by Ken Renshaw
The next morning was a beautiful Sierra morning in Rocky Butte. Dave woke up at six and went down stairs in my running suit. Sofia was alone in the kitchen, holding a mug of coffee and sitting in a chair with her legs pulled up under her bathrobe.
"It's cold," she said. "Pour yourself some coffee while I make breakfast."
I poured a cup of coffee and then said, "Don't bother with breakfast now, I am going for a run. How far is the lake?"
"About a mile. Go past the stables and turn right at the fork in the road." She went to the cupboard and took out a canister of bear spray tucked in a little hoister on a belt. "Here, take this with you, it's good for lots of things."
"Is there a bear problem here?"
"No, but you may never know what you might run into around here. Had some rumors about Sasquatch."
"I know about him. Remember, I was raised in a logging town in Northern California. I understand he can be a really bad one."
I didn't think she had Sasquatch in mind, so I didn't protest.
I had a pleasant run to the lake, taking it easy to get used to the thin air at this altitude. It was refreshing to be among the tall trees, hear the wind in the branches, smell the pines, and run on a carpet of dry needles. It is very different from running in LA. I decided to rest and enjoy the view of the sparkling lake and the surrounding pine forest. I sat down on a soft bed of pine needles underneath a tree, shifted my weight to remove a small pinecone underneath me, leaned back on the tree, and relaxed. I closed my eyes and was enjoying the sun on my face when I heard an airplane. I looked up and saw a single engine airplane a couple of thousand feet up, flying off to the East. I closed my eyes again and listened to the fading engine noise and relaxed, thinking I could easily nap. My mind drifted.
Then, I started to see pictures, in my minds eye, of biplanes circling, as if dog fighting, with the sounds of machine-guns and engines revving and slowing as the planes climbed, turned, and dove. I felt a sense of fear and intense concentration. I sensed I was flying a biplane and pursuing another airplane laboring along, an observation plane, one with a pilot and a machine gunner. It didn't seem to maneuver to evade me.
I made one pass with my machine guns blaring, saw the pilot and gunner slump down, and saw the smoke begin to pour from the engine. I circled to make sure it went down and then saw the machine gunner emerge and start turning his gun in my direction. His gun apparently jammed, and he was pounding on it. As I closed in I saw that the gunner was a mere boy, with a look of terror in his eyes. I couldn't fire my gun. As I passed by the plane, I could see the pilot's head slumped over the side of the cockpit. He also was a mere boy, and judging by his displayed aeronautical skills, someone who had only been trained to take off and land before being sent out on a reconnaissance mission. I was fighting against children!
I moved away and watched the plane go down and crash in flames. I realized that trying to win the Blue Max was not the result of engaging in dogfights between chivalrous knights of the sky; it was awarded for murdering children.
I believe I dozed for a while, and then the vision came back. I was at an assembly of military personnel on the parade ground of the airfield, and the commandant was cutting off my medals and insignia. I felt totally disgraced. Then, I sensed that I later died in a trench as an ordinary infantryman.
I woke up and cried openly. I slowly walk back to the ranch house, assimilating what I had experienced traveling in space-time, wondering why I had been exposed to such dreadful visions
When I entered the kitchen, Sofia glanced at me, then looked at me carefully and said, "You OK? Did you really run into Sasquatch?"
I replied, "I'm OK. I just recalled a terrible time when I lived in that logging town, when I discovered a dead body in the woods." That really had happened: it was a passible explanation.
"I'll bring you your breakfast. Go into the dining room. Buster is there with Cody who drove your car up from LA."
Buster introduced me to Cody who didn't look like a western movie stuntman at all. He was five–feet, seven–inches, about one-hundred-seventy pounds, brown eyes, and wearing a short haircut, carefully made to appear spiky. He looked exactly like me!
Buster explained, "Cody is your, shall we say, stunt double who will be living at the farmhouse we stopped by up the road. He is well trained, like all members of our organization, and will give Mr. S an appropriate welcome if he shows up."
I looked in astonishment at Cody and said, "Are we related? You look like you could be my brother."
We went outside to the black Camaro parked next to Buster's truck. Buster handed me the keys. "We have modified the alarm system. Since we wouldn't put it past Mr. S to tamper with your car, you have a special electronic door opener on the key chain. It has two indicator lights above the door open button. If either of those is lit, don't go near the car. The yellow light indicates that someone has been in the car since you locked the door. The red light indicates that someone has had the hood open since you turned off the engine. If either of those lights is on, walk away. I'll probably be nearby to take care of you. This is a very important instruction. Also, don't give your car to anyone else to drive unless it is at my instruction."
"I get it," I said wondering what this was all about. "I want to go into town for dinner tonight at Bob's Cafe. I will plant the idea that I am staying at the decoy farmhouse and pick up any the gossip."
"Good, I'll follow you in my truck. You can get the townspeople used to the idea that this is your car."
As I went back in the lodge, Sofia appeared carrying a hanger with a white Hawaiian shirt with hula girls on the front and back.
"Wear this into town," she said. "It may not be your usual style, but we want you to stand out. It is part of the plan."
That evening I went to the town to have dinner with Agnes at Bob's Cafe. I parked my Camaro in front of the cafe and went in. There were eight people in the cafe, four men in Stetsons sitting at one booth. Three women in simple dresses, maybe belonging to the men, sat at another booth busily gossiping. A man wearing a Caterpillar Tractor ball cap occupied a booth at the end of the restaurant. The ladies noticed me and bent over in secret conversation, perhaps speculating on who I was.
I sat at the counter, and Agnes walked over and announced, "The dinner special is pork chops, best in the county."
"I can't pass that up, and I'll also have an MGD," I replied.
Agnes announced, "One Miller Genuine Draft coming up." She slid the order slip onto the carrousel at the service counter and brought me my beer. "I didn't expect you 'till next week when the trial starts."
I saw Buster drive up in his green pickup.
"I came up to do a little relaxing before the trial. I have rented a place ten miles down the hill, off a dirt road. It was a farmhouse and is now a vacation rental.”
Agnes thought a minute and then said, "Is it a boxy grey house with white shutters?'
I nodded yes. Buster came in and sat at a booth, without either of us acknowledging each other.
"That is the old Williams' house. They used to own many properties around here. I heard they fixed it up, some."
"You're right. It has a fine new kitchen, and it looks as though it has been repainted and has new furniture."
The ladies were huddling again.
The cook rang the bell, and Agnes retreated to deliver some orders.
I sat alone for a while, heard the bell ring again, and watched Agnes bring my special.
"Looks good," I said.
"Best in the county. You staying there alone?"
I nodded yes as I took my first bite.
"Get you anything else?"
"No. This is good," I said.
I noticed that Buster had the special also.
After Buster left and was sitting in his pickup, using a toothpick, and seeming deep in thought, I paid my check and left, leaving Agnes a big tip.
As I drove back to the ranch, I saw Buster a good distance behind me. I
turned on the dirt road, and then Buster followed me for a while, passed me, and then stopped by the driveway to the 'old Williams house.' I stopped behind him and saw Cody come out from behind a bush and walk over to my car. He was dressed in the same hula shirt I was wearing.
"You can ride with Buster the rest of the way."
I stood and watched Cody drive my car into the driveway before I joined Buster.
"This will be the routine," said Buster.
"What is he going to do all the time hanging around?"
"Cody is a screen writer. Two of his scripts have been made into movies. He is working on the rewrite of a script he has recently sold and is going into production this summer. If someone could peek into the window of the 'old Williams' place' they would see a man hard at work on his laptop, looking ever so much like a lawyer preparing a case. He even has a bunch of law books laying around."
As we drove to the ranch, we exchanged views about the best pork chops in the county and other worldly matters.
I spent Friday getting ready for the trial. I went to the courthouse to file some papers and then went to Bob's Cafe for lunch. I noticed Buster drive by but not stop, I talked to Agnes briefly, and had their luncheon special, an open-faced chili hamburger. I commented to myself that I couldn't get food like this on Melrose Avenue.
I thought to myself, I'll bring Tina here for a treat and celebration after we win the case.
When I left for the ranch, I noticed Buster following me as I left town.
After we made the switch with Cody at the Williams' place, I got in the truck and asked Buster where he ate lunch.
"I had fine dining at the Tasty Freeze."
"You know how to live," I observed.
Back at the ranch, I worked for a while and then decided to have a nap in the brightly colored hammock behind the lodge, strung between two trees at the edge of the woods,
I was dozing off, enjoying the sun reflecting off the needles of the pine trees, listening to the wind of the trees and some raucous jays.
Suddenly, I was back in the space-time of my biplane years. I was standing in my desecrated uniform missing the patches, talking to a beautiful lady dressed in a white lace dress and wearing a floppy wide brimmed lace hat that I could see the sun's rays through. She was angry, scolding me, and shaking her finger at me. I couldn't get what she was saying, but it was making me feel sad, rejected. Then, I felt betrayed! This was someone I had trusted and loved. She walked away, and I felt my heart sink or maybe it was a heart attack. The pictures faded and all that was left was a profound sense of despair.
I drifted off to sleep feeling that great feeling of despair. When I woke up, the despair was gone. As I rubbed my eyes, I decide that I felt good, as though a burden had been lifted. I stayed in the hammock for about an hour mulling over my vision, eventually rising into a rather joyful mood.
I sat up, put my feet on the ground and took out my cell phone. Yes, I had two bars here from Buster's local service. I called Tom who answered right away. He said he was composing but wouldn't mind a little interruption. I explained where I was.
I explained my two visions, the dogfight ending in my disgrace and the argument with the lady in white.
Tom said firmly, “I thought I told you not to try this at home. You can really get screwed up with attention stuck in some space-time.” Then, he said, "Go over the last part of each vision slowly."
I did as he listened.
"You are OK," he said. “From sensing your vibration from here, I can tell you have dealt with whatever that was all about. It is OK to think about what it all means, but don't go back there again. If you sense you are drifting into another space-time, do something to wake yourself up. It would be an extremely bad habit to cultivate, sooner or later you might get very sick. Don't aimlessly wander through space-time, OK?"
"Agreed," I replied. "Is there anything I need to watch out for now?"
"Not especially. If you start to drift, grab onto and sense and observe some objects around where you are. That will ground you. When can you come in again?"
"I might be up here a couple more weeks."
"Be careful. Is Tina up there with you?"
"She will be here tomorrow."
"Good. Tell her to punch you or slap you if you start to drift off. Better yet, tell her to kick you in the balls. That will really ground you. Nobody travels in space-time bent over in pain. Take this seriously, it can be dangerous. I have known people who never really get back. Let's get together as soon as you get back to LA."
"Thanks," I said. "Goodbye."
I walked around picking up and examining pinecones and feeling and closely examining the bark of the trees, until I felt confident I was in present time. Then, I walked to the lodge and went in. Buster was stretched out in one of the easy chairs, listening to music on his iPod.
He sat up, fumbled with his iPod to turn it off, and said. "What's happening?" He paused, looked at me with puzzling expression. "You look like a cat that has just eaten a double order of canaries."
"Oh. I was snoozing in the hammock and had a really interesting dream."
"She arrives tomorrow doesn't she?"
"Yes, but the dream wasn't about her. I was kind of traveling in space-time to World War I, flying biplanes and that sort of thing."
"Was that good?"
"Yes, I think so. I think I am learning some lessons from traveling there."
Buster smiled and then picked up his iPod, and said, "I think I can travel in space-time with this thing, sometimes. When I listen to a superb performance by a superb orchestra under superb conductor, I feel as though I am transported to the mind of the composer and feel his emotionality. I was listening to Mahler's fifth symphony. It is a real emotional roller coaster ride."
I observed. "That is an interesting idea. I saw a PBS show about Leonard Bernstein. In an interview, Bernstein said when he conducted he never remembered anything about a performance from the time he was offstage, waiting to make is entrance, until the time he was taking his bow at the conclusion. He said he gauged his performance by how close he thought he came to becoming the composer."
"That sounds like some sort of channeling, which is a form of space-time travel."
Buster added, "An excellent performance transports the orchestra and audience to the composer's emotional space. I guess that would be in some other space-time when the composer was creating the work. There are relatively few performances that do that for me. I often will buy five CD's or versions of something before I find one that is worth listening to. I have learned which conductors and orchestras can do good jobs on certain composers."
"You surprise me, Buster, with your knowledge of art and music."
"I have a master's in Art History. I don't reveal that too many people. It might be bad for the tough man persona. "
Buster's eyes suddenly went from soft to hard and he cracked his knuckles. "Colson hired the tough guy. He is here except for these unguarded moments."
Buster laughed as I said, "You have to be tough to enjoy fine dining in Rocky Butte."