Art Gallardo sat alone in his little red Honda Civic, unable to make up his mind. It was eight o’clock at night, and he had left work two hours ago. Instead of heading straight home, however, he had parked on this busy section of Pacific Coast Highway in Long Beach, where he sat glancing up and down the sidewalk, watching the foot traffic across the street, making sure no one he knew was watching him. He kept his eye out for any familiar vehicles on the road. He smoked a cigarette and listened to Laker announcer Chick Hearn call the play-by-play on the radio, as Los Angeles played Utah. Shaquille O’Neal was having a good night, as was Kobe Bryant and the rest of the Laker starters. They led by three in the first few minutes of the first quarter. It was still far too early to tell if they could whip the Jazz, however, who had beaten them the last time they met. It could go either way. It would be a thriller, for sure.

Art hadn't been to a porno shop in at least five years. He had never been to this particular store. He heard some of the guys at his meeting mention this particular one, but he’d still be shocked and embarrassed if one of them showed up in the parking lot right now. What would he tell them if they saw him and asked him what he was doing there? What was he doing sitting alone in his car across the street from an adult bookstore? He fished for alibis. He could say he had a terrible headache and had to pull over to rest. Or he could say he was tired and had been falling asleep at the wheel and had to catch a little shut-eye before heading home. Yeah, but in front of an adult bookstore? Of course, if they saw him inside the store, he wouldn’t have a good alibi at all. To hell with it, he thought. If they saw him, they saw him. What did they care what he was doing? It was his own damn life! Still, he didn't move.

He simply couldn't decide. He felt frozen, like he had suddenly turned catatonic or awakened in a huge block of ice and could only stare in front of him, watching the early evening traffic wind its way up and down Pacific Coast Highway. He looked back to the days when it would have been simple - getting out of the car and walking across the street to the adult bookstore on the corner. In those days, when he was deeply into porno and bought it weekly, his mind would already have been made up by the time he parked the car, the pull was just too strong. He didn't have to ask himself, "What shall I do?" He already knew. It was a no-brainer. Zoom! He'd be out of the car in no time, and, when he returned he'd be maybe five, ten, fifteen dollars poorer. And he'd regret it and, if he had more money he'd continue to cruise the highway and the streets adjoining it before he stopped again. It had gone on and on like that, he recalled. Now it simply wasn't that easy. It had been more than five years. He couldn't decide.

In the old days, when he was still "acting out," Art might find himself on Hawthorne Boulevard, in Lennox, just driving around, stopping at this store or that theater, asking women on the sidewalk if they were looking for a date. Pretending. Acting cool. Feeling like an idiot. Spending money. Becoming restless, even frantic. Why, it could be any city - Hollywood, Santa Monica, Long Beach.

On the radio the buzzer had sounded, signaling the end of the first quarter. He lit another cigarette, his second of the evening. He also hadn't smoked in five years. It felt unnatural to him now, and the smoke burned his lungs, but he knew that it would start feeling normal again. There was a sweetness in the familiar aroma rising to his nostrils. He enjoyed the whole ritual of reaching for his matches, balancing the stick of tobacco between two fingers and tapping the ash into the ashtray, which had never been used in this car, which was four years old.

He had stopped smoking many times when he was still in college. But each time he would start all over again. That's what he felt this evening, listening to the Laker game and trying to make up his mind whether to enter the porno shop or just continue driving and go home. Home to boring TV shows. To a clinging wife, who loved him to death and wanted to make a happy life for both of them. But it would take some doing because he expected to be laid off in a couple of months and hadn't been in the job market in years.

Another development that got him down was that his father had died two months ago. The father who had all but ignored him in his teenage years, who had belittled and ridiculed him in front of relatives and friends and who had thought he would never amount to much, unlike his younger brother, who supposedly inherited the brains in the family. His father was surprised that he actually succeeded in earning an engineering degree and landing a job in a large aerospace company in California. He had hated his father's guts. He had hated his mother, too, for marrying him and sharing his perfectionist mindset. He had hated his younger brother, Ed, for getting all the A’s that he hadn’t gotten, for winning college scholarships and, later, launching a medical career at Loma Linda.

Now his father was dead. Gone. But Art could still hear his loud voice barking commands at breakfast: "Shut up, you idiot! Use your head! Why can’t you be like Ed?"

His father had introduced him to pornography when he was ten. Indirectly, that is. He didn't hand him a magazine and say, "This is a porno magazine. You'll like it. Pornography's good for a growing boy!" He never said that. But he did leave his magazines in the garage where they were easy to find. All Art and his brother Ed had to do was rummage through the old newspapers and paper bags and - voila! - like gold at the end of a treasure hunt, there they were, under a stack of Time or Newsweek magazines or a bunch of newspapers, or else under some dirty laundry. Sometimes in the trash can or at the bottom of some drawer in his parents' bedroom.

He liked it - the pornography. He didn't like it in the beginning. Then he discovered there were different types of pornography. There were many different types of pictures. Some were really beautiful, and he could imagine seeing some of these women in TV commercials or in regular magazines. The only difference was that, in the porno magazines, they didn't have all their clothes on. But other pictures were very raw. They were really dirty. They showed women sucking men off. They showed fresh semen squirting onto their faces. Some of them were smiling. Most had a sort of doped look on their faces. And he didn't like those types of pictures as he did the others, the ones that made the women look like super models - but with their clothes off. He liked those the best.

It was only later that he started liking the other kind. The raw pictures. The pictures where the women looked like zombies, like they were half-asleep and had become mere objects. Things. And then he had gotten scared, when he was in his late twenties and still looked at porno magazines. Because he started seeing himself change. Because then he started looking at real women like he was looking at the sexy pictures in the porno magazines. He started looking at real women as things, too. As objects. And he didn't like what he was turning into. Deep down inside he found himself loathing this newly acquired interest.

Years later he remembered reading a book about the serial killer Ted Bundy and was horrified to discover that he could identify with him, with the way he thought and behaved. Acting one way in public, another way when alone. The same with John Wayne Gacy, the guy who murdered over thirty young men, then buried them under and around his house. He was scared for his sanity that - while reading Gacy’s story - he could actually relate to such a monster, who eventually ended up on death row like Bundy. He later watched an interview of Bundy, taped hours before his execution, in which he called pornography a deadly addiction.

Art sat and smoked and listened to the game. The Lakers lost the lead on a Karl Malone jumper, but regained it on a three-pointer by Derek Fisher twenty seconds later. He remembered how, not too long ago, he had listened to ball games while cruising the streets of Los Angeles. He recalled how, once, he had listened to an entire basketball game - nearly two and a half hours - before picking up a prostitute near Vine Street, in Hollywood, and having sex in the car while parked in some underground garage. He remembered that the sex was lousy and the exchange of money was even worse, and that he had barely enough cash to buy gas to return home on the freeway.

And tonight he felt guilt and shame and a deep inner pain when he thought of his wife waiting for him at home. He had called last Tuesday from work, saying he was coming home late, when, in fact, he just wanted to drive around a little. He just wanted to cruise. He just wanted a little fun, a little excitement. He didn't want to die for it. What was so wrong with that? It was better than getting drunk and beating his wife. Like some guys he’d read about in the newspaper.

But there was a time when he didn't care. There was a time when he thought that he could die for his sex fix. When he spent thousands of dollars in Las Vegas over a weekend, for example, gambling and holing up with hookers near the main strip. Or that time in Harbor City, when he experimented with crack cocaine with a young woman more interested in smoking than sex.

Art Gallardo remembered how bad it had been. How he had almost ended his life with a bullet from a .38 just seven years ago. When he got like that, he wanted to bury himself in another world. He just wanted to be smothered in unending sex till he could no longer breathe. While others buried their hurt in alcohol or drugs, he chose hookers. And pornography. And strip clubs. Anything to take him away from what was real.

When he lived in the Philippines over fifteen years ago, he had discovered prostitution in massage parlors in Manila and Quezon City, and had gotten crabs once and contracted gonorrhea a couple of times. He remembered how cheap sex was out there. It was a poor country, and a lot of the hookers did it just to feed themselves and their families. They didn't do it for the drugs as much as the American hookers did.

He pulled the little lever on the side of his car seat and lay back. But first he snuffed his half-smoked cigarette out in the little ashtray. Then he lay back and closed his eyes. He listened to the game. The Lakers were holding onto a slim lead. Bryant had just scored with a dunk.

Art Gallardo had met Linda Hamm at the urgent care unit of Parkridge Community Hospital when he had had a terrible bout with strep throat. She had taken his pulse and blood pressure, and they had had a friendly conversation about the Philippines, where she had lived as a child while her father served in the Air Force. They started seeing each other and, a couple of years later, married and got an apartment in Lakewood.

Art's family had commented that marrying Linda, who was white, would be an "improvement of the race." He scoffed at it as bullshit, but had prided himself on marrying someone as beautiful and talented as Linda Hamm, who just happened to be white. She was already a nurse when they met and had started teaching at a nearby college once a week.

Art never told her about his problem before they married, and it took a while before he told her about it afterwards. What would he say, he thought? "Oh, dear, by the way, did I ever tell you that I had gonorrhea when I was in the Philippines?" Or "Honey, I used to buy porno magazines every week before we got married." It was better kept a secret.

He could easily have told her two years ago. They'd been married almost a year then, and Art thought it might be time to share THE SECRET. But when Linda had asked him about all the meetings he had to go to, he had said that he was a recovering alcoholic, that he had been sober for several years now, and that going to meetings helped keep him sober. She understood that. She had a cousin who also went to AA meetings. And so he held onto his secret a little longer.

But eventually, Art did share his real problem with Linda because he wanted to come clean and bare his soul to her. She was shocked and fearful at first, but eventually accepted the reality of his condition and they got along fine. She appreciated meeting the wives of Art’s friends, the "sex addicts," as they described themselves. Art was more than four years sober by that time. He had never had an affair on her, been with a prostitute or done any of the other things he had done so much of for most of his life, such as pornography in any form. By his own estimation, he hadn’t even opened a porno magazine in more then three years.

These past three months he felt different, though. He felt the pressure of having to pay a mortgage, search for a new job, and get over the death of a parent he hadn’t really loved. He wanted to bury himself alive sometimes. These days, he could barely perform sexually unless he fed his mind with myriad images of women he met at work, saw on the street, or drank in from magazines, movies and TV shows.

The last time he had been inside an adult bookstore was just before he had landed his present job. In those days he had masturbated many times inside bad smelling cubicles with sticky floors that projected X-rated movies onto the back of a white door that served as the screen. It had cost a quarter for five minutes.

He felt the pull once again, like being sucked into a mighty whirlpool in the middle of the ocean. He was caught in the undercurrent, but somehow, mysteriously, was still able to keep his head above water - barely. He knew what he would find in there. He pictured hundreds of glossy color photos on magazine and book covers and the inviting, seductive expressions on the faces of the sexy models. He imagined sitting in one of the quarter arcades and jerking off in front of that small screen. A big part of him wanted to enter that world again. To just forget all the responsibility at home, the impending layoff at work, and the death of a father with whom he had not made peace before he died. To be damned and bury himself alive for an hour or two.

Except that he knew that that's not what would happen. An hour would very likely stretch into several hours. He might recover from the slip tomorrow morning, but would have to face the demon again that night or the next. One night could easily turn into a week of turmoil. A week could turn into a month, then a year of despair, lying, and deception.

He risked losing the trust of his wife and those close to him forever. What could he tell them after all this time? That he didn't know what he was doing? Bullshit! That's what it would be. That he couldn't help himself? More bullshit!

He imagined himself divorced and living in a small studio apartment once again. He saw his wife looking lonesome and abandoned, crying because he had been a sonuvabitch who couldn't be a normal, responsible adult human being. He had to be a jerk and a pervert and a low life. Could he face that? Could he honestly face that? And for what? For a few sex thrills that would be over in minutes?

But what was wrong with a few minutes of physical pleasure and intense emotional release? he thought. He was tense, under a lot of pressure at work, at home. He was bored. He was restless. He needed to unwind. He never had a chance to unwind anymore. He hadn't cut loose in a long time. What could be so wrong with that?

The battle raged within his mind. And he did nothing but sit and wait. He did say a silent prayer. And lie back in the car, listening to the Laker game on the radio.

He watched the men coming in and out of the big black door of the porno shop. He didn’t know any of them. A few were business-types, wearing neckties like him, but most were more casually dressed, in T-shirts, tank tops or light sweaters. They walked rapidly, not wishing to linger near the entrance where the big yellow neon sign screamed its trade in bold black letters, "ADULT BOOKS." Two women hung out at one corner twenty yards away. Probably hookers, he thought. One was tall and skinny with brown hair, looking about thirty and wearing a ratty old gray sweater. The other was a short, stocky blonde with large breasts and wearing a black dress and too much makeup. He wasn’t ready to pick up a woman yet. He feared VD too much. And they didn’t look appetizing at all. They struck him as dirty, and he knew they’d never be able to live up to his fantasies.

Art knew there would be few surprises inside the store. He recalled everything as if it were only yesterday. The excitement, the pleasure of delving into the forbidden. He pictured the racks of color magazines, with phone listings for outcall massage and for men and women looking for thrills. He saw shelf upon shelf of videos depicting every sex act imaginable, from oral to anal, gay, straight, maybe even bestiality. Opening up a whole can of worms. Sinking into a vortex. Like being pulled by a powerful electronic magnet which he was completely powerless to resist.

He thought about it deep and hard. Then he stopped thinking, and decided to just go for it. What was the big deal anyway? he thought. He was young, he had a whole lifetime in front of him. It wasn’t like he was actually harming someone. It wasn’t like he was going to rape anyone or molest a child. He just wanted a little harmless fun, the kind of fun that worked for him just a few years ago. Porno was better than hookers. At least he couldn’t catch the clap through masturbation. His hand trembled as he jerked the car door open.

As he stepped onto the busy street, he caught a fleeting glimpse in his mind's eye of money flying away and disappearing from his wallet, of his wife cooking dinner at home and wondering where he was. But he stepped out of the car anyway, looked up and down the street, and crossed it. The biggest image in his mind's eye, however, was of his five years of "sobriety" flying out the window. Five years of abstaining from this type of behavior, five years of not messing up. He saw himself sitting in a hundred different meetings in dozens of meeting rooms - in churches, in school classrooms, in hospital offices or dining rooms. He saw a desperate Art Gallardo making phone calls, writing, reading, talking to people, praying on his knees at his apartment before he got married. He saw a confident and grateful Art Gallardo talking to new people, returning phone calls, encouraging others like him to get sober too. He saw these new guys pouring their hearts out to him and hanging onto every word he spoke with hope that things would indeed get better. He saw himself standing at a podium and speaking before a hundred people, telling them "how he did it." He heard their applause as they related to his story, their laughter as they saw themselves in his shoes. He saw the faces of all the people who had helped him turn his back on his wretched lifestyle and who had introduced him to a life of hope, of strength, of peace. Of serenity. He looked back at the long, hard road he had followed to get him where he was today. He abhorred the thought of losing everything for a few stupid thrills.

He couldn't let it happen! He couldn't just throw it all away! "No! No!" he thought, his head spinning, his jaw setting. "No!" He stopped at the big black wooden door leading into the store, awakening as if from a trance. He thought he could hear or feel a gigantic "FFFRROOOOOOMP!" as his soul was yanked back, away from an abyss by an invisible hand or a one-thousand-horse-power vacuum cleaner that pulled him back from the black hole of the little movie booths and the colorful glossy magazines and videos. He started back to his car, head down, breathing hard.

He hadn't taken two steps when the door burst open. Boom! Art turned his head and saw the tall, young man in a red T-shirt and faded levis, with a dead look on his face. It took him a second, but he recognized the man as a newcomer at one of his meetings. Carl? Charles? What was his name? Carlos! His name was Carlos. The fellow made a beeline for the parking lot beside the bookstore. Art called out to him, still unsure if it was the guy named Carlos or not.

The man stopped and turned towards him. Art's eyebrows rose to what felt like a foot high. He felt the blood rush to his face as he nervously cleared his throat.

He said, "Carlos! Is that you?" trying to sound as if nothing were wrong. He forced a smile. He didn't know whether to laugh or hang his head in shame.

"Huh-?" the young man said, looking at him, then down at the sidewalk. "You too?" he replied, looking back up. "What's your name again, man? Didn't I meet you last week?"

"Right!" said Art. Inside he felt shame. He also felt humility. "My name's Art. You're Carlos, aren't you?"

"Yeah," the young man answered sheepishly. He was hanging his head, looking down at the sidewalk. "Let's get away from here, man. I don't think it's a good idea -"

"Right! Not a good idea. You're right. I agree!" Art said, walking with Carlos away from the bookstore. He felt awkward, but he also felt a tremendous sense of relief.

"What're you doing here?" Carlos asked, surprised.

"I don't know!" Art said. "I was feeling crazy tonight."

"Yeah?"

"Un-huhn."

"Crazy, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah. I know what you mean."

"I almost went in there too!" Art said.

"No shit! Not you!"

Art nodded. "Yes, me."

Carlos looked at him hard, leaning back on the trunk of his car. "Damn! You too, huh? I can't believe it! What do you got? Ten years or something?"

"Five," said Art.

"Five years!" said Carlos. "I'll be glad to reach thirty days! I don’t know how you do it."

They were silent for a moment, glancing down the street, watching the cars pass by. A siren sounded in the distance. A car door slammed shut somewhere. Music blared from a passing sports car. Across the street a young Mexican woman was hugging a little boy and comforting him, after he had fallen on the sidewalk and scraped a knee. People were crossing a lighted intersection as several vehicles waited for the light to change.

"You got a few minutes?" Art asked. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

"Well -"

"Whaddaya say we sit down somewhere and get some coffee?" Art suggested. "I can share my story with you. You can share your story with me. There's a coffee shop not far from here."

"I don't know, Art," said Carlos, slowly shaking his head. "I feel like shit tonight." He looked up the street, then down at the asphalt.

"I know the feeling," Art said honestly. "I feel like shit too! C'mon! It'll be my treat. We’ll have our own little meeting. Whaddaya say?"

"You sure?" asked Carlos, shuffling his feet on the asphalt.

"Sure, I’m sure," Art said. "The coffee shop's just a few blocks away. It’s called Mom’s Diner. You can follow me. I'm parked across the street." He gestured with his head towards his red Civic. He put his hand on the Carlos’ shoulder. "C’mon, let’s talk. We gotta talk. You know? It’ll be good for both of us. We gotta talk."

"Well, okay. Sure!" Carlos replied, looking across at Art sheepishly. "Shit, let's get outta here!"

They walked to their respective cars and left the bookstore, Carlos in his Ford pick-up following Art's red Civic to the coffee shop half a mile away.

Inside his car, Art felt his heart beating like a base drum. "Thank God!" he told himself. He drove purposefully to Mom's Diner. While driving there, he called Linda on his cell phone, apologizing and saying he’d be home a little late tonight. "I’ll make it up to you," he said. "I love you." He felt a sense of mission. He would buy Carlos and himself a cup of coffee. Hell, he would treat him to pie or a whole damn sandwich, if he wanted one. He pulled into the coffee shop parking lot. He watched Carlos pull in and park. Art paused before opening his car door.

On the radio, Laker announcer Chick Hearn excitedly described a fabulous three-hundred-sixty-degree move by Kobe Bryant, putting the Lakers in the lead once again. The buzzer sounded. The first half was over. He couldn’t wait for the second half to begin.