Excerpt of Mistaken Enemy by Dennis A. Nehamen

1) No, what almost every male likely considers their most
vital organ
had passed its last rigor mortis exam quite some time before
—it had not
officially been declared deceased, however, until one awful
morning when
a fantasy crept past the guards and snuck into my cell. What
must have been
an apparition was a hip cat who immediately aroused my
jealousy because
he was happy: I saw him as the epitome of a free spirit. He
had a shaggy
beard and long brown hair protruding from a green knit cap.
He was wearing
old jeans fraying at the cuffs, with lots of holes and a
piss-yellow t-shirt that
heralded him a beatnik.

His upper garment plucked my heart like a sour musical note,
bountifully proclaiming “ALL IS COOL” in bright pink across
the front.

He was smiling gleefully but must have traded his guitar for
the Hustler
magazine he was holding in his hand. He was a bighearted
dude, opening the
centerfold to show it to me. It was a dead ringer for
Bahlya…and I threw up.

2) I tried to repeat what I’d shared with her prior to that
day about my
background, but as I spoke I started hearing sounds,
trampoline pounding
vibrations atop my words, repetitions of my name tumbling,
bouncing, and
flipping, timed perfectly as Bahlya had spoken it…Zaci,
Zaci, Zaci. Zaci,
Zaci, Zaci, over and over.

But her mouth never moved. The portrait of her sorrow
remains
embossed in my permanent memory, ready to be revealed on
short notice—
as I’m doing presently, reclaiming a memento from the past,
a sound
recording cherished—for it was not of accusation but
absolution. She was
expressing full exoneration from any doubt she might have
had in my
regard, making a plea as I heard her call out my name, Zaci,
Zaci, Zaci.

Jivin had taken the liberty of familiarity with me; much
like a conductor
tends a member of his orchestra. Bahlya climaxed to this
intimacy out of
desperation; there was no need to respond.