All Maps Are Fiction

by Clyde Witt

  “No, seriously. I need to do something right—”

  “No, me first,” Eric said, as he faced the windshield, released a deep breath and turned to her. “When we met, whenever it was, four or five weeks ago, I was walking home from a gun store. I was making plans to shoot myself in the head because I was told, or thought, I had AIDS. I had a blood test after getting bit by a monkey. Crazy. That’s how I got mixed up with that clinic and Pat Travino. Speaking of getting mixed up, about the same time her clinic had a major screw up and it turns out I didn’t have AIDS, HIV, or anything. But they kept me thinking I did so I wouldn’t sue the shit out of them for mental trauma or something. Thanks to a rainy day and negligence on my part—not putting the top up on my car as you suggested—I found out the clinic was in fact giving me a placebo. It didn’t take a math whiz to put two and two together and figure out why Pat suddenly, ah, started being nice to me—after I mentioned the palladium and the puzzle. Pillow talk. I don’t know, or care, how she knows Mike, but obviously they’re in on the hunt for the stuff.” He paused and took in a deep breath. “More importantly, let me say, when it comes to you and me, well, I should have, ah, treated you better over the last five or so weeks.” He released his breath.

  Aston pushed out her lower lip. “Yeah, I know. And it’s been forty-one days, eight hours and thirty-two minutes, since we met. But then, whose counting?”

  “You know, or knew? What?”

  “A little bit about the HIV thing. Yeah, I knew, or at least suspected. I can’t reveal my sources, or even how I spied on you, discovered your meds, wrote down info from your bottles of pills, who your doctors were, how many trips you made to the clinic, or any details. But I knew, or figured, there really couldn’t be anything wrong with you—probably.” She paused, ran her fingers through her hair and smiled. “You see, I’m a real screwed up lady, Eric. Personal survival has long been my mantra. And, I don’t, or, didn’t want to complicate anyone else’s life, or, I should say, have the complications of a man in my life. Now, those complications are sitting three feet away in a fancy leather car seat.”

  Eric looked at her. “Actually, these are the Alcantara upholstery, eighteen-way electric seats, so you’re only two feet, eight point five inches away. But then, who’s measuring?”

  Aston looked at him, shook her head and smiled. She could see tears welling in his eyes. “This is going to be the end of a beautiful friendship, isn’t it?” she said. “Plus, I’m going to have to start looking for another job, aren’t I?”

  Eric released a breath, rested his hands on the top of the steering wheel, and sniffed. “Depends, I suppose.”

  “On what?”

  “Following whatever happens after we get out of this car. If you promise to call me ‘Boss’ around the office, you’ll still have a job. As for that friendship, I’m not sure. I think we’re falling in love here, Aston.”

  “Too late to fall, Boss. We’re already in love. Now we’re just trying to figure out how the hell to explain it to each other—and the rest of the world.”

  “We both know, that’s what counts. We just have work up our courage and say it. The rest should be easy enough,” he said as he reached over and touched her arm.

  “I’m not sure. You see, I don’t like the L-word. It’s the most overused, misused, misunderstood word in the English language. Or any other language for that matter. How can people love inanimate objects, music, food, the sound of their car’s engine, for Christ’s sake? Present company accepted, or excepted.”

  “So?”

  “So? So, don’t you think that lessens the meaning of L? If you can love the paint job on a car or a French poodle, what does it mean when you say you also love another person?”

  “I see your point. It does beg the question of whether there can be varying degrees of love, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t think so, not with me Boss, or Eric—whichever I should call you while we’re sitting in the company’s parking lot. With me it’s got to be all or nothing. I’m a very serious type of individual.”

  She could see he was holding back a smile as he removed his hand from her arm to push a loose strand of hair behind her left ear. She released a deep breath. “Eric, can I ask you kind of a personal question?”

  “No secrets from you.”

  “Wonderful, same here,” she said and turned her head to let her lips brush the palm of his hand. “You said these power seats can be adjusted eighteen ways. How is adjusting a seat eighteen different ways even possible?”

  It took three days for Eric to get the business in order for him to take a few days off. Vacations were rare for him. On the second day of their road trip, the pair stood looking at the shimmering image of the Gateway Arch and the city of St. Louis reflected in the Mississippi River. Under normal circumstances this should have been a one-day trip. Going to bed early, however, plus the luxury of sleeping in, enjoying morning news shows on television, and sumptuous breakfasts, combined to shorten the daily drive time. Plus, Eric insisted they use as many back roads as possible to savor the handling benefits of the sports car, plus the enjoyment of eating in small-town restaurants.

  Aston was planning their route through St. Louis and fumbled the map when she felt the cellphone in her hip pocket vibrate. She looked at the number. “Ah, shit. Bright Horizons,” she said, holding up the phone for him to see.

  “Maybe just Gabby or Phyllis checking up on us,” he said, his attention on a flotilla of barges as it floated downriver in front of them.

  Aston hit the missed-call button and sat on a nearby bench.

  “Well, good morning—Or is it afternoon?—Miss Leerie, this is Carley,” came a high-pitched voice.

  “Who’s Carley?”

  “Oh, I’m the team administrator. I don’t think we’ve met. I—”

  “What’s up?”

  “Oh, well, we are a bit concerned about Mister Conrad. He listed you as the contact person in case—well—just in case.”

  “And what?”

  “Well, it seems, and I know this sounds a bit strange, but it seems that he and Phyllis Harrington have gone missing.”

  Aston leaned back and looked at a cloudless sky. She put her hand over her mouth and swallowed hard. “Hmm. Yes, that is a bit strange. What do you mean, ‘gone missing?’” She looked over at Eric who stared at her, eyebrows raised. She returned the gesture, and pursed her lips as if to kiss him.

  “Well, it seems, two days ago, maybe three, kind of late in the afternoon, Mister Conrad’s cousin, or maybe it was a nephew, arrived in one of those big, fancy RV motorhomes. The man told Gloria, the associate on the front desk, he was taking his uncle and Miss Harrington for a ride. To show them the thing. The motorhome.”

  “And you haven’t seen them since?”

  “No, that’s what’s disturbing. Before I notify the authorities that we have two missing clients, I thought you might know where he is. Or, where they are.”

  Aston paused, smiled at Eric again, then cleared her throat. “Gee, I have no idea. But he’s a big boy, so—”

  “Well, this is upsetting. It’s strictly against the rules here, you know. Patients, or clients as we prefer to call them, always need to sign the front desk registration form to check out and check in, especially if it’s going to be overnight.”

  “Yeah, sounds like a great rule. Say, ah, Carley, can you describe this cousin, or nephew, of Gabby’s?”

  “Well, that’s another strange thing. Gloria, she was the team member on the front desk at the time, oh, I guess I told you that, says the man was kind of young, maybe fifty or sixty, and seemed to be a chain-smoker. She had to tell him to step outside, twice, while he waited for Mister Conrad and Miss Harrington.”

  “What about a description of the RV? Color, brand, that sort of thing.”

  “Well, I asked her that, too. Gloria could only remember that it
was big, maybe maroon color, or maybe white, she’s not real sure.”

  “Hmm. Well, that all helps,” Aston said, then shook her head and mouthed the word, ‘not’ to Eric. “Tell you what, I’m on the road now myself, but I’ll check with my contacts and keep an eye out for a large RV, either maroon or white, with a chain-smoking driver.”

  “Well, that should help. Do you think I should alert the authorities?”

  “Naw, not necessary. They’ll be okay. You know how it is when you get in one of those big RVs. You just want to keep going and going.”

  “Well, I know what you mean, although I’ve never been in one.”

  “Great, Carley. Great job. You carry on, administering to your team, now. Great job.”

  Aston doubled over with laughter, then laid back on the park bench and kicked her feet in the air, hardly able to repeat more than a few words of the conversation to Eric. Through tears and deep breaths she explained—Gabby and Phyllis are on the run.

  The landscape on Interstate 10, south of Phoenix, was a blur to Aston. She pointed at the first scenic overlook they encountered. After she exited the car she leaned against the wall and looked up at a Giant Saguaro cactus offering its open-arms welcome. She released a deep breath when Eric stood next to her and rested his arm across her shoulder.

  She did not turn. “Eric, I was looking at the speedometer. I could see, and not for the first time, before I closed my eyes in terror, you were doing a hundred and ten.”

  “The car can handle it.”

  “Maybe, but I can’t. We’re moving too fast. I don’t want this trip to end anytime soon—maybe ever.”

  “Ah, I get it. I’m beginning to understand. Okay, I’ll slow down. Let’s look around, enjoy the scenery. Not like Cleveland, is it?”

  She looped her arm through his. “I like to look around, Eric. Here’s my problem; when I do, all I see is you.”

  He looked down at her. “And the bad part of that is?”

  She poked him in the side with her fist. “Okay lead-foot, let’s carry on.”

  It was late in the day when they turned west onto Pinal Airpark Road. The early evening sun hung over the desert like a red rubber ball. In the distance, a gleaming cluster of red, white, blue and chrome fins, etched in gold shimmered like a mirage. Eric slowed. As they drove closer, sleek metal bodies appeared attached to those fins, then engines, some hooded, dangled from the wings like huge Christmas tree ornaments. Eric stopped the car alongside the chain-link fence. Both stared at the collection of aircraft before them—hundreds of airplanes in varying stages of decay and disrepair, arrayed in neat rows like cars in a shopping mall parking lot.

  “My god,” Aston said, “Look at all these airplanes.”

  “Wow, there must be one or two of everything ever made.”

  Back in the car they continued along the isolated two-lane road, past scrub desert vegetation and what must have once been a sand and gravel pit mine. Eric stopped the car at an abandoned guard shack now protecting a gate-less entrance. As they discussed what to do, a white SUV, windows completely blacked out, approached and blocked their entry. After a long pause, a man dressed in blue jeans and gray NASA T-shirt exited the SUV and walked toward their car. The only indication that he might be of some authority was the gun belt he wore, sporting a huge sidearm. He rested his hand on the butt of the gun as he walked around the Porsche without saying a word. After his inspection of the car, he smiled and leaned down to look at the instrument array of the dashboard.

  “Nice ride, man,” he said. “Is this the 540 or the 580?”

  “Ah, the 540.”

  “What’s she top out at?”

  “Don’t really know. One thirty was as fast as I’ve pushed it. Say, are we breaking any laws being here? You look like a cop, or security guard.”

  “Nope, no laws broken or even bent. You’re right, I’m security. Want to come in?”

  Aston leaned across Eric to talk with the guard. “Hey, we’re looking for an old plane. Friend of ours flew it. We wanted to see the old crate. Thought maybe it was parked here.”

  “Sure thing,” the guard said as he straightened, walked to the other side of the car, and leaned down to talk with Aston. “There’s really not much of a register for who flew when or what. Good listing of what’s where, though, after the planes are brought in, if you need spare parts. For info of any personal type, I can give you a guy’s number. He’s an old fart, sort of haunts this place. Nice guy, full of war stories. Don’t know his real name. Goes by the handle of ‘Falcon’. He’s a self-appointed guide, or docent, he likes to call himself. Usually around this time of year. I saw him yesterday, driving that ratty piece of sheet metal he calls a car, so he’s in the area. He might be able to help you.”

  The guard skimmed through a contacts list in his phone, wrote down a phone number and handed it to Aston. After the guard got back into his vehicle and drove away, both stared at the number.

  “This is kind of surreal, isn’t it?” Eric said.

  “Creepy is another word that comes to mind. Let’s dial up this Falcon guy and see what’s what.”

  “Good. Maybe we can set something up for in the morning. I’m getting hungry, for some reason,” he said, looking out at the unfamiliar shape of a Boeing 707 looming in the distance.

  “Must be jet lag from the last hundred miles, which we covered in two point five minutes. And I know of a great hotel just down the road outside of Tucson,” Aston said while listening to the phone at the other end of the line ring.

  “I know. I pay the bills, remember?”

  Aston was about to hang up when the phone was answered.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hello,” she said. “Is this Falcon?”

  “Maybe it is, maybe it ain’t. Depends on who’s calling. Does Falcon owe you money?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. In fact, I think I’m going to be indebted for life to him if he gives me the correct answers to my questions.”

  The man chuckled. “I like the direction of this conversation already. What can I do for you, young lady.”

  “Name’s Aston. I’m out here, with my, ah, boyfriend,” she said and smiled without looking at Eric, “and we’re looking for an old airplane and the guy that flew it. The guard here at Pinal Airpark gave us this number and said you’re the smartest, maybe the only man in the country who could help us out; find the plane in this menagerie.”

  “That’s probably true.”

  Aston heard coughing and wheezing. “Hey, you okay, mister?”

  “No, I ain’t. I’m dying, as a matter of fact. But I’m always up to make one more sacrifice, git off my death bed, go out in the blazing sun, and give you a tour of the park, tomorrow, if you’re still interested—and I’m still alive. And since you came all the way out here from Cleveland, I figure you’re interested.”

  Aston smiled. “Yes, we most certainly are. What time.”

  “Meet me at the gate around ten. I like to sleep in.”

  “So do we. Ten it is,” she said and pushed the red button on her cellphone

  Eric looked over at her. “Sounds like we have a guide.”

  “Assuming he doesn’t die in his sleep. He had a—” her mouth hung open.

  “What?”

  “Holy shit. How did he know we’re from Cleveland? I never said where we were from.”

  “Oh boy. We’re having fun, now,” Eric said as he started the car.

  Aston scanned the airpark grounds searching for roadrunners while Eric checked his eMail. Both turned at the raspy sounds of a car as it approached. They watched the weathered driver struggle with a nasal cannula and tubing attached to an oxygen tank secured by a seat belt in the passenger seat. As the elderly man walked toward them, he extracted a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and shook one loose. He lit up and coughed so hard he bent ove
r, nearly losing his balance. He wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve and walked to where they stood. Introductions were interrupted several times while Falcon coughed.

  Following the introductions, Aston said, “Man, are you up for this? Tell me Falcon, yesterday when I called, how did you know we were from Cleveland? I never—”

  “Your area code came up on my caller ID, young lady. Simple, accurate guess, right?”

  Eric walked around the old man’s car. He let his hand lightly pass over the hood emblem and headlamps. “You must have bought this at an antiques store,” he said.

  Falcon walked over and thumped his fist on the front fender. They don’t make ‘em like this anymore. Enough metal in this baby to build two of those fancy things you drive. Last of its breed.”

  Eric smiled. “I’m going to guess it’s about a 1970 Ford Falcon, right?”

  “Close, but no cigar. It’s a ’69 and I bought it brand new. Been driving it ever since. Keep it here in Arizona in the winter. It’s never felt the bite of road salt.”

  “Wait,” said Aston. “A guy named Falcon drives a car called a Falcon?”

  “A car ahead of its time,” Eric said. “Okay, Falcon, how’s this tour thing work?”

  Falcon gave him a full-body scan. “Well, seeing’s how you’re special customers, for one price I can give you the full, all-bullshit tour, beginning as far back as 1942, and work my way forward to the present day. Or, for the same price, we can skip the bullshit and I can take you where you want to go, looking for whatever it is you want to see.”

  “And what’s the tour price?” Eric asked.

  “Nothin’. I do it ‘cause I can and nobody else can. See that ugly blockhouse building over yonder,” he said pointing with his chin. “The fancy one with ‘Aerospace Solutions’ and crap painted on it?”

  Aston used her binoculars to focus on the white structure.

  “Used to be government headquarters for Air America and a few other companies,” Falcon said.

  Eric studied the building through his binoculars. “My dad flew for them during the war in ‘Nam. Afterwards for a while too, I think.”