“I... I don’t think I did, either. Maybe, when I thought I was about to die.”
Her expression revealed no desire to hear any story I might have.
“One day in Sister Rose’s office I found a book about transexuals. I secretly read it whenever I had a chance to sneak in and steal it for a few hours. It spoke to me—to my confusions, no, to the anguish I carried since I was five years old. It clarified to me without a doubt that I had always wanted to be a man. I was tired of playing sexual games with everyone and always feeling like I was in disguise. I knew who I was and just wanted to feel comfortable with myself.”
“So, you’re... well, I’m lost. What’s a transexual?”
“Someone like me. Emotionally, my thoughts—I feel like a man.”
I dared to touch her forearm. “I don’t understand, but thanks for sharing all this with me. I’m glad I found you.” She didn’t object outright to my fingertips, just shrugged her shoulder uncomfortably until I pulled them away.
It seemed anything I did concerning Sam poisoned lives. From Teresa feeling left out while the three of us fucked, to my ambivalence about the baby while Sam whored in desperation across America. Our relationship was wrapped in pain and, without a doubt, my selfishness.
“And the baby, where is he?”
“A good home somewhere. That’s what I’m told. There’s no way of knowing. I don’t know who Sister Rose dealt with, and it’s illegal to divulge adoption information.”
“He’ll have no idea who we are.” I felt a sense of loss for the child despite never having been attached to him. For an instant, it seemed like I was looking out over that lush Andean jungle valley waiting for the guerrilla band to put a bullet in the back of my head. Since then, I had geared myself to set things right with the baby. I heard the click of a trigger. One of the revolutionaries had blown away my brains onto some empty wasteland.
I stepped out on the porch, nodded obliviously to Tony, and took the few steps to the sidewalk. I glanced back once as Sam watched me leave. She looked as if the last few minutes with me had been a wearying lifetime. Neither of us waved goodbye. Instead, her eyes told me I had not been a welcome sight, and any future thoughts of me would come only as an intrusive headache.
Chapter 42
I rode north with my drawing pad, colored pencils, and a few supplies in my knapsack, plus my guitar strapped to the back of the seat. Bugs splattered against my face, up my nose, in my eyes, dirt wedged itself between my teeth. But it didn’t matter. It all seemed like a minor penance for my negligence of Sam and our child.
When I wasn’t thinking about the baby, my head would spin anyway, disoriented with the thought that in a matter of a few days I had fucked a woman with pigeon feathers sprouting from her back, learned that the mother of my child was growing a mustache in the early stages on her way to becoming a man, and held hands with a god that was trapped in the something-nothingness before time began.
The asphalt hummed beneath me with a smoothness not shared by the chaos in my mind.
I was saddened by the thought of my boy being brought up by people I didn’t know. What if they were warmongering hawks? What if they beat him? Or were religious fanatics, warping his soul? How could I not have been there for him?
My sorrow would pull me off the road to look out over the vast ocean or to find a dirt track surrounded by redwoods. Sitting at rest and appreciating the beauty of the scenery helped me to accept the blessing in Sam’s decision. She and I were both young with disturbing histories, weren’t in love, and at the moment, not comfortable with ourselves. She was changing her sex. I was searching for a tunnel the gods couldn’t even find. And we had both said no to the child before he was born.
Whatever awaited him, I hoped he would thrive and be a contented human with a spirit as strong as the nearby redwood trees and with dreams stretching as far to the horizon and as deep as the ocean I looked out upon. Flying past farms and ranches, watching cows graze and birds glide, I built an imaginary world for him. Strawberry blonde, Sam’s green eyes, my athleticism. He would be a musician, a writer of classics, a seeker; a gentle, loving soul with never a confused thought passing through his mind.
Finally, I felt tears sliding fast across my cheekbones, pushed by the wind as I tried to escape everything I’d ever known.
I’ll jump, damn it. After I heal the tunnel I’ll jump into the future or the past and start over.
Chapter 43
I needed to find some solitude and purge my self-incrimination by delving fully into the creative act of drawing. It had always been the balancing act for my psyche.
Pulling off the road, I motored up a hiking trail, and despite my nightmarish memories of Venezuelan jungles, camped out and slept on a nest of pine needles overnight. In the morning, I decided to stay another night and built a crude lean-to between two evergreens. Climbing to a high overlook to drink from a cool stream, I sat down, swung my legs over the edge of a cliff, and after munching on potato chips and beef jerky, began working on a drawing. I could see the ocean, and near the shore were dozens of jagged shards of rock that jutted ten, twenty feet up from the water, with their pinnacles sprouting grass and shrubbery. They took on animal or human shapes as I transposed them onto paper.
Closer, beneath me, was a herd of cattle. After a few hours of sketching and laying in detail and color, it dawned on me that the cows were always walking or facing north.
Hmm, maybe means something.
A black car weaved its way around the curves on a road that ran alongside a whitewater river. From my perch, even though I couldn’t tell for sure, the vehicle resembled a large Cadillac. Just when I thought I made out a fin, the machine would glide behind a grove of trees, and I found myself frustrated at not knowing for certain if the demi-god was tailing me. The auto disappeared off to the north. I watched the sun sink into the sea with the unsettling image of the smoldering ruins of the demon I had killed on the beach stuck in my head. I decided to clear out of my camp right away.
The night was a bit cool, so I encased myself in Scott’s hairy monstrosity of a coat. I became extra cautious when faint voices sounded downhill of me. If the forest intruders were Sheoblask and some of his brood, they weren’t here to probe my energies or discover my secret god. Their reason would be revenge. I decided to coast, motor switched off, down the thin, rugged hiking trail, using my flashlight when unsure of the conditions in front of me.
Chaos began with a beam of light slashing into my face. Then somebody shrieked. In response, I swerved the bike off the trail with a clatter. Wooden branches swiped at my chest and scratched at the gas tank. Another shout sounded nearby. The light bounced herky-jerky through the trees.
Then I was rolling fast, engulfed by high growth, my face being whipped by wet ferns.
“What the hell was that?”
“You know damn well what that was. I told you they were real.”
“Jesus Christ.”
A clamor of voices surrounded me. One of my eyes watered, raked by a tangle of leaves. With my other eye I caught an orange glow ahead of me. I tore through another bush. Then—Oh man, this is it—the front of the bike dipped and shot off a ledge. I dropped about three feet, thumping onto something that alleviated my fall. An oversized beige cloth shredded beneath me. Confused and desperate, I kicked and battled a fat, tube-like bundle of soft material. Second by second, I managed to understand my situation. A rolled-up sleeping bag was stuck beneath my front tire and caught on my right foot as I tried to push the bike clear from a mass of ropes and canvas and shattered poles. A nearby campfire lit a small clearing where three tents had been erected, one of which I had landed on.
When I heard someone yelling, “The gun, the gun,” I decided not to stick around and introduce myself. I pumped my bag-encumbered foot down once on the kick starter, but nothing happened.
“It’s ripping up t
he tent.”
“What is it?”
Still seated on the bike, I rolled myself awkwardly forward, past the fire. At that moment a blue flash popped in front of me, and spots in my eyes blocked a clear view of what was what. I guessed there were maybe four people, all looking or sounding terrified. Being half-blind in that confusion—the dark woods, fire glare, light flashes, and screams about guns—heightened my fear of being surrounded by a gang of Sheoblask’s demon kids.
There was more thrashing in the forest behind me, another blast of light in my face, then I was rolling downhill again. I kicked and kicked, trying to start the machine, finally realizing I hadn’t turned the key on. A moment later, with a great bellow, my headlamp burning, and despite the incandescent poppings of light still distorting my vision, I roared down the mountain track, wondering what had just happened.
About eight hours later I pulled into the parking lot of a motel outside Salem, Oregon. In the morning, intrigued by the mountains to the east, I decided to stay for awhile. I hiked trails, searched for portals, and enjoyed the scenery. After calling out for Tuma at the variety of lakes I came across, I would sit up in the surrounding foothills late into the night, looking for the lights of portal travelers coming in for night landings. When I glimpsed a god tunnel, they were always empty. Wondering why Amelia or Monkey Man or any other of the immortals didn’t show up to help, I roamed the pastures and forests around Portland and Mount Hood. Finally, after weeks of futile searching, I decided to look for Cassandra’s lake further north, across the Columbia River.
Discovering a crossing called the Bridge of the Gods was enough of a signal for me to move on. I’d cross it and approach the mountains that rose before me in Washington state.
The day before I intended to leave, I met a guy at the university in Portland who said he knew somebody who had tripped out on local mushrooms. We went over to his friend’s house and sat around with five other heads smoking a joint. An uncomfortable feeling made me jittery, causing me to rise up from the cushion I sat on and look out the window.
“I don’t want to sound paranoid, but there’s a car full of suits about a half-block down. Look like narcs.”
“What? Who’d you bring to my house, man?”
I ignored the insinuation. “There’s a patrol car cruising this way. They just slowed down and said something to the narcs.”
“Flush the stuff, man.”
Somebody answered, “Man, three ounces?”
“Tell everybody downstairs to get rid of their stash. Head out the back.”
A door crashed open, then another, and cops were yelling, “Police. Police.” A gruff voice rammed orders into the house. “Everybody raise their hands above their head. FBI.”
A woman ran from room to room screaming, “It’s the fucking pigs.”
“Christ, the door’s locked.” A loud pummeling on the bathroom door was counterpointed by heavy footsteps thumping up the stairs. “Open the door, Suzie, we’re being busted.”
She answered, “Oh Christ, Tim, I’ve got the shits.”
“I don’t care. C’mon, Suzie, open up. I’ve got to flush the stash.”
“I’m coming. Oh man, we’re screwed.”
The house filled with chaotic yelling while people skittered for an escape route and cops blocked them. Panic crested with the threat of violence and captivity. People were crowding my window trying to climb out, so I ran down the hall just as the cops reached the second floor landing. Tim was in front of me, holding the baggies, visibly shaking in horror, as a cop aimed a gun at him and told him to drop the marijuana. The policeman shifted his weapon at me and demanded me to freeze. I started to flick my fingers through my power symbol, hoping to leap into the nearest tunnel, but two more officers and a plain clothes narc slammed me to the floor, shoved Tim against a wall, and bashed open the bathroom door. On the other side, poor Suzie sat half-naked, spinning out a mass of toilet paper from its holder.
A little black puppy came out of one of the rooms and licked my face, squatted on my right hand, and blessed it with a stream of warm piss, then waddled off to investigate the smell in the bathroom.
Suzie dropped her face into the tissue and groaned, “What a miserable day.”
Shouts surrounded the house.
Nobody escaped.
By the second day in the holding cell, the others who had been busted with me didn’t hide their mistrust of me, insinuating I was a narc. Meanwhile, the cops thought I was a dealer. I had thousands of dollars in my knapsack, no permanent address, and as I found out from their investigation, a motorcycle registered to a convicted felon.
I hesitated to wiggle my fingers into the dog-star symbol to try to jump out of my predicament. Most of my last few experiences inside the tunnels had been surrounded by turmoil and fear. I kept thinking of falling through the universe while wrestling with Sheoblask, the frantic patch job to repair the tunnel while the shark cruised nearby, and the day and night spent listening to the tunnel rumble after making love with Cassandra.
I can’t hang here forever, but it’s not life and death yet.
A guard called my name, said the DA wanted to see me, and led me upstairs, down a carpeted hallway and into a suite of offices. This wasn’t the interrogation room atmosphere where I had been questioned by detectives earlier. I was ushered into a waiting room where my escort and I sat on a couch. Seeing a newspaper on a coffee table, I picked it up.
My eyes popped.
The National Enquirer had my picture on its front page.
My face appeared dark and blurry, but with enough highlight for me to recognize myself. Scott’s oversized coat was hunched up, wild fur backlit by the blaze of a fire. A brilliant star-like reflection from what I quickly figured out to be a twisted handlebar mirror flooded a large portion of the photograph. Bold headlines announced:
Bigfoot Lands Spacecraft in State Park
I flipped the paper open, saw another similar photo of myself, and read the lead article.
A large, hairy beast crash-landed in wooded parkland near Eureka, California. Reverends Harry Parcell and Nick Folsom were gathering firewood just after dark when a monstrous ape-like creature approached them rapidly on a mysterious flying machine.
“The motor made no sound. He landed practically on top of me, and, luckily, Nick was able to shine a flashlight directly in his face. He was only about two feet from us. We both saw him clearly,” said Reverend Parcell as he described what he proclaimed to be the most frightening and most exciting moment in his life.
“It was Bigfoot, without a doubt,” Reverend Folsom declared.
“He showed intelligence, maneuvering his vehicle decisively, but he was having some kind of mechanical difficulty and came to a halt in our campsite.”
Four of the Reverends’ friends also witnessed the spectacular sight as the spacecraft appeared unable to gain altitude and crashed onto one of the camp’s tents. The creature was described as covered from head to mid-calf with thick dark hair, having wide shoulders and muscled arms. His facial features were barely discernible as his face was mostly untamed hair.
The spacecraft was constructed of shiny metallic-appearing tubes and seemed to be outfitted for a single occupant. A large weapon, very likely a laser ray gun, jutted from the rear of the flying machine.
“I’ve never seen such an incredible sight. It almost looked like a motorcycle with a cannon sticking out the back. I believe it could’ve been a small scout ship that came from a larger interstellar craft,” witness Terry Bittle said. “I was just coming back from taking some pictures of the sun setting, so I had my camera. It was dark in the woods, and luckily the flash triggered to get that incredible photograph. I was only about eight feet away from him.”
The Bigfoot creature seemed angry, stomping the ground with one foot while thrashing at some sleeping bags and destroying camp equipment. He then roare
d at the campers threateningly in a strange tongue and took off in his spacecraft, gaining altitude quickly.
My eyes went to the smaller headline in another article on the same page.
Are UFO’s piloted by Alien Race of Bigfoot Creatures?
Recent UFOs spotted near Mount Saint Helens are very likely piloted by a race of Bigfoot creatures, as history’s most credible evidence of Bigfoot being linked with UFOs came to light in California’s Eureka Redwoods Bigfoot incident. Dozens of witnesses have seen lights moving in the skies near the smoldering volcano in the southwestern region of Washington state, also a prime area of Bigfoot encounters.
Although local Sheriff Robert G. Lee dismissed most of the sightings in the sky as coming from “whacked-out hippies,” there is reason to believe...
“C’mon Parker, your turn to spill your guts.”
“Wait, let me...”
...there is reason to believe Bigfoot is part of an alien invasion as sightings of the creatures spike coincidentally along with a corresponding rise in UFO activity.
The guard took my enlightening reading material from me and led me into an office that had Joseph P. Putnam, Asst. District Attorney lettered on its door.
I sat another hour in the office, waiting. Finally Putnam came in through a side entrance. He sat down, lit a cigar, and puffed mightily, surveying me with a pompous attitude.
“Well, Mister Parker, I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“Why am I here?”
“Because you’re trouble. Your story with the art gallery sales checks out. I talked to a Marmaduke—”
“Mandrake.”
“Don’t interrupt or I’ll lose my good manners. So you draw nice pictures and sell them. No crime there. Also, though I don’t like the company you keep, you had no marijuana on you, and there’s no penalty for riding a motorcycle that’s not reported as stolen. I don’t want to spend taxpayers’ money on a nobody passing through my city.”
Miracles (The Remarkable Adventures of Deets Parker Book 3) Page 28