"A Blue Chaise Lounge" by Nancy Wiltbank Johnson

A Blue Chaise Lounge

by Nancy Wiltbank Johnson

(rough draft)

[Melissa] has curly short hair and a little dimple in her cheek. Her mouth moves constantly and girls surround her and giggle at everything she says. She's the kind of person who can wear something weird to school, like a beret, and by the end of the week every other girl in the hall is wearing a beret. She talks to teachers the same way she talks to her friends. Adults are delighted by her and no one bugs her about being teacher's pet in every class. 

She squints her eyes when things annoy her. The few times I've seen her looking at me her eyes have been squinty.When she chats with her friends she sometimes takes on an accent and says "dahling" now and then and makes extravagant gestures with her arms. Then she giggles with a wrinkling nose. I don't know what the girls that mob around her are doing. I never notice them. Neither does anybody else. Melissa's vivaciousness eclipses everyone.

I'm vivacious too. My parents and big sisters call me Rah Rah because I'm the family cheerleader. At home my sentences end with exclamation points.Pirouettes and jumping arabesques are how I travel through the rooms of my home. Funny lines just pop out of my mouth without my even thinking about it. 

At school I'm a chameleon. My personality globs up like oatmeal and I blend in with the lockers and floor and smell of junior high. 

In elementary Melissa and I were in girl scouts together and choir and the school play. I sang better, I had the lead part in the play, and I earned almost all the badges in girl scouts. But Melissa had more fun. She was always being chased by boys, giggling with teachers, and squinting her eyes at me if I happened to look towards the warm sunny space that she created. I hate her.

*[The Insult]*

The bus lurches to life with a hiss of steam and pulls out of the parking lot. I stare out the window and make my decision: I'm not coming back to school on Monday. That's easy. I'll convince Mom that I should do home school. That won't be easy. I'll tell her it's just for the rest of this year. Next year will be okay because I'll be in ninth grade at the high school. People aren't as petty at high school as they are at junior high. Is it healthy for a parent to send her child to an institution where she gets harassed in the hall simply because she doesn't wear perfect clothes? The whole thing is my mother's fault. I'd never tell her, though. 

 I curve myself against the green vinyl seat and lean my head against the window. With my neck totally relaxed my head bounces up and down against the glass. hate this bus. Reba Arnold is sitting next to me. We've been bus friends since third grade. At school we hang out in different groups. Sometimes she bugs me, though. Like today, she didn't even ask me what was wrong. I should have said something, I know I can't expect her to guess that I had a lousy day, but it bugs me that she just plops down on the seat next to me then starts a conversation with Steve Orchard in front of us. She never said boo to me.

This bus stinks. Did everybody pay in farts to get on? School busses always smell like this, as if everyone saves up their gas for the ride home. I want to tell Reba, Hey, ever notice how we all chip in gas for the ride home. She'd say something about using jet-propulsion to get home faster. I read somewhere that every human being farts at least five times a day. Even the dainty little cheerleaders. That'd be hilarious to see. Even dainty little Chip Duffy. I don't know. Maybe not. He's not human. He isn't like the rest of us slobs. If he wants new jeans he tells his sweet mama; then Honey Pie Georgia pats his cheek and says, "Sure, sugah" and he gets them. And they fit perfectly on his bony little butt.

He doesn't know what it's like to see your mom strong and efficient and capable and you know that if you ask for a pair of jeans it would stun her. She doesn't have the money for that. It would crumble her happy efficiency with one blow. Most women shrink at the thought of raising six kids but Mom knows she's a Super woman. Just look at how happy her children are. We're proof. I can't destroy her proof.

"Hey, Jen," Reba says. She's got her back against the seat in front of us and her legs are scrunched up on our seat so she can look at Nikes and me."Didn't I tell you about Lori Helms and Jack Thomas?"

"Nope." And don't bother. I hold onto the seat by Reba's head as the bus lurches forward after dropping off the trailer park kids. I'm staring ahead at Kendra and Bonnie's fluffy hair. Bonnie's mom does hair and they always get identical cuts. This month they have it in shoulder length layers with blond highlights. Bonnie turns her head and we accidentally meet eyes. She narrows hers to tiny slits and then turns back. Soon I hear double giggling shrieks. What is their problem?

I am so nothing. I'm a flickering on and off person-sized space taker. I don't really exist. This hurts too much to exist. Mrs. Mullins gave me all those IQ tests and told me I was the most gifted and talented student in eighth grade. Big deal. Why don't any of those gifts convert to common sense? I have no idea how to dress. It isn't just a question of money. It's a good thing I don't have money to spend on clothes. I'd waste it on things that look dumb on me. Who cares what I wear anyway? Like it makes any difference. As if that's going to change my pitiful personality. Stop whining stop whining! What would Mother Teresa think? I wish Mother Teresa were here. She'd care. No, she'd laugh. Or maybe she'd cry because I'm wasting my energy on so much nothing when there are poor people to care for who have bloated bellies and gnats in their eyes and lice gnawing their hair.

Kayla Dredge is in front of me and I watch her scream at some greasy boys behind me. I can't her what she's saying over the roar of adolescence. She used to be so nice. Once we had pet caterpillars at school together. Now she dresses in tight shirts and shorts, totally slutty. I watch Kayla flip the boys off. I wish I had her boldness so I could flip off Kendra and Bonnie next time they turnaround. But I don't do that. I'm a goodie goodie Peon girl. Besides, it would be hypocritical of me.

One time, I think I was in sixth grade, I sent a letter to the editor of the county newspaper. I wrote about how unfair it was that simply because a few people flipped off other people that all the rest of us aren't allowed to use our solitary middle fingers. I was fervent and completely sincere. I called it finger bigotry and wrote about the injustice to veterans who may have lost all of their other fingers in battle or foreigners who don't know our customs. It didn't get published.

After I mailed the letter, I carefully explained the issue to Reba. I wanted someone to join me in my protest. It was about more than just the middle finger thing. I couldn't explain it but it was about more.

Of course she laughed. She thought I was joking. I pretended like I was.Man, I haven't thought about that dumb letter in ages. I vowed that I would never write another letter to the editor. And I haven't. I used to write them all the time.I have a whole stack of rejection form letters they sent to me that say something about the limited space, blah blah, please share your views with us again. They probably wondered what happened to me. 

I don't blame Reba for laughing. Laughter is the skeleton our friendship hangs on. That's what we do together. I just hoped we could do something else too. 

 ***

Reba and I have ridden the same bus since I moved here in third grade. I noticed her the first time I rode the bus. She wore white go-go boots and mini skirts that were out of style. The bus has always stopped at a neat little corner of my middle class subdivision to pick up all the neighborhood kids. Every time I got on Reba was already there. Every day after school I've watched Reba, and later her three tangled-hair sisters, get off the bus at a little grayish house with a long covered front porch. The whole building looks like it's about to fall over. There's so much junk in the yard some of the bus brats call Reba's house the garbage dump.

Anyway, one day after school in third grade Flint Berkley, he was a fifth grader and my next door neighbor, was sitting behind me. All of a sudden he whispered in my ear, "Don't look now, Jennette, but I think the Go-Go dancer's looking to be your next best friend." Huh? I didn't know what he was talking about until Reba plopped herself onto the empty green vinyl seat next to me. 

 I watched her plump thighs jiggle against the squeaky vinyl.I was scared to death to have Reba so close. She was so different from everyone else on the bus. But something happened that day. I can't remember exactly what it was except that I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants. And sometimes those laughs were at my own stupid jokes that had never been funny to anyone but me before. But Reba and I laughed at them, so hard we had to hold onto each other for support. That day was the first of many times that the bus driver got mad at me. It was exhilarating. He pointed his dirty finger at me in the mirror and yelled, "Hey, you, girl. Don't stand on the seat. Just sit down and shut up, girl!"I was ashamed. But then Reba laughed so I laughed. Without planning it we both spun around and pointed at Flint and yelled, "Just sit down and shut up,girl."

 We yelled it at everyone on the noisy bus. We couldn't understand why no one else laughed. It was hilarious.

***

"Now if ya'll will look to the right you will see the lovely sight of the city garbage dump!" Brett Clark screams, two seats behind us on the other side of the aisle. He's in sixth grade and a Snob Mobber-in-training and he's my neighbor too. And how's this for a weird coincidence? His dad is a veterinarian and is partner to Skinny Butt Duffy's dad. Help! I'm surrounded by spoiled brats. Somebody save me.

Nikes asks Reba, "Why don't ya'll ever clean this place up?" What a jerk.He's been sitting there with Reba for twenty minutes laughing at all of her jokes like they're best buddies and now he has the nerve to say that?

But Reba's cool. She pushes her wiry black hair behind her ears and look sat him with her chin down and her eyebrows up, "You think this is bad? You ought to see the inside.

"Why couldn't I have Reba's mouth today just for five minutes? When Duff-Butt made fun of my jeans I'd have said, "You think this is bad, you ought to see my underwear." But I'd never be able to say that. I'd never even think of it. Not only do I not have any fashion sense I have no sense of humor. Reba's the only one who laughs at my jokes. That's probably why I hang out with her. 

I follow Reba off the bus. I remind myself to curl around my stuff but I'm too nervous. Let's just go, let's just do this. As I climb down the rubber matted bus steps I expect someone to yell something at me, some kind of last insult or message, something that I can take from my former life into the new one I'm about to discover.The lawn of Reba's front yard is uneven hills of packed-down dirt. I pass piles of rotting lumber and some buckets filled with thick greenish-gray liquid. I step over various rusty metal chunks, maybe car parts. The one piece of landscaping is a big round tree stump, the size of a pizza.

An overturned wooden crate is the step leading up to the porch. It jiggles and creaks when I put my weight onto it. I quickly step off of it. The front of the house is mostly gray, but now that I'm up close I notice that it was once painted. Puke green paint flakes cling desperately to the wall, as if it were their duty to keep the whole structure from disintegrating on the spot.

Reba holds the door open and I'm met by a wall of smell: toilet, spoiled meat and layers of cigarette smoke. I instinctively open my lips and stop breathing through my nose. Inside the room is dark, even though it's no later than four o'clock.

A whiny female voice slurs from the murk. "Shut that door, you damn kids." Excuse me? Gee, thanks for making me feel so welcome, Mrs. Arnold.Oh, I mean Faye. Reba told me to call her Faye. I reach behind me and shove the door toward the frame. It slams. "Dammit. I've got a headache!" This time the voice sobs, each word pronounced slowly as if it were sucking the last breath out of her lungs.

Now that I'm cut off from the outside light, I'm drawn to the friendly glow of the console television in the corner. A resonant and astonished male voice announces that Pepto-Bismal is available at a fine store near you. 

The light from the TV bounces off sheets of crumbling aluminum foil that cover three of the windows in the tiny room that is part living room, part kitchen.

A baby voice yells, "Weva!" A toddler with black sticky hair, yellow shorts, and no shirt barrels into Reba, who's casually making her way to the sink.

"Hey, Pauletta," Reba greets the toddler.Pauletta twines her bony arms around Reba's leg and rubs her face and nose back and forth against Reba's thigh while she singsongs, "Weva, Weva, Weva."

"Okay, Pauletta." Reba drags her off her leg. "Oh, man, Pauletta, what'd you get all over my jeans? Yuck. I am not your personal walking, talking handkerchief.

"Pauletta dances around Reba, singing her name, while Reba picks up a sour gray cloth and wipes the baby snot off her jeans.

"Will somebody feed that baby something?" This time Faye's voice is a yap. "And I mean right now."

"Mama," Reba yells. Her voice sounds sweet but she's rolling her eyes."Jennette's here. She's staying the night, remember?"

"Yeah." I hear a creak, like someone's leaning back into a chair. I look toward where the voice is coming from. My eyes are adjusting to the haze. Faye is slumped into a sagging couch facing the television. The flickering images from the TV splatter against her face and are sucked into the black holes that are her eyes. Her face is white and lumpy like it's made of globs of bread dough clumped together.

Everything about Faye Arnold droops. Under her vacant eyes two puffy gray bags droop down her face. Her mouth hangs open in the traditional zombie TV-mouth and becomes three chins that plunge into her chest. Her huge boobs droop onto her pudgy belly that sinks lethargically into her lap. The faded chartreuse couch from which she rules her household sags under her weight. It is thread bare and covered with a pattern that may have once been green and yellow flowers. With its sagging nature I can't imagine a more perfect seat for Faye Arnold.

"Want a mustard sandwich, Jen?" I turn around to where Reba is busy at the cluttered kitchen table. Reba scrapes a knife around the bottom of a squat jar until she lifts out a yellow glob. Then she spreads the mustard in a thick layer onto a piece of white bread, which she folds in half and eats in two bites. As she chews she points her chin at me and asks again, "You want one?"

"No, thanks." I watch fascinated, trying not to stare, as she eats four more of her sandwiches. Standing alone in the middle of the dark room I begin to feel like I'm on display. I don't care about my clothes anymore but I'm self conscious of my cleanliness and my parent's sobriety. I try to act like I'm used to sharing a room with an alcoholic mother.

Reba's three younger sisters are Darlene, Maxina, and Dixie and I know them because they ride the bus. They're mouthy on the bus but since they got home they've just kind of silently slunk around. Now they're all on the couch watching Bewitched, curled up like three kittens against their Mama. I can't comprehend their adoration for the woman.

The only other chair is a huge recliner and Pauletta's tiny body is immersed in the brown scratchy upholstery. She lies on the seat with only her neck propped up by the cushioned back. She has scooted her bottom almost off the seat so that if she stretches her legs, the tips of her pointed toes cling to the edge of the footrest.

I sit down on the floor after pushing aside some jeans that smell like pee, a half a clump of uncooked Ramen noodles, and a bunch of rubber bands. The floor is grimy and made of Chipped plastic tiles, the kind you install yourself.Between each tile is a ridge filled with black gunk. A cockroach patrols the gunk,protective of his property. I try to keep myself in the middle of one of the tiles. I stare hard at Bewitched like everyone else. Are they really as absorbed with this as they look? It's the one where Endora makes it so that Darren's ears grow every time he tells a lie. When the canned laughter sounds I stare harder. What time is it? How many reruns until morning?

"Jen," Reba half whispers. I look around at her by the table and she nods toward the back of the house. She starts walking back so I get up. I follow her into a room that's filled with a queen-sized bed. A dingy blue sheet is attached to only one of the corners and is bunched there in a ball. The stained mattress is pink with black pinstripes through it. In the corner is a pyramid, probably four feet tall, made of Coors beer cans. Someone's an artist. There's a chair or something next to that stacked with dirty clothes. The floor is covered with more junk, just like the other room.

"Let's call someone," Reba says as she sits down on the bed next to a cardboard box that serves as a nightstand. She takes a long blue phone receiver out of the cradle that rests on the box next to a shade-less lamp. Next to the blue phone sits is a dingy white phone. Reba got the blue one for her twelfth birthday.And not just the phone. They gave her her own phone line, too. It's so weird that she lives in this shack, but she has her own private phone line. She needs it too,the way she ties up phones. When she calls me she talks for forty-five minutes and if I try to talk she starts humming or yelling at one of her little sisters. And I'm only one of her regular calls. She always calls Stella and Pam and them. And then she has her non regulars, people she calls just for the heck of it. One time she called Mike McAllen to ask him who he liked. She swore she didn't tell him that I liked him.

Reba starts dialing and I look around for a place to sit. We're going to be here a while. It's her after school fix. Even when she comes to my house she has to do it. So what am I supposed to do while she talks? There's always Bewitched with the cockroach in the other room. I drop down on the other side of the pink mattress. This is a good time to feel sorry for myself. I deserve it. What a crappy day this has been. I look around at all the piles of crumpled clothing. How many roaches are staring at me from beneath those piles? Where am I going to sleep tonight? "Whose room is this, Reba?" 

I ask loudly. I'm trying to sound rude. I'm not very good at it."Mama's," says Reba, "Hey, yeah, can I talk to Stella?" At first I wonder why she's asking me and then I realize that she's talking to someone at Stella's house.

So this is Faye's bedroom. It's perfect. I mean, it fits her. What does the woman do all day? Okay, my house is not perfect, you know, with eight of us it's a mess most of the time. But this place . . .

I stare at the pyramid and count the beer cans on the bottom level. There are eight. Eight at the bottom plus one on the top is nine, seven on the next row plus two is nine, six plus three is nine, five plus four is nine, nine times four is thirty-six. Thirty-six beers gave their lives to make this pyramid possible. See how useful it is that I'm gifted and talented?

On the floor next to the pyramid is an empty can of pork and beans with a fork cemented to the inside by dried beans. Somebody's been eating in bed.There's a bottle turned on its side that has a few shriveled pickles inside. The pickle juice spilled out and mixed with the thick dust on the floor and made a clump of pickle mud. I want to slap Faye Arnold upside the head. Who's raising these girls?

Right next to the pickle mud I notice the leg of a chair. It's carved out of light brown, glossy wood. It's elegantly slender and I follow it as it curves up to the upholstery. Rich blue flawless velvet covers the chair. Deep blue, almost purple. Not the noisy obnoxious purple that I like, but dignified, royal looking. Why didn't I notice this beautiful chair when I first walked in? It's covered with piles of clothes and junk and as I clear stuff away I realize it isn't even a chair.What do you call these things? It's kind of like a couch without a back and one of the sides curves up so you can lean your back against it. On the cover of our game of Clue at home there's a picture of all the rich murder suspects sitting around and Miss Scarlet sits on one of these couches holding a cigarette in a long ivory holder. Except she's not sitting, you don't sit on one of these, you sort of drape yourself on it. You lounge in it. That's what it's called. It's a chaise lounge. What is Faye Arnold doing with a perfect blue velvet chaise lounge in her bedroom?

It doesn't make sense. Where could this have come from? This does not go with the drooping woman swimming around in alcoholism and watching Bewitched in the other room. It doesn't belong here. It doesn't fit with any of it,not with Faye, not with the pickle mud, not with the junkyard front yard, not with the scorched spaghetti pot in the sink or the wastebasket in the bathroom overflowing with used toilet paper because you're not allowed to flush it. An elegant chaise lounge doesn't belong in the back bedroom of a shack behind the Bronco Drive-in Theatre.

It belongs . . . oh, I don't know where. Not at my house, that's for sure. It belongs to a polished woman, someone who is the opposite of Faye.

Oh. I know who. I hate that the chaise lounge would look right with her,but it would. Georgia Duffy. Duff-butt's mother. I can see her feathery short black hair shining against the blue curve as she tilts her head against it and laugh sat a sophisticated joke, maybe about the little Country Club girl who only owns one pair of jeans and they're too big for her. Georgia's glowing red nails would casually tap against the carved wood trim and her silk pant suited legs would slide against the velvet. . . Stop! This is Faye Arnold's chaise lounge, not Georgia Duffy's. Somehow, even though it doesn't seem possible, it belongs here. Somewhere under all of Faye's drooping bewilderment is a woman who owns a royal blue velvet chaise lounge.

I finish removing all the junk off the chaise lounge and hesitate. Then,reverently, I lower myself lightly onto the cushioned edge. Carefully, I lay my cheek against the almost-purple velvet. I tuck my feet up, careful to avoid upsetting the beer cans and let myself sink into the luxurious softness.

"Where did Faye get this?" I didn't know I said it out loud until Reba jerks her head around to look at me. She's been lying on the bed facing the ceiling,tossing and catching a dirty white lace pillow, while she holds the blue phone against her ear with her shoulder. She's talking into the phone about Lori Helms and Jack Thomas, I think. She told me all about their gossip on the way home from school. Like I cared. I wonder if Stella cares. I wonder if she's still talking to Stella.

"Huh?" Reba says into the phone while looking at me. "What? What did you say? No, I'm not talking to you, I'm talking to Jen." She's talking to me?Louder she says, "Jen. Jennette Hunt. Yeah, she's over here. She's staying the night. So what do you want?"  The phone is still up against her lips. "Jen! What do you want?"

"Um," I don't want Stella in on this conversation. I want Reba to hang up and talk to me. But I'm too polite to say that and too curious to wait so I say,"Um. Where'd your mom get this?" I tap my finger on the velvet. 

Reba shrugs and says, "Don't know." Then she's tossing the pillow again."So I told you about Jack meeting Lori at the Rial to on Friday, right? Stella! Yes, I'm talking to you! Sheesh.""I don't know" is not an acceptable answer. Didn't Reba ever wonder about this incredible thing? Didn't it ever seem odd compared to everything else about her mom? I rub my ear against the velvet fibers straining to hear the secrets the fabric whispers. I think about Mom. Does she have something like this, something exquisite and hidden? 

 Do I? I lay thinking against the velvet for a while. I know what I need to do.Wait. I don't want to. It's too scary. I'm doing it. I am doing it. I stand up. The tower of cans crashes to the floor. I must have hit it. Reba turns to look, still talking. I mouth the word sorry. Just forget the whole thing. Reba waves a hand and shrugs. I wonder why Faye isn't screaming about the noise. Okay. This dumb tower isn't going to stop me. I know what I have to do.

"Where's your phone book?" I don't say please. Reba shrugs and keep stalking and I look around. It felt weird being in Faye's room at first. I mean, what if I see something, you know, that an adult might have in her bedroom and that I did NOT want to find? But, now I feel like Faye's secrets are familiar.

I finally find an old phone book way under the bed. I come across some green satin panties in the process but I just pretend like they aren't there. I sit back on the chaise lounge with the thin county phonebook on my lap. I rest my feet on the fallen cans and open the book. D. I'm looking for the Ds. D-U. D-U-F-F-Y. Shoot. There are two Duffys. Is Chip's dad Ronald or Scott? I can't remember. I think Scott is right. 

I move over to the bed so I'm sitting next to the phone cradle. I have the phone book open on my lap. I twist my body around so I can see Reba who's still lying in the middle of the bed. I tap my fingers on the D's then on the blue cradle.I wonder if anyone would care if I use the white phone, it's on a different line.Reba talks then looks over at me, then talks some more. I tap more firmly.

Finally she says, "I got to go." She hangs up."Who you calling?" she asks as she hands me the warm phone. 

I take the phone and shrug. 

I dial 445-9192. The beeps make the song"Yankee Doodle". Reba looks where I'm holding my finger in the phone book.

"You still have a crush on Chip Duffy?'

I gape at her. "I've always hated him. You don't know me.

"Then I say into the phone, "Is this Chip? Okay, I just wanted to say that you're a jerk and you stick your butt out when you walk and it looks like a girl.But I don't care. It's dumb to care what someone looks like. So why do you care about my jeans? What's it doing to you? Are you so lifeless . . . I mean do you have so much no life that all you can, I mean, you don't have a life if all you can think about is how I dress. Maybe I should be flattered that Mr. Snob Mob Chip Duffy even noticed a peon like me, but I think you're a dink. Why don't you just go away? I hear they need more veterinarians in Ohio. How about going there, huh?" I take a deep breath and hope Chip doesn't say anything.

"You want to know why I wear ugly clothes? I wear ugly clothes in protest against slavery in Thailand. Did you know that the Thai government supports the slavery of its own citizens? Until that changes I won't change!"

And you probably didn't know this either but not only does Reba Arnold have a flush toilet she has a beautiful velvet chaise lounge--you know, like movie stars have. And, she has her own phone too!" I slam the phone down and notice my watch shivering on my wrist.

"I mean phone LINE," I yell at the silent phone sitting on the table. "I meant to say phone LINE, not just phone. Great. Now he's going to think all you have is a phone that connects to your parents' and I really wanted him to know that the line is yours.

"Reba stares at me and then she moves her lips like she's chewing something with her front teeth. Her cheeks puff up tight and red until she can't hold it any longer and a laugh explodes out of her mouth. More laughs roll up from deep in her throat and they're rough, like rubbing your hand against sandpaper. Her whole body trembles and her boobs shiver like jello (she's much more developed than my triple A bumps--I don't even have enough to call them boobs).

Reba swallows her laughs and tries to hold her face straight long enough to say something. She opens her mouth and nothing comes out but a silent puff of laughter that squeezes her eyes closed. She jiggles even more and holds her stomach and rolls onto her side on the mattress. She lays there laughing until lightening streaks of mascara drizzle from her eyes. I watch her, smiling, proud, shaking my head. I did make a fool of myself but it felt good. I kneel down next to the bed and reach under to grab the Cosmopolitan magazine that I'd noticed when I was looking for the phone book.

I look back up when Reba can finally speak but all she says is "That was too weird. That was too weird," over and over again. I smile and walk back over to the chaise lounge with Faye's magazine. Boldly, I drape my body across the blue curves. I imagine I'm wearing a silk pantsuit that rustles against the velvet while my high heel pumps dangle off the end. The magazine falls open onto my lap to a dog-eared article: "Ten Ways to Keep Him Up All Night." Who are you, Faye Arnold? 

I stroke the velvet and tilt my head to look at Reba. "Let's drag this out to the front porch," I don't ask. "I want to sleep on it tonight."

END