Jon Paine was a hominid, it is true. And at the core, that means he was human. Like all the rest of us, he was prone to foibles, likely to err at a moment’s notice. Flawed, as we all are. But a diamond may be flawed, yet still sparkle brightly. And Jon did. He scintillated. He had an intensity of life and spirit, deep and sometimes hidden facets, and he was a beautiful example of a true gem. And for all his faults, I will miss him dearly. Although maybe not deliberately, he helped me to see what is truly precious in my life, and for that I will be forever thankful.

Chekov said, “We shall find peace. We shall hear angels, we shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds.” For Jon’s spirit, I pray there will be peace. So I have come to realize that I owe this debt to Jon: I will help find the person responsible for his death, and I will bring him down. Then may we all have peace.

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I wrote earlier about my reasons for leaving Pittsburgh and heading for California with Jon. I thought that it would be my golden place, my promised land. It was supposed to be home. But the only thing to anchor me there was Jon, and now I’m untethered and finding myself drawn like iron filings to the magnet of my real home. Now that I realize that it really is home. That maybe Dorothy was right after all, even though I’ve spent years scoffing at her simplistic promise to avoid adventure. Because adventure, I thought, was what people were supposed to do. Being tied down was death, if not of the body, then of the spirit. I fancied myself a nomad, able to pick up and relocate at a moment’s notice like a cat, never turning around to say goodbye. When cats want to go, they just go. They don’t screw around with that prolonged farewell crap. And I admired that.

But when the cat jumps off your lap, there’s a warm place that gradually grows cold. A void which still exists, even though you may grow less aware of it as the moments pass. And chances are, the cat just wanted a quick snack or something, and he’ll jump back up and sit in exactly the same place that he left, and the two of you will feel more complete.

I jumped down from Pittsburgh a good long while ago, and I’m pretty sure that the warm lap I left has since stretched its legs and found a way to forget I was ever there. But I was happy there, once, even if I didn’t realize it at the time. Things were better there. I was content. And so I’m packing my things to go back and try to find a comfortable spot to curl up in again. It’s gonna be weird; it’s gonna be scary – not just for me, but for my mom and Billy, too. Things have been pretty strained between us since I left, but I think we can fix it. I have a hell of a lot more faith in the possibility of making up with my family than I do in trying to bring to justice some mysterious doctor on the other side of the planet. And I’m just tired and I want to be anywhere but where I’ve been for the last three years.

And at least I’ll have Derek there with me for a few days over his spring break. I think, anyway. I’m trying to convince him of the futility of our rag-tag little group trying to do anything productive with whatever we’ve learned about this Genero guy. I’m pretty sure that particular Humpty Dumpty isn’t ever going to be whole again.

I’m going home.

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 I guess you’ve seen this by now. Yes, that’s him. What’s in my mind is this big amorphous glob of earwax and different things keep forming out of it. First, crushing grief. Then, a thousand pounds of guilt for being so angry at him for the last few weeks. Denial that he could possibly be dead. Then, relief that it’s over. Guilt at being relieved. Anger. Grief. Guilt. Relief. Spinning faster and faster until my thoughts just look like stripes. I get dizzy and have to sit down. I don’t want to believe it, but I’m starting to against my will. I hate it. I wish I’d never come out here. Thank God for my friends – my real friends, Derek and Matt and Sun-Yi, who are all also shell-shocked but they’re here for me, and it’s the first time I’ve really had friends that I could 100% count on. So I guess I’m glad I came here… at least I’ve got an answer, even if I hate it. And friends to lean on.

Sun-Yi said the man in green mumbled something to her when he grabbed her, and she’s trying to piece together what it was. I hope it was something like “My balls hurt.” Bastard.

I’m all out of words for now.

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Well. After all the bitching and moaning I’ve done about the insular and tight-lipped body mod community, here I am cooking up a nice entree of crow for dinner tonight. What do you think is better – roasted, or baked in a pie?

Turns out that some discreet inquiries using the name “The Miller” have actually rung the cherries in some cases. I’ve kept slogging away visiting (and revisiting, and re-revisiting) all the tat parlors within train distance from here. I dropped The Miller’s name this week to a few places and got the look. The one that means there’s something there. First one guy told me that his partner was off to see The Miller (off to see the wizard?) just before he disappeared a few months ago. Then I called some of the people I contacted a while back who had told me about the other disappearances recently. I’m sure they were so happy to hear from me, having thought they were properly rid of me weeks ago, and I could hear their sour thoughts in their voices when I said who I was. Then I asked about him, The Miller, and sour turned to acrid, smoke that disappears in a puff of air. Yes, they said, yes, that was the guy, that’s him. He’s the dude that nobody talks about but everyone knows of. He’s who you go to when you want something beyond the pale. He’s everywhere and nowhere.

What the fuck, I thought. It’s Batman?

Everybody knows that this guy does radical body modification, and yet nobody has ever seen his results. They just know someone who knows someone who knows how to get in touch with him if you want to go off to see the wizard and get that extra limb or cyborg implant. And then, apparently, you never come back. The Miller is the roach motel.

Did anyone know how to contact him? No. But how do you know about him? Because the wind says his name. If you really want to get to him, he will know and get to you. Have I mentioned how much I can’t stand this mystical shit? Give me a freaking phone number and quit talking in bad high school goth prose, for chrissake.

Anyway, we’re not any closer to finding The Miller, but we have independent verification that other people have at least heard of him, plus his name comes up in conjunction with disappearances. And now I’m really worried about this meeting tomorrow. Is the mysterious contact The Miller? Am I sending Sun-Yi into the roach motel? She’s book-smart but oh-so-street-dumb. I’ve been trying to learn her about the ways of the world, but especially now I’m just paralyzed with fear that I’m sending her off to a bad end. I even thought that, since it’s so flipping cold here right now, I could just bundle up real well and pretend I’m Sun-Yi tomorrow, but with my luck that would completely blow the deal and I’d be left with eternal questions.

So, as Derek would say, nothing left to do but smile, smile, smile (gag) and sit here and wait until tomorrow. I can stare at the clock and watch the minute hand barely twitch forward for hours, only to realize that it’s been 30 seconds. Maybe I should watch some more public access TV.

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