All Maps Are Fiction

by Clyde Witt

  The man to Mike’s right said, “That was an hour ago. You forget to spring your watch ahead last night?”

  “Huh?” Mike said looking at his wristwatch then back at the clock on the wall. “What?”

  A man to his left said, “Daylight Stupid Time, don’t ya know. Around here ya got to spring the clocks ahead at two in the morning in the spring, and spring ‘em back in the fall.”

  Mike stared at his wristwatch. “Christ, I was supposed to meet someone at two thirty this morning—”

  The surrounding men in the bar started to laugh. “Must have been old Ben Wilson,” a man on the right said.

  “Yeah, how did you know?”

  “He pulls that stunt on somebody every year, usually somebody he owes money to. In the spring, when you set the clock from two to three, there ain’t no two thirty. Old fart gets somebody on that every year.”

  Mike dropped a dollar on the bar and started to leave. “Hey, you don’t happen to know where I can catch up with Bradley, err, Ben or whatever the hell his name is, do you?”

  One of the men at the bar said, “Well, usually later in the spring actually, he lives in his motor home, big fancy RV affair, out near Chrystal Park, west of town. Least he usually does later in the year unless it’s getting too hot or stormy in the south. First snowflake falls though, he ups sticks and’s gone, usually Arizona for the winter, I think. Maybe it’s Utah or south Texas. Someplace warm.”

  Mike turned in to Chrystal Park and stopped outside the manager’s office. Yes, Mister Wilson lives here in the summer, had already been there for a few weeks, earlier than usual, but left, maybe two or three days ago, no forwarding address.

  Chapter Twenty

  Aston jumped a curb and coasted to a stop outside the entrance of Tree Top Flyers. She glanced at the sky. Gathering clouds promised another rainy day. In the spot where Eric usually parked his red Porsche 911, sat his black Boxter convertible. She rolled across the lobby and warned Katie that the skateboard lesson with her daughter, scheduled for the afternoon, might not happen. She next rolled down the hallway past Eric’s office and stopped. “Hey Boss, you might want to think about putting the lid on that car of yours out there. It’s not convertible weather. Looks like rain. I’m going to run over to Gabby’s later. Where’s the red one?”

  “Morning, Aston. I thought I asked you not to ride that thing inside? Red’s in for service today. Black was my only color option. I’m not going anyplace, so use it whenever. When are you going to buy a car and give up that skateboard?”

  Aston smiled. “As soon as you start paying me a living wage. Besides, why should I buy a car when I can use yours?”

  “Okay. In lieu of a pay raise we’ll consider your using my car as part of the job-benefits package.”

  “Right. Meanwhile, don’t let the seats get wet. I hate it when that happens.”

  Eric jumped at the second clap of thunder. It reminded him about putting up the convertible top. He looked out as a curtain of rain spread across the parking lot. “Ah shit,” he said, grabbed the keys and dashed to the parking lot. Too late. The interior was soaked. He put the top up and was about to run back into the building when he remembered his meds in the center counsel. He snapped open the arm rest. The bottle with all the hieroglyphics was floating in an inch of water. The pills appeared to be dissolving. He jammed the bottle into his pocket and ran back into the building where Katie stood with a beach towel, a deadpan expression on her face.

  “Hey, Boss, anybody ever tell you, you’re all wet? You can catch your death of cold doing that, ya know.”

  He grabbed the towel. “Shit. I’m probably going to die of something worse than a cold,” he mumbled as he hurried to his office. He searched through a stack of business cards until he found the clinic’s phone number. After a dozen rings, the receptionist answered. He heard her gasping for air. “Yes, yes. This is the clinic. How can I help you?”

  “Christ lady, sounds like you ran a marathon to get to the phone.”

  “Oh, hello Mr. Yates. Well, almost as bad. I’m here by myself today and my boyfriend stopped by and—well, you don’t need to hear all that. What can I do for you?”

  “Listen, my meds got all ruined, rained on, and I need a refill. I haven’t taken anything today and, well, isn’t Doctor H there?”

  “No. Nobody but me.”

  “What about Pat, err, Doctor Travino?”

  “Nope, still just me.”

  “When will someone who can fill my prescription be around?”

  “Two days. They’re all at a conference.”

  “But I need my medication. We’re talking about a matter of life or death here.”

  Except for the receptionist’s breathing, the line was quiet. “You still there?” Eric asked.

  “Yes, yes. Let me think a minute. In emergencies, and this seems to be one, I can go into your file and see what’s been prescribed. I can’t give you the medication, but, if it’s refillable, I can call it in, or at least authorize a pharmacist to give you a refill. Where’s the closest place for you?”

  “Okay, okay. Let’s do that. Ah, Walbreen’s is right down the street.”

  “Hold on a minute, Mister Yates.”

  In the background Eric could hear file drawers opening and closing. “Okay, I have your records. Hmm, this is a bit strange. Your medication is not listed. In the remarks column it says, ‘Dr. H only.’ Well, it probably doesn’t matter. Give me about fifteen minutes to make my call, Mister Yates. You still have your old bottle, don’t you? That should be enough for old Simon over there.”

  “Yes, I have it right here,” he said, looking at the letters and number that meant nothing to him.

  “Okay, take that bottle down to the store and I’ll tell them they’re to refill it with a one-week supply.”

  “Thank you, thank you.”

  “No problem, sir. Is there anything else I can help you with, today?”

  “Ah, no, that’ll be all.”

  “Well, have a—”

  Eric cut her off. He wiped his head with the towel Katie had given him and looked at his wristwatch. The doctor had been adamant about him taking the pills at the same time each day. He still had an hour until it was due. I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay.

  Eric walked up to the pharmacy counter at Walbreen’s where a gnome of a man sat, hunkered over a magazine. The man registered surprise after Eric cleared his throat a second time.

  “Yes? Can I help you?” the man asked and pushed thick eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose.

  “Ah, yes. My name is Eric Yates and my doctor has authorized you to refill a prescription for me.”

  The pills, if they even have them, better not be on the top shelf or this guy will never be able to reach them, he thought.

  “Oh, yes, the office called. Did you bring the old bottle with you?”

  Eric handed the man the bottle and surveyed the shelves of pills that filled the room, floor to ceiling. He looked back at the smiling gnome who held his glasses in place and squinted at the label on the bottle.

  “And the joke is?” Eric asked.

  “Oh, nothing. It occurs to me that I might offer you a less-expensive alternative to this,” he said and tapped the bottle with a well-chewed fingernail.

  “No. Just give me what the doctor specified.”

  “Yes sir. You do know what this is, don’t you? Damn close to fraud, is what I’d call it.”

  “Ah, no, I have no idea what it is. What do you mean, fraud?”

  The pharmacist leaned forward on the counter and looked around to see who might be within earshot. Eric thought he smelled alcohol on the man’s breath.

  “Young man, that clinic up there is going to bill your insurance company at least fifty bucks, maybe a hundred, for this refill of seven pills. You could walk over there to aisle eight and, for five dollars,
pick up a two-month supply. Even less, if you bought the generic brand.”

  “What are you talking about? This is an experimental drug they’ve got me on. I’m participating in a clinical study—”

  “What we have here is hardly that,” the man said, holding the pill bottle in one hand and reaching for a glass beneath the counter with the other. He took a long drink of the amber-colored liquid. “This bullshit on the label means nothing but Tylenol.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “I shit you not, my man,” the pharmacist said, taking another drink from the glass. “This is a placebo.”

  Eric looked around the store, opened and closed his hands and placed them on the counter. “I’m a bit confused. How about if you fill the prescription and I’ll deal with the clinic folks.”

  “Glad to do it young man. Cha Ching!” the pharmacist said, and made the motion of pulling the handle of a slot machine.

  Eric twisted in his office chair and tried to ignore the discomfort of his wet trousers. He grabbed the edge of the towel and was arranging it on the seat when Aston walked in.

  “I’m guessing later might be a better time to talk with you, Boss?”

  “Damn right. And close the door on your way out.”

  “Ah, you don’t have a door.”

  He looked up at her. “Ah shit, sorry. I’ve had some rather upsetting news and I—”

  “Anything I might help with?”

  Eric tipped his head back and closed his eyes. “No, sorry I snapped. Hey, the car’s all wet inside. Borrow someone else’s, if you have to. I’ve got to make some calls. Sorry, I’m in a real crappy mood today.”

  “No problems. We’re all good here. I saw Gina’s design this morning and I think we’re going to have a great time with the new project. Please, call me if you need anything,” she said, and backed out of the office.

  When Aston was gone, Eric searched through the contacts on his phone until he found Pat’s cellphone number. After four rings the automatic answering function started and he hung up. He took three deep breaths and redialed. This time he left a message. “Pat, we have to talk. I’m confused about my meds and—well just call me, right away.”

  Eric stared at his computer screen, unable to concentrate. He decided to go home and change into some dry clothes when he noticed Katie standing at the door.

  “Hey, Boss. The car dealer called. Your service is finished. They’ll take the car back to your house or bring it here. Which?”

  “Ah, good. I was heading home for some dry clothes so tell them to take it there.”

  He was backing out of the parking lot when his cellphone, forgotten on his desk, started to ring.”

  Pat Travino sat at a table with three other doctors talking about business opportunities that might raise enough money to build a larger, better equipped clinic. She told them she had recently learned of a potential source for a lot of money. “You might say I’m cultivating that source,” she said as she raised her glass of wine for another sip. “He’s a bit reluctant to give me all the details, but we’re close.”

  The other doctors at the table smiled. “Knowing you, Pat, close is good and close,” the female doctor next to her said and touched Pat on the forearm.

  Again, they all laughed. “He keeps referring to the money as ‘buried treasure’,” Pat said. “Would you believe the guy owns a jigsaw puzzle company so everything he does has to have a bit of mystery about it. Any of you know anything about palladium?”

  The others shook their heads.

  “He says the stuff is used in catalytic converters, for cars and trucks, and is worth more than gold,” she continued. “Anyway, I think, in a month or so, I’ll be able come up with my piece of a new clinic if you three can.”

  When the others left, Pat scrolled through the list of missed calls on her phone. She listened to the message from Eric for a third time and was alarmed as much by his tone as she was the message. Her first call was to her own office. The receptionist explained about Eric and, proudly, how she had resolved the crises. Pat’s reaction was to fire the receptionist, then search for Doctor Hechtua who was in the bar with the CEO of Winger’s Drug Mart.

  “Paul? Get your skinny ass out here to the lobby. Now,” she said and hung up before he could respond.

  “We don’t know what he might know, or suspect,” she said as Paul sat across from her. “We do know that this might be the worst case scenario.”

  “Hey, I know Simon over at the Walbreen’s where he must have gone for the refill. Assuming the old fart was even sober, I doubt he’d disregard professional ethics and say anything. He’s got a financial investment, too, in filling those prescriptions.”

  Pat looked around the lobby and emptied her glass. “I’m not so sure. Yates sounded pissed off and a bit more than confused. I’m thinking, telling the truth might be the correct path, here.”

  “No way,” Paul said, half rising from his chair. “No way. He could crucify us. We’d have to declare bankruptcy to get out of it.”

  “Listen Paul, we are financially going down the tubes in any case. I’ve been talking with a few other doctors here and see some light at the end of the tunnel.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A new tunnel. Short story is, you better update your resume tonight. Either way, you’re done.”

  Pat closed the door to her room and leaned back against it. She kicked off her shoes, walked across the room and stood, looking at the mid-day sun lighting the postcard-landscape of lakes and mountains. From the mini bar she removed the half bottle of wine left from the previous night and poured a glass.

  There was no answer on Eric’s phone. She had prepared a story for him but instead had to leave a message: “Sorry I missed your call, darling. Looks like you’re it, now. Please, please call me back any time. I’ll be in all night, alone, waiting.”

  Eric entered the parking lot as Aston, mounted on her skateboard, prepared to leave for the day. She rolled over to his car and leaned against the passenger-side windowsill as he lowered the glass. “Quitting time, Boss. Time to go home and play, not to be arriving at the office.”

  “Not when you’re the boss. I’ve missed most of today, so I’ll be working late.”

  Aston started to back away then leaned sideways and rolled in an irregular circle back to the car. “Hey, now that you’ve calmed down, how about if I find us a pizza and come back in a couple hours?”

  “And you’re going to carry it on your skateboard?”

  “Naw. I’m going to park my board at your house for the night and borrow the black one—if the seats are dry. I need it to pick up Gabby for a doctor’s appointment early tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good. Anything but anchovies for me.”

  “Me too. See ya in a couple.”

  “Hey, Aston,” he called back as she moved away. “Be careful on that thing.”

  She gave him a thumbs-up sign and rolled down the drive. He watched her through the rear view mirror and thought about how the world he’d taken years to construct had started to spin out of control ever since they met a few weeks before.

  In the office, his cellphone sat in the middle of the desk, blinking for all the world like a live hand grenade about to explode. It was surrounded by spreadsheets and work orders that would not be able to protect him. He touched the phone screen and checked for messages without picking it up: six missed calls. Pat’s was the only call he listened to. He stared at the screen, then dropped the phone on the top of papers in the out-basket.

  The ringing chime of someone at the office’s front door startled him. Eric looked outside at the dark sky then his wristwatch. In the parking lot sat both his cars, and he remembered it would be Aston, with the pizza. How could two hours pass so quickly?

  “Meals on wheels,” she said and brushed past him when he opened the door.

&n
bsp; “Jesus, that smells great. I’ll get us a couple Cokes and be right back.”

  “Great, Eric. I’ll set the table.”

  When he returned to his office, paper plates, napkins and forks dotted his paperwork like water lilies on a pond.

  “Tell me something, Aston, when did you start calling me ‘Eric’ and not ‘Boss?’”

  Her eyes never released him. Until he saw her begin to smile, he thought she might not respond.

  “I guess it was when you started appearing in my morning dreams.”

  Eric dropped into his chair. His mouth felt dry. He looked at the pizza box and handed her one of the cans of soda. “Oh, I, ah, don’t know what to say.”

  “Not to worry, Eric. In the office you’ll still be ‘Boss’ when others are around. When we’re alone you’ll be ‘Eric’, until we come up with a better name for you. For now, let’s practice the art of saying nothing when nothing needs to be said.”

  He looked at her and felt tears welling. “Let’s eat this before it gets cold. And tell me where we are on the project.”

  As they ate Aston explained how Ray, the top laser machine operator, jumped at the opportunity to create a program that could translate Gina’s puzzle picture into a cutting program. Through a mouthful of pizza Aston said, “So, now there’s one more body in the loop. I think he’s okay. You ever notice how Ray looks like that farmer guy in the painting, American Gothic?

  Eric shook his head. “Think he’ll talk?”

  “Naw. I think most of the folks on the production floor have heard enough about waterboarding to figure out they do not need the experience. And then there’s that bonus thingy.”

  “Tell me you’re kidding—about the waterboarding.”

  She smiled. “Ya know, Eric, it’s hard to take you serious when there’s a mushroom hanging from the corner of your mouth.”

  Both he and Aston jumped at the buzzing sound of his cellphone lying in the out-basket. They looked in the direction of the intruder and both took note of whom the call was from.