Title: "SLIDE" (said the little penguin...)
Part 9/11: "what's there not to like?"
(So everything passes, right? Right?!... One forgets and forgives. Or maybe one forgets *or* forgives...)
"No, I'm serious..."
"Get the fuck outta here..."
Toby's telling him some weird, kind of silly story about a girl he'd dated in college; he's doing that prissy-pissy expression of his when he thinks Keller's laughing at him.
But Chris is not laughing AT him, he really is amused. Toby could say the dumbest, most childish things and Chris would somehow find them interesting. Useful. (Sweet)
Yeah, Beecher can be so irritatingly sweet sometimes that it almost hurts. Sister Pete had once asked him why he liked the other man. "What's there not to like?" he'd asked back, more earnest than ever.
*What's* there not to like?!...
"So we went back to her place, 'cause she had an apartment of her own, you know?" Toby says, dangling his feet over the edge of his bunk.
"She was rich?" Keller asks, slowly chewing at an orange skin he's kept in his pocket long enough to dry and shrink. He's sitting right next to Toby, leaning against the back wall.
"Yes, she was," Toby responds, not catching on to the other man's sly implication: 'Rich like you.'
"She had a really nice place; huge windows, great fucking view. She had this gorgeous stained glass window, you know? Like the ones you find in churches."
"I know what a stained glass window is, Toby."
(--'Jesus, what the fuck's he gonna do next, tell me about her fucking furniture?!'--)
"I know you kn -" Beecher starts to say, frowning a bit, before Keller suddenly interrupts him:
"Was your wife rich too? You know, educated? When you married her."
Beecher stops in the middle of the sentence, blue eyes narrowing:
"Why do you ask that?"
"Was she?" Keller presses on.
"As a matter of fact, yes. She was," Beecher says, his voice getting defensive.
Chris licks the orange skin and rubs it against his lips, spit and the faintest tinge of lingering acid melting down his throat.
"Did you ever fuck someone who WASN'T rich? Did you even *meet* someone who wasn't like you?" His voice seems so impossibly casual, way too *conversational*.
"Where are you going with this?"
(--'What the fuck?!...'--)
Toby wants to sound just as casual as the other man, but he fails miserably.
Still, what Keller senses in his voice is not anger or annoyance, but weariness. Beecher's being cautious. Defensive. Very...(--lawyer-like.)
Keller just shrugs, gently sucking on one of his thumbs for a second:
"Don't know, I'm just asking."
"Well..."-- Beecher drags on his words deliberately, cold eyes boring into Chris': "I've never fucked a high school dropout before. If that's what you wanted to know..."
(--'Someone who *remembered* to TRY to take his GED exam in his late 30's.'--)
Keller's body reacts involuntarily, stiffening a little, even though his voice remains as smooth as velvet:
"Yeah, that's what I wanted to know." -- a beat: "Funny though. With all your money, your education, you still managed to end up in here,"-- a mean, sour smirk spreading across his face and in his dark, resentful eyes: "With fucking high school dropouts."
They stare at each other for a long time. Keller senses a battle raging on inside the other man's body; Toby's shoulders are trembling slightly and the expression in his eyes has slowly slipped from initial defiance into something resembling...helplessness.
Fine, Keller thinks. That's exactly what I wanted. Just fucking remember where you are and what you've done. From that perspective - and ONLY THAT perspective - you're no better than...(--*me*.)
"What do you want me to say, Chris?"-- Beecher's voice is tired. Quiet. He's lost - or abandoned - any of the advantage he had a moment before.
'Abandoned', Keller thinks almost instantly. Tobias Beecher - always taking the path of least resistance.
(--'How to best avoid a fight: look up the, on occasion, Not! Crazy! To-by. Jesus...'--)
"Nothing," Keller whispers, staring outside the pod: "Never mind, it was a stupid thing to ask anyway."
As it seems, neither of them is up for a fight.
(Not right at the moment.)
(Wait for a confession, for the truth. Wait for patience, turn patience into forgiveness, sliding through time like white feathers...
Rub your hands across the back of his neck, thumbs across his stubbled jaw and wait. 'Til patience and trust wear themselves out and turn on you, turn on him, like jagged knives.
Wait for a confession from a liar. You really want that? Do you?)
*What's there not to like?!...*
Keller doesn't want to talk about it. Never ever. (For obvious fucking reasons.)
So Toby avoids bringing up the subject, knowing all too well what a potential mess it could lead to. (Almost always.)
"What did it feel like?" Toby asks, seeing the other man squirm uncomfortably in his chair.
They're playing chess, and Beecher's not even paying attention to the game anymore; he could win with his eyes closed, that's how bad Keller's playing.
"When you heard the snap. When you heard *me*." He's a bit amazed at how calm, how plain his voice sounds when saying it.
Keller - on the other hand - is anything but calm and plain.
"Jesus, Tobe..."-- he mutters, scratching his head nervously.
"I just wanna know. What did you feel?" Beecher continues, completely unfazed by the other man's obvious discomfort: "What do you feel...when you hurt people?"
And that's a bit too much for Keller apparently. He jumps out of his chair, turning over the chess table, more accidentally than on purpose, moving as far away from the other man as the tiny cell allows.
Toby just sits on the bunk, completely unimpressed. He gets a sickening, overwhelming rush of bittersweet, poisonous pleasure from seeing Keller like this.
Toby knows so well just what buttons to press, how to twist the knife in Chris' unhealed (never to be healed) wound; how to tease, when to punch.
It feels amazingly good to know - deep down inside, in that place so very few suspect even exists - he's got him. In every imaginable and unimaginable way.
Keller sighs and attempts to come off both cool and appeasing:
"I thought..."--trying to clear his throat, to force a shot of power in his (very) slow voice: "I thought we were over this."
"Forgiving doesn't mean forgetting, Chris," Toby points out quietly.
"Jesus fucking Christ, what do you want from me, huh?" Keller's one step away from exploding.
And...(--'doesn't it feel good?'--)
"I hated you. I hated you so much, you know? I wanted to break you, to tear you to pieces, like you did me."-- Toby's voice is trembling under the burden of his confession. Like always, he finds himself asking for explanations, for *something* from the other man; and - like fucking always - he's the one spilling his guts out. He just can't help it.
"I didn't want you dead," he adds. "I just wanted you to suffer."
"Do you still want that?" Keller asks quietly, making the other man give him a short, tired glance.
"No," Beecher says, shaking his head and looking down. "I'm done hating. It's too fucking exhausting. Hate doesn't get anybody anywhere."
"Did Said tell you that?"
"Yeah. One must forgive others in order to forgive one's self. To find some kind of peace."
"And you forgave me?"
"I told you..."
"Yeah, you told me, I know. But did you really feel it when you said it? Did you really feel it, Tobe?"
"I told you I forgave you," Beecher repeats, sensing his hands involuntarily clenching into fists, his voice getting thicker.
Keller stares at him for a long moment. He knows he should drop it, accept whatever lie Toby feels he has to tell himself and others to just move on with his life; he knows it would be the best thing right now. But he doesn't. They've reached a point where lies just don't work for Keller anymore.
"Said's full of shit. And so are you."
"Oh really?"-- the world's contempt is built up in Toby's voice. "What the fuck do you know about forgiveness? Or guilt, for that matter?"
Saying those well-rehearsed lines - like a prayer: ‘I'm sorry. I had to do it, didn't have a choice. I know it was wrong, I wanna make it right. Forgive me.’-- like that could make a fuck of a difference for Beecher. Like he doesn't know it's all a lie - for Keller to get whatever it is he wants.
And...(--he got it.)
Which...(--'makes you what, Toby?')
Weak, at best.
*Forgive me. Forgive me, forgive me, fucking forgive me...*
(--'Well, I forgave you, Chris. And if I could forgive you - a worthless piece of shit like you - I can forgive anybody. Even myself. I just have to try hard enough.'--)
"You think you're so special, so different. Better. That's what you and Said have in common, that's why you get along so well. You both think the world revolves around you; what you think, what you feel."-- Keller's voice drops to a barely audible murmur, edgy and dangerous, disturbingly intimate as he slowly moves towards the other man: "Well, let me tell you something, Toby. It fucking doesn't. And you don't know shit about me or what I feel. What I am. You just keep making stupid, narrow-minded assumptions about everybody and everything. That's what got you shanked in the gym. That's..."(--'what got your arms and legs broken.'--)
Keller's words seem to have hit a raw nerve inside the other man; his eyes gaze deep into Chris', blue-green flares twisting behind lowered eyelids, pouted mouth twitching with anger and helplessness.
He tries to say something, *anything* to hurt him, tries to act out on his own need. But...there's nothing there, nothing.
Toby's trapped, locked inside Keller, as the other man's last words keep spinning in his ears: ‘That's what got you shanked in the gym. That's... THAT's...’
His own stupid naivete. His own foolishness. His own doing, nobody else's.
Everything that's happened to him - he's responsible for it. All...a consequence of his own actions.
"Just...fucking face it, Toby. For once," Keller whispers, standing right in front of him; knowing all too well the effect his words have on Beecher.
The other man's breaking, falling inward like a house of cards; he's shivering.
(--'Shit! Shit, shit...'--)
That's NOT what Keller wanted. He doesn't need Beecher to have a fucking breakdown right now; still, he's kind of...surprised - pleasantly surprised - to discover he can actually do this to Toby. That he can make him like this.
What Chris doesn't realize - for the moment - is that he's not the one doing it, Toby is. Nobody can really break Toby, except for Toby himself.
Beecher slumps forward resting his head in his clasped palms, elbows on his weak knees. The pod is filled with so much silence, so much inertia, it seems like time is standing still.
Keller leans down in front of him, unsure of what to do; he wants to touch him so bad his skin itches and aches every time the other man's breath rushes like a wave over his being - the only sign he's not completely alone. Completely abandoned.
A sudden feeling crawls up his spine, intoxicating him: this is what he needs. Toby's breath near him, on him; inside him. That's what keeps him going. Pulsating all over his being. Another addiction...THE addiction. His one reason for breathing.
"I shouldn't have said those things. I'm sorry. You shouldn't listen..." Keller doesn't know what else to say.
"I lied," Beecher breathes out slowly, keeping his face carefully hidden behind his palms: "I wanted you dead. I wanted everybody dead. Everybody and everything... I wanted myself dead."
(The clear implication for Chris - and Chris only: 'That's what YOU did to me.')
He looks up at the other man, a small part of himself - the darkest of all, the one almost nobody ever got to see behind that mild-mannered, overgrown, child-like appearance - scanning Keller's face for a clear assessment of the damage his words might have inflicted.
(--'Let's see now, Mr. Keller...is that brain of yours good at anything besides finding ways of seducing people and then fucking them up?'--)
But Keller's not giving anything away; if he *is* feeling something in the first place. He places his hands on Toby's shoulders and buries his head in the crook of his neck, murmuring that litany that has become his life lately: "I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
(Like reciting a poem at a high school pageant - hollow, utterly meaningless. For Toby.)
Sorry about fucking WHAT?!...
He feels Chris' lips brushing against his skin, hot, cat-like tongue flickering around Toby's Adam apple. Keller's response to everything. His hideout. And...(--*yours.*)
So: you go and you push him, just like he pushes you. You force him to give up his defenses, just like he does with yours. You make him crawl through shit and anguish and misery...something that he also did to you. Once. Not anymore... And why?...
A loud bang on the pod's glass wall, Mineo waving his nightstick; and Keller reluctantly takes his hand out from under Toby's T-shirt and slowly backs away.
Like a rattle-snake; Beecher can't help but notice the similarity.
(How can you forget that which is forever carved in your flesh, forever beneath your skin? Burned inside you down to the last cell in your body? How can anyone really forgive without forgetting?...)
---end of part 9/11---
Part 10/11: "for now and/or forever"
(Touch me the way I touch you. Touch me the way I'll never touch you.)
Toby senses it -- the anxiety.
The restlessness. The annoyance.
They've had a bit too much of each other for the time being. A quiet, unspoken surge of bitchiness has been flashing like static electricity between them all day, just like yesterday; just like the day before yesterday...
Beecher feels like strangling him; he's tired and wired up, tense and aching all over.
Last night...last night he fucked Chris out of sheer frustration. Anger. Heart's purest irrational hate.
All those poisonous elements that make up prison life spilling out through every pore of his body with such intensity it made the other man wince and slightly - if only for a second - want to back away. Want to make *Toby* back away.
But he didn't. Chris can take a lot; he's used to it.
Used to being used.
(--'A piece of shit.'--)
Pinning him down on the mattress, forcing him to bury his face in the pillow, hearing him choking a little, slightly suffocating; thrusting hard, fast - need and want rushing through Toby's body, oddly sunken into a monotonous rhythm, almost automatic.
Like...he'd been doing it all his life.
Thinking of how much it resembled his *other* way-too-intimate male encounter...except now...he's the one on top.
Same endless and weirdly unemotional, distant pleasure; same need to crush the one below, to make him suffer.
Pleasure arousing not from the act itself, but from the knowledge that the other man is completely helpless, hopeless under the weight of his torso; pinned down on his belly and spread wide open...yeah, *it* explains a lot.
(--'About Schillinger. But you?!...'--)
Wondering if Chris actually made the same association.
Probably. Who knows? Who the fuck cares?
But...he does care. Because this is not just about sex, it's not just about the two of them.
Lockdown will be over soon, and things will be going back to their (ab)normal pace...keeping your game face fucking intact. No matter what that game face is made up of or how the other inmates actually perceive it.
So, since they're *back together* (read:fucking) and everybody's already aware of it, this can only mean - in prison economics, the only kind that really matters - someone is someone else's. (Prag)
And Toby's not going there again, no way in hell; neither is Chris. Therefore...this leaves them where exactly?
Who is who's...whatever?...
'Cause someone HAS to be someone else's; it just can't be otherwise. Not in here.
(--'Yep, the end of lockdown will be one bundle of *joy*, that's for sure.'--)
Still, Chris touches him...(--like Gen never did.)
And that's the thing - above everything else, above all that's relative, unimportant - that's the thing that scares him the most.
Same question rolling through his weary mind, like a mantra: "How in God's sweet name did ALL this happened to me?..."
And having only Chris' voice - more powerful than Said's, Schillinger's, or even his own - whispering in his ear, through his flesh, cell-deep: "You think the world revolves around you, what you think, what you feel... Well, let me tell you something, Toby. It fucking doesn't. Just...fucking face it...for once."
(--'Just fucking face it, Toby. For once.'--)
Something that - apparently - he's blatantly incapable of doing.
(I touch you the way you'll never touch me...)
Lights out for almost two hours now, and Keller's settling into this familiar rhythm he's learned to (re)discover with Beecher as his pod/bed/life mate.
Nuzzling like a 16-year-old into the other man's cheek, into the crook of his neck; into his insides. Searching - always, relentlessly searching - for that thing, that place inside Toby; that place he knows he can NOW reach, touch, fucking invade and settle in, all over.
Like some fucking disease.
Making the other man tremble and wince and gasp for air as he marks his way down Toby's body with wet, hot kisses; curling his tongue against his navel, waiting for his hips to instinctively jerk and roll under his touch.
Waiting for Beecher to DEMAND it.
Because he's learned just how much the other man needs to feel in control about something, ANYTHING. Just how much he fears being taken for granted.
And he wants, he needs for Toby to want it, to need it too. Beyond the initial fear, the initial insecurity, the reluctance.
Beyond Tobias Beecher - or what was still left of him - the lawyer, the husband, the father - beyond the...(--heterosexual, alcoholic, self-loathing murderer).
Cutting right down to the raw essence of the other man, that knot of inner-power - ignored and repressed and taught by family and environment, by that cushy life of his, to be something alien, unnecessary, vulgar - and helpless need...not for sex, not even for control, but for intimacy, for the sheer touch of somebody, anybody.
For *his* touch.
(--'Yeah, because you knew how to get there first. You knew how to *make* him want it, unlike some idiots I could mention.'--)
But: who cares? Who the fuck gives a shit?
Not Chris. He's gotten what he wanted: Toby - moaning and grunting beneath him, enjoying every moment of it.
Keller never thought of forcing Toby to do anything; he never envisioned himself in Schillinger's shoes.
He knows, he remembers all-too-well what that's all about: pain, hate, humiliation...that horrible feeling of surrender; the moment when you actually start *thinking* of yourself as somebody's prag.
As somebody else's. Completely.
When you can't see yourself any other way than connected, tied by an invisible umbilical leash to your Daddy, your master, your owner, your own personal fucking *benefactor.*
"You know I care about you, Chris. I DO protect you, don't I? You should thank those lucky stars of yours for that. You should thank *me*. So..." (--'what the fuck are you waiting for, bitch?'--)
He knows what it all means. The glances, the catcalls, the bullying; that stigma that never really goes away, even if you take a crap on your Daddy's face or fuck up his parole or...whatever.
'Cause...(--'this is *Beecher* you're talking about here. You, you Chris...you didn't do shit. You just lay down and took it. Didn't feel that bad about it either.'--)
So?... SO?! So fucking WHAT?!...
He got out of Lardner on his own two feet, in one piece (well, sort of); not in a fucking coffin nobody would've come to pick up and give him a proper burial.
He did what he had to.
(--'Jesus! And: ain't this your favorite excuse for doing everything? Or letting others do to you what you yourself would never do to any living being?'--)
"I do what I have to."-- what he had told Beecher, right after they met for the first time: a lie within a lie, within the truth...encased - like his arm, like Beecher's broken limbs - into the mockery, the bad joke his life always has been.
That creeping, unavoidable sense of living senselessly, without meaning. That devouring, almost frightening urge to find someone to love him for whatever he was; the hunt, the mindless wander.
The complete and utter sense of loss, all the time. With his long-dead mother, with that unknown father of his; with the seemingly endless rows of foster-families.
Even with Schillinger.
With his wives, especially with Bonnie - the woman, the *marriage* he WANTED to hang on to like the air in his lungs.
That need to belong and be wanted; that need to HAVE something, anything just for himself.
And now...he has. He's finally found it.
This infinitely odd man, soft and gentle and feral; a cat-like toddler with a Harvard mind and Kindergarten wits. This knot of unspoken sweetness and pain; his gas-light blue eyes, those flat cheekbones, his small, pixie-like nose. So unlike Keller; so unlike anyone.
A twisted man - almost as twisted as Chris - wanting him. Needing him. In spite of everything.
And he'll be damned if he's gonna let this one slip through his fingers, he's let too much slip away and disappear...
Besides, what the hell else does he have left?!...
(--You've managed to fuck yourself out of any other options, Chris. You'll have to live and die in here; your entire future...you already know it. But - at least - you won't have to go through it alone.'--)
Not for the next three or so years, anyway.
Time - like everything else in jail - has a pace of its own. Different than on the outside.
Just like people. Just like people and their hopes, their fears, their desires.
Just like people...and their parole hearings.
Later that night, a small squeaking noise from the lower bunk, pale white, bare feet leaning over the edge.
Smooth, quiet, barely perceptible:
(--'With me. Please.'--)
White, tense knuckles and small, shivering feet slowly, reluctantly disappear back into the all-engulfing shadows from where they had appeared.
For the moment - for one.
Forever - for the other.
(Touch me the way I want you to...)
---end of part 10/11---
Part 11/11 - Epilogue: "there's no place like *home*..."
(Over. Nicest part of release - *any* release - is the feeling of surrender. Surrender to what? A new beginning? Right... More like breathing life inside a well-nested lie, making it seem real enough, true enough to actually pass for reality. Brand new day. Release.)
Okay. So lockdown's over, everybody can roam around at their own pseudo-free will...
Anyway, a bigger cage is still better than a smaller one, right?
What matters is that he's out and he can at least hope of winning at a game of cards and...(--'Please, God, please. Just once would do, please!...'--) LOSE at a game of chess...
Same mindless, boring things he used to do before, coming back to Toby within the same numbing biorhythm.
Seeing Busmalis' childish, comforting leer while staring at Miss Sally's tits (--'sorry: *breasts*'--) and O'Reily's psychotic grin when he puts those magnificent, devilish wits of his to work for accomplishing something that doesn't involve getting someone maimed or killed...or just seeding pure mayhem -- winning at chess. Yep, one thing's for sure: Ryan's a whole lot smarter than his podmate.
And speaking of which...what else does the end of lockdown imply?
(--'It's official, my dear friend, you can't do shit to hide away from it now.'--)
Fag or prag or simply fucking nutcase junkie - he can't run away from it. And neither can Chris.
It would be almost excruciatingly embarrassing - if it weren't so fucked up, so weirdly hilarious.
Both of them, they're 'quite the pair'...
Fucking 'two of a kind'...
Just like O'Reily puts it:
"The guy breaks your arms and now you fuck him. That's surreal, man. Only you - or him - could come up with this kind of shit. You're both fucking crazy."
(--'Yeah... But then again...I wouldn't consider killing the husband of the woman you love and fucking up your brother's life in the process exactly 'sane' either.'--)
And - his friend - the one he kept whining to Chris about how he wanted, needed to talk to him...well, Said's proving to be his usual self: annoying. Self-righteous. So fucking self-righteous it makes Toby...(--What? You're not gonna say you wish the lockdown hadn't ended, are you?'--) Okay, he's not about to say that, but...
Things are not exactly *easy*.
And - with that - everything turns back to his seemingly predestined mate: strutting around the quad like one of those fucking big cats you get to see on the Discovery channel.
Marking its territory.
(--'Its territory being...*you*. Brilliant.'--)
Brushing his stubbled jaw across Toby's own - pure intent and a clear message within his outstretched arm around his shoulders to every fuckwad in Em City: "back off, he's MINE."
(--'Yeah, fucking brilliant.'--)
Passion *or* possession? Who knows? Who the fuck cares?
Something which - in prison logic or any other logic for that matter - makes all the difference.
'Cause Toby knows what it means; and he doesn't wanna go back there. (--'No way, no fucking way. No chance in hell.'--)
Having Keller's annoyed words whispered almost threateningly, when nobody's around to listen:
"What the fuck do you care about what they say? You know...and I know... That's all that matters, all that should matter."
And Beecher asking himself silently:
"Know *what* exactly?!..."
As far as the inmates in Em City are concerned, they're two guys fucking each other up the ass.
As far as the men that know them a bit better, they're a couple of really fucked up weirdos spinning in a closed circle of two. Tangled. Obsessive. Self-destructive.
But as far as the rest of the inmates are concerned...somebody's got to be on top, right? 'Cause...they are in prison. And one of them just HAS to be the other's. (Property.)
"What the fuck do you care, Toby? You know...and I know..."
(--'Yeah, I know...'--)
Still, that doesn't solve shit.
But Toby knows, and Keller seems to fucking live off it - it's a whole lot better than what they had before. And Chris' arms around him, with everybody watching, with the hacks yelling at them like they're in junior high...it feels kind of *nice*. It feels good. Fun. (--'Crazy.'--)
For this man - Chris, Christopher Keller - cares enough about him to risk everything: his own safety, his own life.
Not to mention his rep. Which - after all - is all one can have in prison. In everybody else's eyes, they're both fucked up - fig and lit. And...dangerous. (Together.)
Just ask Andy.
(--'Yeah, just ask *Andy*...'--)
What unites them; and what separates them.
Toby knows part of what drives Keller to care so much about him is the same thing that sets them so far apart. That deep-seated belief Chris seems to have that Toby's different. That there's something that sets him apart from the rest of the guys in Oz; apart from him.
And...(--'what exactly is that? My conscience? My fucking *feelings*? I've killed a man. I killed him with my bare hands, watched his life drain out of him, flowing though my fingers. I've tried to kill you... And Andy... Andy. If guilt after the fact counts as a conscience, then conscience is completely useless. Unimportant. Just another example of how I always manage to turn every horrible thing I do into something about myself. *Only* myself. I guess the difference between you and me, Chris...lays only in the fact that I twist and torment myself about it with everybody watching. I'm a poser. But then again...so are you. Just that you hide your guilt, your demons, behind indifference. Your best protective mechanism - 'til it breaks down that is...'--)
And that means...they're not *that* different. They're both just as powerful; just as weak.
Both just as guilty.
Neither one of them is a *better* man.
Needy, moody, always-up-for-a-fight, fucked up junkies. Feeding off each other like animals.
(--'Always up and ready for a fun-filled, entertaining stage show for Tim McManus' tit-smiling glass-people of Em City. Yay!...'--)
The odd couple of Em City.
(--'Always at your disposal.'--)
Oh, yeah...lockdown's over all right!
Best example? Hoyt - jeering behind them, in his unmistakable tone:
There's no place like *home*...
(Lie, truth, brand new beginning... Who the fuck cares? One day follows another, darkness chases daylight. Seconds swallow themselves, hours devour each other. 'Til time finally stands still. Until then, there really ain't nothing to do but wait. Eat, sleep, piss. Fuck. Hate. Love. Think... Until your head, your heart, your dick explodes. All in between - just days and nights, marks on the calendar. Marks with different meanings for different people, but still...only marks.)