find something to write about. My hand flew across the page writing down the first thing that came to mind. Opening my eyes, I saw the words in my own graceful, cursive handwriting:
"The air smelt of stale beer and piss."
Disappointed, I reached for the felt Crown Royal bag hidden under the bar. I never drank on the job but I would smoke, and the time seemed right for a quick toke. I left through the bartender's side exit, and went out back to the storage area to enjoy a quick bowl of sticky bud. I finished smoking to the familiar sounds of The Supremes singing in the distance. At first I thought it was the radio of a passing car until I realized it was coming from inside, along with a crowd of voices. I crept slowly back, emerging from behind the bar to find a room full of clientele.
Pods of people stood in small groups, talking, laughing and drinking as if they had been there for some time. The Jukebox was actively lit up in pulsating, colorful neon. The music was momentarily interrupted as it changed from Diana Ross to Shelley Fabares. Waves of smoke hung like spirits under the diamond reflections of a glittering mirror-ball, rotating slowly from the ceiling.
"Excuse me," came a high nasal tone cutting through the music. "But who do you have to fuck to get a drink around here?"
Looking to my left I saw three of the four bar chairs occupied. The man sitting next to the vacant seat wore a dark suit with a stark white shirt underneath. A loosened red tie remained fitted around his neck and the open shirt collar. His brown hair was slicked down with a sharp, right-sided part, and brushed off to the side. His round face bore heavy cheeks with deep circles surrounding a set of half-moon, dream filled eyes. The mustache was thick completely filling the space under the rounded nose, above the full pouting lips pinched narrowly closed. There was a comfortable air of familiarity about him.
"Sorry," I approached with a curious glance looking over the odd crowd.
The dark haired man turned to face me with a look of disdain. He held a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and took a deep drag. As he exhaled in a conical stream, he cast his eyes down to the empty chair beside him.
"It was I." The elfish voice sounded from under the bar's lip. "I was the one that said it, and it bears repeating. 'Who do you have to fuck to get a drink around here'?"
I leaned forward to see the top of a black fedora with a cream colored ribbon around the center. Slowly, the hat rolled back and the top half of a small face looked up. Straight, thinning blond hair shot out from underneath the wide hat. Sharp eyes glistened from behind large glasses that dominated most of the delicate facial features. A small set of magnified crow's feet nestled at either side of the mischievous slate-blue eyes. Thin lips pressed together curling into a self-righteous smirk.
At first I thought it was a woman until I noticed the open shirt buttons, and the few wispy strands of hair creeping out. He wore a gold and black knitted sweater down his back with the sleeves loosely thrown around his neck like a scarf. With complete grace the tiny figure swept into the empty seat nestling into the wooden back of the chair. His hand dug out a wallet from the pocket of his khaki pants. The small fingers closed around the thick leather.
"Now," he said with a contentedly smug expression. "I'd like a vodka martini, extra dry with two olives. Then we can discuss if this is to be cash or trade."
I found myself completely charmed by the impish man's sheer audacity, and couldn't help but smile at the strength of his demeanor. I mixed his drink.
"Why don't you make it two? Please. I'd like one for my friend Tennessee as well."
The mention of the name caught my attention. It is impossible to live in New Orleans and not recognize the name of the greatest American playwright. As I shook the martini I wondered if this man was exhausted from sharing a uniquely famous first name. I poured out two drinks and placed them in front of the gentlemen.
"Here ya go," I said. "What did you say your names were?"
"My name is Tom," the dark haired man said. His jacket flapped open showing an average thin build. "But my friends call me Tennessee."
"Tennessee?" Quipped the man sitting on the other side. "What kind of name is that?"
Tennessee glanced over the twenty-something, well-built blond next to him. He looked back over his shoulder and winked lasciviously.
"It seems I have my work cut out for me," came the gentle drawl. He turned his attention to the blond.
"And my name is Truman," the elfish man replied. He stood up on the bottom rung of the chair, stretching across the bar to offer his hand.
I smiled, surprised by the strength of his grip.
Somewhere in my limited literary experiences, I had come across both of these unique names without having read a single word of anything either had written. I also knew both authors were dead. Glancing over the crowd I noticed their fashion sense for the first time; it was styled from another decade. It suddenly dawned on me that it must be some sort of club or convention; stranger things have been seen in The Quarter, and I decided to play along.
"So my good man," Truman playfully asked as he sat back down in the chair. One set of fingers clutched the stemware, and the other rhythmically drummed on the bar. "What's your name?"
"Randal," I answered. I refilled his glass with the remnants from the shaker.
"Oh," he coyly chimed. "Randy is it. With those broad shoulders, and that statuesque, youthful face like an Apollo, I know you make me randy." He squirmed in his seat with delight.
"Thanks," I awkwardly replied. "It's just my name."
"Are you from New Orleans?" Truman asked as if on an interview. "Personally, I was born not far from here. At the Hotel Monteleone in fact."
"Beautiful place."
"My mother was a beautiful woman." Truman volunteered. "She was in residence there when she went into labor. So, you see I was literally born into great style."
He sat back, puffed up like a blowfish, smiling proudly.
"I was born in Florida," I answered with a chuckle, "and have no such claims."
"Oh," his interest piqued. "Miami or Key West?"
"Ocala."
"Oh," came his disappointed response. He finished off his martini with a single gulp and pushed the empty glass suggestively towards me. "What brought you to New Orleans?"
"I had to get away from where I was," began my standard answered. "There was nothing left for me, so I wanted to go where there would be something else."
"New Orleans can be very accommodating on that feature," Truman replied. "How did you end up at this place?"
"Nothing unusual," I smiled, momentarily glancing away. "I met the owner and he needed someone to look after his bar. There was some sort of prevision in the original owner's will stating that the place must be kept open as a running business, for tax purposes or something. He offered me a free place to stay in exchange for taking care of the place."
"Has that helped you find your way in the world?"
"Financially, it suits me." I replied. "But I'm lazy, and my comfortable surroundings have led me into a life of apathetic contentment. Not very conducive for trying to write my first novel."
"You have a natural turn-of-phrase," Truman said with a smile. "That will take you far."
"Thanks," I answered with a shrug. "Now all I need to find is my inspiration."
“Another aspect New Orleans readily helps with.” He laced his fingers together and studied me with a spider's patience. "Where have you looked?"
"When I first moved here," I answered pouring myself a Coke. "I looked at the bottom of every cocktail glass. After extensive research I know it wasn't there."
Truman's head tilted back and he let loose a shriek of high-pitched laughter.
"Well, Randy, I think we all look there first," he said between chortles. "Just be thankful that you found your way out again, so many of us never do."
"After that I looked in the countless beds of all the wrong people."
"That's usually step number two. It’s never surprising to find how closely the two steps are linked." Truman quipped. "It may not be productive but it can make researching fun."
"Not in this case. It was abusive, physically and mentally in almost every way. That’s why I don’t mind the serenity of this place. And what brings you here this evening?" I quickly changed subjects. "It's usually so quiet in here, especially on a Monday and we rarely get groups."
"We come for the camaraderie and the inspiration, of course," Truman replied. "This bar was once the best kept secret of the elite, homosexual community. You could always find a bevy of talent here; authors, actors and artists, losing themselves in their cups, or on the dance floor, so desperate to escape the notoriety they worked so hard to achieve. It was sort of the Studio 54 of the South without Liza."
"Is that true? I’ve never heard that."
"It's true." Truman raised his glass to his lips. His blue eyes mischievously twinkled. "Every word."
"So what happened?"
"Like any good secret it wasn't kept for too long. The word got out and the Lookie Loos started to come by. That kind with their covetous nature will always kill anything special."
"The what?"
"The Lookie Loos." He declared with a devilish glint. "Those humdrum suburbanites that have no interest other than observing and coveting the life of someone who has accomplished anything else. Along with their curiosity they bring the stench of Plebeian Society, and there is no greater threat than that. Commonality is kryptonite to the elite. There's always a new, more exclusive place that opens at just that moment, and Chameleon got forsaken by those who still valued their anonymity." Truman paused to finish the martini. "Is the balcony open? It was a pure, unadulterated bacchanalia up there."
"The balcony is a private residence now," I firmly said. "It's off limits."
"It was then too," Truman pushed the empty glass forward with an impish smile. "But entry can always be gained if you know the right people."
Truman stopped talking as the yellow light blinked over the door. The bar's patrons craned their necks to see who entered.
"I don't think I've ever seen that light go on," I said with amazement.
Truman took one look as the door opened, and immediately turned his back.
"It was originally used as a warning so the patrons could distance themselves from one another, or slip out the back door should the police come." He loudly commented. "Evidently it’s still a warning light."
A man stepped through the door. His features were classically handsome, and well dressed in a black blazer worn over an open cream-colored shirt, and a pair of black pants. His hair was brushed to the side, and off the high forehead of an oblong face. Dark eyebrows stood above the deeply set eyes that meticulously scanned the room looking down a sharp, Romanesque nose. His face was expressionless except for the consistent disapproving pout that seemed natural. He shoved one hand into his pocket, striking a brief pose until seeing the bar. The gentleman sprinted over, making a place at the bar on the other side of the well-built blond.
"Vodka Collins." The man commanded and quickly turned to recline on his elbows, studying the crowd.
"You've managed to make an entrance as usual, Gore." Tennessee drolly said.
"Gore?" came the blond man’s gruff comment. He looked over the newcomer guffawing loudly. "That's another odd name."
"As you may have guessed," Tennessee unabashedly explained, "my interests in this blond boy are hardly intellectual."
"You rarely disappoint," Gore replied.
The cocktail was picked up the moment I put it down. He took a healthy sip and let out a melodramatic heavy sigh.
"It's a shame the same can't be said about you," Truman snidely muttered.
Gore's nose wrinkled as if smelling something foul. He closed his eyes for an instant before turning his head and looking directly at the floor.
"Sorry Truman," came the staunch New England accent. "I didn't see you down there."
Truman spun around, leaning forward to face his adversary.
"What are you doing here Gore? Don't you have an appointment with a proctologist to have that silver spoon removed?"
"I was invited by a friend," Gore answered. "You remember friends, Truman? Those are the people you don't betray. So sad."
"What's really sad," Truman replied in the same mocking tone. "Is that you've been able to go on breathing...every day... for so long."
"Your humor," Gore snapped, "is much like your height and writing; they're both so easily overlooked."
"Please!" Tennessee stood up pushing his arms out to either side. "If you both must argue the point, there is only one here who has won a Pulitzer Prize for their work, and neither of you are he."
"A boring fact you never let anyone forget," Gore muttered.
"I can't take any more of this," Tennessee continued. "You must cease this infernal, verbal assault before my ears actually start to weep."
The three men finished their cocktails. I leaned forward already pouring another martini for Tennessee.
"Are they always like this?"
"Competition is a terrible thing," Tennessee said. "It only allows you to see the negative in the work of others while it slowly gnaws away at any talent you, yourself might posses."
"Gore!" The name was shouted from across the room.
The man was well dressed in a sailor's outfit. His black wavy hair hung over the high forehead. His prominent nose sloped down an oval face leading to a strong jawline. Holding his white 'Dixie Cup' hat in his hand, the man eagerly started for the bar. His step slowed as the other patrons came into view. The muscular sailor pushed his way to the wooden bar purposely keeping his back to Truman.
"You ready to go?" He desperately asked.
"You're late Jack," Gore replied. "I just ordered another drink."
Gore shot me a firm look to pour another cocktail.
"Have you seen Allen anywhere?" Jack asked. "I've been looking for him all night."
"Try the boy's locker room at the local high school," Truman muttered.
Jack's back went rigid as the verbal knife slid between his shoulder blades.
"Listen you little tea cup tit mouse," he snarled over his shoulder. "I shit bigger than you."
"Oh I know," Truman said. He signaled for another martini. "I've read On the Road."
"I wouldn't be criticizing other people's writing if I were you," Jack warned.
"Writing?" Truman proclaimed with surprise. "One would be generous to call your work typing."
Jack spun around ready to attack. Tennessee quickly held him back by his collar. Truman never flinched. He nonchalantly licked the inside of his empty martini glass.
I quickly poured another cocktail for each person at the bar. Each of the men drank deeply from their glasses.
"Don't waste your time, Jack," Gore commented. "He's an annoying gnat just begging to be swatted."
"Sticks and stones," Truman sang out.
"Are a good arsenal to start with," Gore continued. “He is disgusting."
"Nothing human disgusts me," Tennessee softly quipped. "Unless it's unkind."
"That sounds like your cue to exit," Truman added.
"I'll wait for you outside," Jack seethed through clenched teeth. The muscles of his arm flexed tightly through the uniform. He turned leaving Truman with a maleficent glare.
"I guess I should go," Gore said. He tossed the remnants of his drink to the back of his throat. "Pleasure to see you as always, Tennessee. A pleasure for you to see me, Truman."
Gore put the glass down and pushed himself from the bar. He clasped his hands behind his back and strutted out the door.
"He seems surly," I said once he left. "What's his issue?"
"Gore is the bitterest woman in America," Truman answered. "All she wanted was to be President, and they wouldn't let her. Personally, I never care what people say about me; as long as it isn't true."
Tennessee leaned intimately forward draping his arm around the blond man's shoulder.
"You know," he said, emphasizing his whimsical drawl. "I have suffered most of my life with an ailment called loneliness. Might you have a few suggestions on how I may alleviate my pain tonight?"
"I may not be free," came the implied answer. "As long as you know I'm straight."
Tennessee smiled a Cheshire grin. "A line can be straight, or a street, but the human heart, no it's curved like a road through mountains. I'm sure we can come to some arrangement."
Tennessee directed the boy by his shoulders away from the bar. They paused at the door for an instant, and disappeared outside.
Truman looked around the bar. Most of the patrons had disappeared. He spun in his seat to face me, tapping his glass for another round.
"And the cheese stands alone."
"I wouldn't say that," I replied filling his glass.
"To your own work," Truman said. He raised the martini in salute. "May it do well, just not as well as mine."
The drink went to his lips, half of it disappearing.
"I doubt you have any worries," I replied with a chuckle. "I can't seem to find my story or even so much as an opening sentence."
"Why?" Truman asked. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar and lacing his fingers around the stemware. "What's stopping you?"
I paused to contemplate his question. I couldn't find an answer and shook my head with the childish avoidance of a shrug.
"Fear? What do I have to say that others haven't already said?" I shrugged again. "What if what I write no one wants to read? And what if, at worse, I find that I have no talent?"
"My good Randy man," Truman said with a small squirm in his seat. "Writing is truly the worst profession anyone could be condemned to doing. You struggle with every word to find the perfect interpretation, hoping to make the reading a simple, engaging endeavor. There's little gratitude to be found in the process, and one has to work on their own without guidance from anyone, other than the elusive Muse you've dedicated yourself to follow. Then you share what you've written, only to have those with vicious pens destroy the beauty of your creation. Words are the sharpest weapons; their hit is palpable and one seldom fully recovers from their viciousness."
He paused to drink his martini.
"But," Truman smacked his lips. "When the Muses are heard and the words flow from your hand like a swiftly running river...there's nothing like it in the world. It can convey the most absolute in beauty or the most devastating heartbreak. No palace or cathedral compares with the grandeur of a well-constructed sentence or paragraph, and there are no bells that can ring as true. When that rarity is achieved nothing is more wondrous or as permanent."
"Every time I try to write," I confessed in a whisper. "I hear the doubts. I question and second-guess myself. I can't get past it. I can feel these fears biting and sucking the life from me."
"Those vampires are going to be there no matter what you do," Truman said. His delicate palm crept forward until he patted the back of my hand. "Look at me. I'm a living freak show and when they give me the glares of disapproval, I stare right back at them, unflinching."
"How?" I desperately asked. "Where do you find the strength? Someone of your height, or someone of your...disposition. How do you find the power to strike back?"
"I know myself." Truman said. "That's the first step in collecting your arsenal. When you are only as tall as a shotgun, you have to be twice as loud."
Truman sat back and lifted the remnants of his martini. He drank it down with one quick shot and smiled an alcoholic grin. His eyes were glossy. Every word he spoke was soft and concise, and I leaned in to hear him.
“People always make the mistake of underestimating me. They have done that my entire life – usually to their own eventual detriment. I believe that you can achieve anything you want as long as you set your mind, and relentlessly continue to try."
"If it was only that easy," I answered.
His index finger stroked the stem of the martini glass.
“When I was a boy of ten, I wanted to go to the Alabama State Fair. The aunts I lived with said the only way I could go was if I saved my money. I saved every coin I found that summer; not spending a cent on licorice or penny candies like the other children. I had my mind set on one thing. The day came and I marched past the triangular banners boasting the acts of the Fair. Eagerly, I bought my ticket and took my seat on the end of a long row of benches, four rows from the stage. The lights came on as the Master of Ceremonies brought out each of the acts, one at a time. There was a bearded lady that sang, and a giant and midget act, and a sword swallower from the Far East.”
Truman took off his glasses and placed them on the bar. His thumb and forefinger went to his closed eyes, gently massaging the inner bridge by his nose. I was about to speak when his blue eyes opened. He smiled briefly and continued.
“The last act was a pinhead,” Truman said. “She resembled a cartoon rabbit with a buck toothed grin. The gaping eyes were mud brown, and wide like plates from a dollhouse. Her head was misshaped and looked like a human teardrop, with a pointed skull and an overly rounded chin that disappeared into a non-existent chest. She was born a simpleton and without speech. Dressed in a hot pink tutu, white tights and ballet shoes, she struck a pose and danced to the Minute Waltz, leaping and twirling without care. She possessed an inner grace that prima ballerinas would covet, moving like a nymph of ancient Greece. The audience couldn't see passed her misshaped features, and were blinded to the beauty. They laughed at her.”
"That poor girl."
"I didn't laugh," Truman confessed in a whisper. "I couldn't. I sat there crying silently, on the end of the fourth row, tears running down my face while everyone else laughed."
Truman's face softened. His voice trailed off, and he brushed away tears from his eyes.
“You see,” he continued. “I knew how she felt. I know what it’s like to be a freak in the eyes of others. There’s not been a day of my life where people don’t react to me as if I were something alien to this planet. I knew I was different from the moment I was born. One can’t help but notice the differences when others are so willing to point them out. The world treats badly those that are different, and people can be judgmental, unforgiving and cold.”
“What happened?” I quietly asked.
“The ruckus sounds grew louder,” Truman continued, “bringing this poor creature to a halt. She gazed out into the audience, confused by their reaction. Her eyes met mine. We saw each other and she attempted a smile of jagged teeth and lolling tongue. Those painted clown-like lips curled into a sympathetic grin: her wide, saucer eyes somehow pierced my chest and saw into my very soul. Among the howls from the apes around us, she recognized me as being different; one of the tribe, an outcast like she. It was in that simple moment that I knew myself better than I ever would."
Truman looked up. His hand reached out taking hold of my wrist. His expression transformed to a softening smile, and he returned the glasses to his face.
“You see Randy boy,” Truman continued. An impish curl began at the edge of his thin lips. “It was in that moment that I realized that she and I, we weren’t the freaks. We knew ourselves, accepted who we were, and were unafraid of it. Everyone else bore the scars against nature. The irony was how desperately they needed us to make themselves feel better about their own pathetic disfigurements. From my place on the fourth bench, I saw a girl dancing as if no one was watching and I cried, sharing her happiness."
Truman took a deep breath and sat erect in the chair.
"And," he added with a wink. "She found a way to get paid for doing it.”
He coughed out a short laugh. I couldn't help but laugh along with him.
“You make it sound so easy.”
“It is,” Truman gaily said. “Once you realize those throwing negativity at you are only projecting parts of their own, unhappy selves. That's what frees you to be who you truly are. Once you’ve started down the path of not caring what others think, you will find out that being happy with life is much easier to achieve.”
"You are an inspiration."
"My dear Randy boy," Truman said lightly. "There's not a single person here, or anywhere else that has succeeded, that hasn't had to overcome something of relevance. It's not so much talent that gives a person fame, fortune or even notoriety; it's the determination they exude on the journey to achieving it."
Truman stood up from his chair. He reached behind his back and produced a Chinese fan, snapping it open with a sharp gesture of his wrist. He slowly swayed to the music.
“It’s all up to you,” Truman disclosed. “You can be inhibited and held back by how others condemn you, or you can dance like no one’s watching.”
He hopped down from the chair, turned his back to me and took a step away.
“What do you do if they are watching?” I asked.
Truman didn’t hesitate. He looked back over his shoulder with a smile growing across the aged, delicate face.
“Nothing.” He said with a shrug. “You just keep dancing.”
Truman winked and leapt across the empty floor. He struck a pose with the fan before succumbing to the music, moving into his own world. The small arms floated about his tiny body in agile, sweeping gestures. He became lost, swaying to the music.
The yellow light over the door blinked several times in quick succession. It pulled my attention immediately.
"That's so strange." I starred at the caged light bulb. "I've never seen it go on before tonight."
I turned back to find the room deserted. The Jukebox was silent, standing alone against the back wall. Nobody stood in the corners or danced on the floor. The mirror ball was gone, and the two ceiling bulbs cast their dull lighting across the empty rooms.
The stale scents of beer and piss subtly returned, permeating the air. My half drank Coca-Cola remained in the cocktail glass on the counter. I stood alone, behind the bar, oddly at peace. I wasn't surprised, or disturbed, by the spiritual exodus I just witnessed. A subtle smile crept to my lips. At the far end of the bar, where my black and white notebook remained opened, another book sat closed on the counter next to it. As I shuffled my way over, I saw the title clearly: The Muses are Heard by Truman Capote. Hesitantly, my hand opened the cover to see the neat, child-like written inscription:
“Feeling Randy
Love, Tru”
I closed the cover with a smile and reached for the ballpoint pen laying abandoned next to my notebook. The point was placed to the first of the empty column lines on a fresh page. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. My hand glided across the page. I opened my eyes.
"I never believed in ghosts nor read the works of Truman Capote before working at a bar called Chameleon." The graceful, cursive handwriting filled the first two lines. "Both were mistakes, would be rectified on the same night, and somehow would impact the rest of my life."
I looked at what I wrote, ready to start dancing.
___________
Eric Andrews-Katz is the author of the fantasy thriller Tartarus, as well as the ‘Agent Buck 98’ series (The Jesus Injection and Balls & Chain). His work appears in The Advocate, Chelsea Station, as well as several anthologies: So Fey, The Best Date Ever, Zombiality, Charmed Lives, Gay City Vols: 2, 3 & 4, Best Gay Romance 2015, and a finalist in the Saints & Sinners 2014 and 2015 anthologies. He can always be found at EricAndrewsKatz.com.