When he awoke the next morning, he ate the free continental breakfast at his hotel, then checked out. He left his ample belongings in the trunk of his car, then went out to the truck. It was still dark out, but wouldn’t be for much longer. Opening the back, he pulled out the loading ramp. He didn’t have anything to put inside but he wanted some cover as he inspected the rear left tire. As he did, he stealthily leaned a nail against the back of the tire. He then replaced the ramp, closed the back door, got into the truck, backed up a foot, then rolled forward a foot. He got out and checked again. The nail had embedded itself nicely into the tire.
Satisfied, he drove down 4th Street until he reached Arizona Avenue, where the farmers’ market would soon close off the street at one end. He turned his hazard lights on, then pulled the truck slightly into the entrance, still aligned with 4th Street but perpendicular to the market itself.
He got out and looked for the nail in the tire but couldn’t see it or the hole, so he got back in and pulled forward several inches. This time, he found the nail easily. The tire had already lost some air but wasn’t going flat quickly enough, so with a little effort, he removed the nail. He then stuck his ready-made sign in the driver’s side window: “Flat tire — Don’t tow, out buying sealant.”
It wasn’t a lie. He had to wait until the store opened. He could have bought some beforehand, but wouldn’t that have looked suspicious if someone ever looked into the matter closely enough? Play it true, cheat as little as possible.
When he returned from the store, he was a little disappointed to see everything was the way he had left it. That meant he still had to wait.
And wait. And wait some more. Rewriting history is seldom glamorous.
Hunger finally reared its ugly head, so he quickly grabbed some food from the farmers’ market, then returned to the truck to eat. He didn’t dare sit inside the truck, but rather, hung out by the flat tire, always keeping an eye on Arizona Ave., and always prepared to dash behind the rear of the truck if needed.
It wasn’t until 1:43 that something finally happened. Unfortunately, it was the last thing he wanted. It was help.
“Is this your vehicle?” the police officer asked, walking over to the rental truck from his cruiser parked just behind.
“Yeah. Flat tire. Was about to try sealing it up,” Arnesto said.
“The truck’s been here all day. I’ve already driven by a couple times.”
“Yeah, sorry, took me a while to find a store with sealant, then I got hungry.” When did he drive by? Arnesto took the sealant out of the plastic bag, then looked around for a trash bin but didn’t see one close enough, so he stuffed the plastic bag into his pocket.
“I need you to move this truck. The market closes in fifteen minutes. Need any help with that?”
“No, thanks, I got it.” Arnesto looked down Arizona Ave., but only saw a Mercedes and another car behind it that he couldn’t make out. As he turned back toward the truck and bent down, there was a loud crunch sound. He instinctively stood up and turned around as he saw the Mercedes roll to a quick stop in the intersection.
As the maroon-colored Buick pulled around the Mercedes, Arnesto felt a tug on his arm as the officer yelled, “Watch it, get back!” The Buick accelerated as it drove around the road closure sign in the middle of 4th Street, and accelerated as it continued its short journey before plowing into the side of the rental truck.
The crunching sound of the crash was awful to hear, but the eighty-six-year-old driver appeared uninjured, though quite confused. He would never drive again.
Arnesto smiled as he applied the sealant to the tire. He had achieved nearly the same outcome, namely getting a deadly driver off the road, but with far less destruction and none of the casualties.
Once the Buick had been towed and all the accident paperwork filled out and exchanged, Arnesto returned the rental, explained what happened, then was given a shuttle ride back to the hotel. Then it was a matter of getting back into his car and making the long, boring, smelly ride back up I-5.
***
But first, he decided to make a pit stop. Arnesto’s mom had taken his separation from Katrina even harder than he had. While she meant well, her constant calling to see if he was okay had only made a difficult experience even worse.
But now she was only thirty minutes away. He could stop by, pay a quick visit, then get on his way. The timing was good, since saving those lives that day had him feeling better than he had in a long time. Yes, she would see how well he was holding up, feel better about things, and both their lives would improve.
His mom was delighted to see him. In fact, after asking him if he was sure he was okay for the hundredth time, she even seemed to accept his situation. She and her new husband, Roland, asked to take Arnesto out to dinner but relented when he said he didn’t want to be out driving on the highway too late. They settled for eating cookies in the kitchen while they played a game of cribbage.
Toward the end of the game, when she should have been playing her turn, Arnesto’s mom again brought up his impending divorce. “I’m still sorry she left you, but it’s good to see you’re handling it so well.” She turned to Roland. “He always was a smart one. Did you know he graduated college at nineteen?”
Roland, ever the polite one, said with a laugh, “Yes, honey, I believe you’ve mentioned that before.”
“I know, I’ve mentioned it many times. I’m proud of my little Arnesto.”
“You know, Mom,” said Arnesto, who normally avoided adding to game-delaying conversation, “I’ve always wanted to ask: Why the… heck did you name me Arnesto?”
She looked surprised by the question. “I thought it was cute.”
“Okay, but what’s the story behind it?”
“That’s it, I thought it was cute. ‘Arnesto Modesto.’ It rhymes.”
Arnesto stared at her in disbelief. “Yeah, I got that. Okay, follow-up question: Why in the love of all that is good and holy in this world did you spell it with an ‘A’?”
She looked even more confused. “That’s not how you spell it?”
He put his elbows on the table and hid his face in his hands. “It’s spelled with an ‘E’.”
His mom looked at him and Roland and burst out laughing. It wasn’t at Arnesto’s expense, she thought it was hilarious. He conceded that her spelling was not unheard of, though it was by far less common.
Soon after, they finished the game. As Arnesto put on his sneakers, his mom took one last opportunity to remind him to visit more. “We’re so glad you were able to visit. When do you think you’ll be able to come see us again?”
“Soon, I’m sure.”
“I know it’s a long drive. What if you took the train?”
“The train takes twelve hours.”
“Wow, never mind. I only mentioned it because this woman from my book club said her son takes the train to work every day. She said he loves it. I don’t know how safe they are, though. Then again, if he’s been taking it for years without any problems, it’s probably fine.”
“If you didn’t think it was safe, why did you suggest — ah, crap!”
His outburst startled them. “What is it?”
“Nothing. Sorry. Just remembered something I need to do.” He stopped himself before asking her if she knew which train her friend’s son took. It wouldn’t matter for a year and a half or so, but he couldn’t risk her remembering him asking. He would get the info he needed another way. Ugh, he couldn’t even celebrate preventing one accident before being reminded of another.
Shocking
Lower Ninth Baptist Church
New Orleans, Louisiana
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Morning
Father Martin was not forgotten, merely “put on hold,” as he described it. This was no more evident than on the morning of August 14, when he awoke to what sounded like chanting outside the church and, peeking out through one of the stained-glass windows, saw a large crowd gathered outside. Some of
them were chanting, “We want Fa-ther Mar-tin! We want Fa-ther Mar-tin!” Some were holding signs. There were also camera crews. “Lord have mercy!” he said to himself. Something went wrong. I’ve led them astray, he thought.
He returned to his rectory and turned on his TV. It took a few tries, but then he found what he was looking for. A reporter was talking to a man in front of a fallen building. The subtitles said his name was George Petropoulos from the Greek Committee for Earthquake Preparedness.
“...one of a number of buildings that was destroyed by the earthquake earlier today. George, how bad is it out there?” the reporter asked.
“Some roads and buildings like this one were damaged, which you never like to see. There were also some injuries,” George said.
“Injuries, but no deaths.”
“That’s correct.”
“All things considered, that doesn’t sound that bad for an earthquake of this magnitude,” the reporter said.
“We can always do better, but you’re right, our dedication to earthquake preparedness definitely saved many lives and structures today. We were also fortunate to have received help from the United States, who warned us in advance,” George said.
“The United States?”
“Yes, a Father Martin from New Orleans. Thanks to his warning, we were able to get the word out and vacate the most at-risk structures—” Father Martin turned off the television and smiled. He stood up and walked outside to address his adoring fans. That night, his predictions were mentioned on every news program in America. Father Martin became a household name overnight, except for people stuck in the Northeast blackout of 2003; they would have to wait a little longer.
***
Bam, Iran
Four months later
Worldwide pre-relief efforts began immediately for all the nations on the earthquake list. However, there was none more so than for the Iranian city of Bam, who was now next in line for disaster. At first, the Iranian government reacted negatively, claiming this was merely a trick by the Americans to infiltrate their country and subvert their leadership. They quickly changed their tune once they realized how popular a destination Iran was becoming. Scholars, academics, seismologists, and other scientists from around the globe began pouring into the country. And they weren’t alone.
There were film crews. From Hollywood to Bollywood, it seemed everyone wanted a piece of the action. Some were there to film the spectacle for big-budget action flicks, others saw the opportunity to make award-winning documentaries, and a few had the honorable intention of recording life in Bam simply for posterity.
They all paid handsomely for the honors.
Many celebrities arrived to assist with the effort, though some were grateful for the opportunity to help the public forget their latest DUI back home. Tourism in general exploded in Bam. Many wanted to see the city for themselves before it changed. Some stayed to help with preparations, and a few thrill-seekers merely wanted to experience the rush of an earthquake.
Temporary shelters were constructed outside the city in preparation for the aftermath. Any attempts to retrofit buildings in the city itself were abandoned; there wasn’t enough time.
Evacuation efforts also hit a few snags as people didn’t want to leave their homes. Father Martin himself was flown in as a special VIP specifically to assist in this matter. While he had a huge positive impact, there was only so much he could do. Why should they believe this stranger telling them in a foreign language to abandon their homes? As the earthquake drew closer, the government made evacuations mandatory. Even so, many were able to hide or sneak back into the city after they were removed.
In truth, Father Martin wasn’t all that excited to be there. Though he had no question it was God’s will he do all he could for these people, he had never been so far from New Orleans before — he had never even left the country — and here he was about to experience a devastating earthquake halfway around the globe.
On the bright side, people were more respectful in Iran. As homesick as he was, it was nice to not be asked for a picture or an autograph every five minutes. Back home, he didn’t like the way the tabloids captured his face and felt sure they were intentionally making him look older. And then there were the invitations — everyone wanted him to baptize their baby, officiate at their wedding, or perform last rites for a terminally ill loved one. He wasn’t even Catholic!
So Father Martin slowly acclimated to his temporary new home. He felt proud to be a part of this historic moment and was glad he could be there to help, wavering only slightly when the first foreshock hit on December 25.
The second foreshock hit that night. People weren’t as scared as they might have been had the foreshocks been a surprise, but they had been predicted by the experts, so they were more appreciated than feared. They not only served as final warnings of what was to come, but also helped silence any non-believers.
The main event happened as predicted the following morning. With a magnitude around 6.6, Bam lay in ruins. News outlets around the world had their pick of the footage — the event had been recorded by too many cameras to count. There were still many injured, killed, or missing, but they numbered in the dozens rather than the tens of thousands.
As relief efforts began in Bam, the world quickly turned its eye toward Sumatra.
***
Arnesto couldn’t wait to discuss the results with Pete and called him the following night.
“Hey, Arnesto 2.0, Happy Holidays! I’m sorry, but I can’t talk right now. We’re about to watch Firefly.”
“Again? I thought you watched them all.”
“How could I? We’re only partway into the second season.”
“Second season?!” Arnesto was skeptical. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Positive, we’ve already watched several episodes. Why?”
“In my first life, it was canceled after one season. I don’t know what happened, but I must have done something right!”
“Don’t get too cocky — they canceled Family Guy.” Pete sounded cross.
“Don’t worry, it comes back in a couple years. Go enjoy your show.” They hung up.
Arnesto felt good; he was on fire! It was a wonderful feeling he was not accustomed to.
It wouldn’t last.
Operation Panic
Arnesto's Home
Silicon Valley, California
Saturday, April 24, 2004
Afternoon
“My son’s in surgery,” Pete said in a tense voice, though trying to sound calm. “Daniel has an inguinal hernia. They said it would be a simple operation, but my wife is freaking out. You know Christine.”
“That’s understandable,” Arnesto said, trying to be reassuring.
“Is it? Does she have reason to be freaking out? I mean, I’m sorry to trouble you with this, but could you give me a hint how this turns out?”
“Oh, you want a spoiler! Of course, Pete, anytime. Let me think.” Arnesto lowered the phone and closed his eyes, recalling what he could. After several seconds, he opened his eyes and continued the conversation. “You can tell Christine that this surgery has a ridiculously low chance of even the slightest complication.” Arnesto smiled both at being able to help his friend and that it was good news besides.
“But there is a chance.”
“Well, in any surgery there’s a chance of something going wrong, but I’m pretty sure that won’t happen here.”
“You’re not sure though?” Pete asked.
“Okay, I’m sure.”
“Hmm. Could you tell me what you remember?”
“Yeah, I remember you telling me he had the surgery, and that everything went fine.” There was silence from the other end of the line, so Arnesto continued, “Do everything you did last time. Except for the worrying part. Trust your instincts.”
“Right. I’ll try.” Pete still didn’t sound convinced.
“Pete, what’s going on? Why don’t you believe me?”
“I do, I
trust you. It’s just…”
“Yes?”
“You’re not making any lame jokes!”
Arnesto looked at the phone in disgust. “What are you talking about?”
“You always joke around. Always. No matter how dire or inappropriate the situation. And now I tell you my son’s in surgery and you’re being serious. It’s weird.”
“I don’t always— alright, hold on, let me think.” Arnesto paused for several seconds, but he wasn’t attempting to recall anything; the pause was purely for effect. “Okay, I did remember something, but I wasn’t quite sure how to tell you.”
“What, what was it?!”
“Daniel — he survives the surgery fine. However…”
“WHAT?!”
“I’m sorry, Pete. Daniel grows up looking like his father.”
“You’re a dick.”
“Think about it. He’ll lose any last hope that he was secretly sired by another man, one who is more handsome and perhaps taller as well.”
“Okay—”
“No, wait! I remembered — the first successful face transplant is only a few years away. Daniel is saved!”
“Fuck you. I’m hanging up now. Bye.” Pete hung up. Arnesto put down his phone, then it beeped. He had a new text from Pete that simply read, “Thanks.”
By Design
Smiling Axolotl Games
Silicon Valley, California
Friday, July 9, 2004
8:53 p.m.
“Shit!” Arnesto barely restrained himself from slamming the controller down on his desk. It was approaching nine o’clock on a Friday, and he wanted to go home. However, he still had bugs to fix, including one that occurred after defeating the game’s final boss. To reproduce the bug, though, he had to actually beat the boss.
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