“Mickey, what happened, and how do I have anything to do with it?” I asked in my recently perfected tone of exasperation (I don't emote particularly well, but find that it's necessary sometimes, so I've been working on it... it's frustratingly slow-going, considering how easily most humans pick these things up).
“Apparently some pedophile, or pervert anyway, in the county government up there, tripped over his dick with pictures and videos of who-knows-what on his home and work computers, and tried to invoke the 'some other guy' defense; he specifically named you as the guy.”
“What's his name?” I asked, knowing that I was expected to, if innocent.
“Robert something... Ward... Warren... Warren, I think. Anyway, they got him on about a million counts of this and that... all of it nasty, so nobody took it too seriously when he reached out for someone else to blame... dirt bag!” Mickey has no space in his heart for those who would victimize their fellow humans. If he knew the truth about what I had done to Robin Warner, our relationship would surely suffer, although he would understand my reasons for doing it by the end of one of his famous long lunches (Mickey gets up before dawn, and goes to sleep very early, and as such the main family meal in the Schwarz household has always been around noon).
“Never heard of him; Malone's about 50 miles north of here (44.2 miles from the parking lot behind Smart Pig, but Mickey doesn't value that sort of exactitude); and as you know, I have no interest in that sort of thing.” True enough, I see pornography a bit like looking at those odd shows that pop up from time to time on “Animal Planet” or the like; graphically biological, lacking in interesting factoids, and with the added queasiness I get from being reminded of a basic human interaction that I don't really understand, and won't ever participate in. Mickey once, wrongly, figured out that I was secretly dating his elder daughter, Mindy. The three of us had an awkward week trying to figure out how to communicate what none of us wanted to talk about with each of the others.
“Ah, well... yes... anyway... hearing your name from my friend in connection with that business made me wonder again about how you fill your days up there on the rim of the planet.” I'm six hours from Mickey's building, with stops for gas and food, and he talks as though I live in another country.
“As I told you last time, I sell some photographs and some watercolors, make some camping gear, go camping, read, and do research.” He needs some, but doesn't want lots of, details.
“Fair enough, we loved the things that you sent Anne and I and the girls for Christmas.” I sent them a bunch of my best photos of the Adirondacks, and a few of my watercolors for Christmas. Mickey is a Jewish oncologist who celebrates Christmas and snacks on pork rinds constantly... he apologizes for nothing, doesn't see these (or myriad other) contradictions in his life, and gave me the gift early in life of achieving some level of comfort with what I was/am... I loved my father, but Mickey might be my dad, if I can be allowed the distinction.
“Are you happy, up there Tyler?” Mickey asked.
“Yes, although I miss you guys.” Neither assertion was strictly true; I don't think that I 'do' the emotion happy, nor do I miss people. I am familiar with the Adirondacks and my world up here, and that makes me comfortable (which I translate for Mickey as being happy). In other places beyond the edges of my mental map, I am uncomfortable, which might translate most closely in Mickey's terms to unhappy. I do miss Mickey and Anne and Mindy and Becca; because they are familiar, like New York City was, like Saranac Lake is now. Mickey knows and accepts this to the degree that he can; he once said, “Each human God puts on this Earth is unique, and of all the (then) five billion, you are the uniquest!” I'm not, just the “uniquest” that he knows.
“We miss you too Tyler, I hope you had a great birthday! I'll talk to you next week, maybe.” He hung up, and I felt adrift for a moment, as though reaching for a human emotion that wasn't there; then I came back to myself, remembered the missing element of my social map up here, and settled into my morning's work.
Since I couldn't push anyone or anything about Cynthia until 10a.m. (when the library opened) I grabbed a pair of cokes from the coke-fridge, booted up my computer and began to read a bit about the production of methamphetamine. I assumed that this may be the drug business Cynthia was digging into considering there were/are easier places to grow/refine pot or cocaine than the Adirondacks. Once I satisfied my curiosity, I then used up the extra time working on some other projects I've got going under the auspices of Smart Pig. I'm working on some hiking and camping gear design and manufacture for a group of senior-hikers that want light and comfortable gear that doesn't cost a fortune. I make heavy-duty leashes/leads for the animal shelter; they use some and sell others. I've been doing watercolors all over the Park, expanding my personal map, looking for future “homesites”, and trying to avoid the trap of always painting trees next to water (unsuccessfully so far). Digital photography has been great for me, freeing me from the smelly darkroom forever; I mess around with the image on my computer, and then send the finished product to interested parties through an online printing house. I do other things also, as well as favors for people from time to time, but I couldn’t stay focused on any project this morning. So after noodling around with bits and pieces of these and other projects, cranking out a couple of nylon webbing dog-leashes, and finishing my cokes before they got warm, I grabbed what I nowadays think of as a “bricks and mortar” or “actual” book, and read until it was almost 10a.m.. At that point I cleaned things up a bit and headed out and down the street towards the library.
The half hour when people are just getting their workday started is a great time to go in and push, prod, harass, and generally make a nuisance of yourself. I have found that at this time people are likely dealing with leftover things from the day before, as well as setting things up for the current day. They will likely be annoyed and won’t want to help; but that's the perfect time to swoop in and deliver a swift karate chop to the base of their assumptions.
“I'm really sorry Ben, I know you're busy, especially without Cynthia.” I had taken it as given that she wouldn't be there when I arrived. If she was somewhere in back, I'd be happy to try and feel embarrassed in exchange for her not being gone. “She has some papers and PDFs for me at her desk (holding up a USB-drive and wiggling it at him). If you're cool with it, I'd be happy to get things unlocked and lights-on downstairs before finding my stuff if it would help you guys get going.” If I'd brought the box of donuts with me, it would have closed the deal, but since there were only six left, and they were re-packaged for my next stop, I had to try Smile #3, friendly/sincere/helpful.
I've been watching people smile my whole life, and didn't internalize that smiles were something people just “do” until midway through my 12th year. Since then I've been studying and categorizing smiles; I have 19 in my repertoire, and they're pretty solid until I get up into the newer ones in the mid-teens. Number 3 was likely to work with Ben, as he makes some assumptions about my relationship with Cynthia, and at the same time sees me as completely non-threatening to him personally or professionally. He paused only long enough to let me know that he was carefully considering the cost/benefit of taking my help, and then said, “Thanks Tyler, that would be fantastic, it's a mad house here today... a mad house!” He had me categorized in the nerd/geek box, and used an appropriate set of quotes and references with me, many of which I had come across before, others I had to research (which was easy as he didn't have much depth to his collection).
I fumbled, then dropped, the keys that he tossed at my head, letting people feel superior never hurts in my experience, they tend to let their guards down... plus the keys came straight at my eyes quite fast. I went down and unlocked the Adirondack Research Center, the study room, and the restricted collection space, and turned the lights on everywhere. I came back upstairs with a pile of books that would have to be re-shelved, and some documents and bound reports that had been left on one of the tables, and looked as though the
y needed tending; besides being helpful it eased my transition back behind the main desk and into the office in back, where Cynthia's desk/space/cubicle was located.
She had the usual layers and piles of crap on and around the desk in her area; I stuck a post-it from last week, with my name in her hand-writing, on a pile of stuff that wasn't obviously outside of my interest range (no Justin Bieber biographies, or LOLcat pictures) to give my presence a little credence. I stuck my USB drive into her computer as it started up, and entered the password I had seen from over her shoulder a few weeks ago, hoping that she hadn't changed it; she hadn't. I opened up a couple of screens and her browser, and dumped all documents modified within the last 3 months, the history and bookmarks from the browser, newish images from her cache, and everything from her computer desktop garbage can into the stick-drive. I moved the copy-progress window behind the browser and looked around a bit, while keeping my head aimed rigidly at her computer screen. She keeps a journal and notes about work and home project ideas in a series of those black marbled composition notebooks; I grabbed the five for May, June, July, August, and September and mixed them into the pile of books I had stuck the post-it note onto. I had been at her desk for four minutes and ten seconds, and it seemed long to me; I was nervous. I might have found more stuff if I stayed and hunted for another five minutes, but Ben might also decide to check and see what I was doing, and perhaps even hold the stuff until he checked with Cynthia. I put the USB drive into my pocket, put a bit of tape onto the post-it note (to insure that it stayed in place), and walked out of the library with an appropriately bored look on my face. I dropped off the stuff at Smart Pig, took a coke out of the coke-fridge, grabbed the Tupperware full of leftover donuts, a box of finished leashes, and then headed to my car for the drive to the Tri-Lakes Animal Shelter.
Tri-Lakes Animal Shelter (TLAS), 9/5/2012, midday
Dogs like me. Cats do not like me. I don't understand the reasons behind it, but I like dogs too; maybe because I find them to be more interesting animals. Dorothy says it's because dogs like me preemptively, and cats look inside me; I don't know what cats see inside me (maybe nothing?), but they don't like it… Dorothy Bouchard runs the TLAS. She saw through my initial efforts at friendliness instantly and dealt with it in the only way she knows, honestly and straightforward, like tearing off a Band-Aid. “You're using us, you don't want a dog.” were the first words that she ever said to me, which might have scared me off if she hadn't followed that up with, “That's OK, they know it and they're using you for walks.” I nodded, smiled (#2, friendly/gentle/clueless-ish), handed her the leash of the dog I'd been exercising, and walked out; but I came back later that week, and every few days since then.
I mostly walk the big dogs that live in the back (isolation) room; the ones too big or aggressive or jumpy or crazy from long-term internment to be likely adoptees. Entropy is the tendency of systems to move towards homogeneity; in the TLAS entropy is illustrated by the various species of dogs present in the outside world homogenizing in the shelter toward a dark brown pit bull/lab/shepherd mix that weighs 125 pounds and is trained to digest babies whole by the drug dealers that breed, and then quickly get bored with them (we call them Saranac Lake Specials). I've yet to meet a dog incapable of being (much) better at loving other dogs and humans than I am, once they get a chance to run around a bit and get to know you. I come here to think and walk and watch and try to learn from the dogs; Dorothy was right, I'm using them and they're using me... it's an honest and straightforward arrangement that benefits everyone involved.
“Hi Tyler! Long time, no see... since last week some time. Did you come to drop off leashes, walk dogs, or solve crime?” Dorothy's plainspoken, one of thirteen things that I like about her.
“A bit of each, if that's OK... who needs a walk?” I ask handing her the box of leashes I'd finished along with the donuts hidden inside the box... they brought a happy squeal form behind the desk ten seconds later. Dorothy teases that I consult with her dogs about the cases/jobs that I work on, which is at least partially true. I sometimes come by to walk a dog or two when I've input a metric crap-ton of data into my brain, and I need to give the forebrain a break, while the ancient lizard bits at the top of my spine figure things out; there's nothing like a walk in the woods at the other end of a chain from a Saranac Lake Special that hasn't seen sky or smelled squirrels in two weeks to clear complex thoughts from your head. I hadn't had time to digest the stuff I grabbed from Cynthia's desk and computer at the library, so this was just a walk, no crime-fighting. Dorothy ran through her mental list of the dogs in the back, and came up with Peggy, a pit bull mix with black and white coloring that somebody had, in a dim or hopeful moment, described as a Dalmatian on the website. Peggy and I got along quite well after the first few minutes of excitement and jumping and “kisses with teeth”. After a few well-timed treats, she calmed down and walked (almost) at heel along the trails behind the shelter for a while; we sat on the steps outside the shelter talking about Cynthia (and my worries about her), neither of us wanting to go back in.
I brought Peggy inside, with a promise to her (and any people in the hall that assumed that I might be talking to them) to take her out again soon. Dorothy trundled Peggy back into her dungeon in “isolation”. The fact that the isolation room is so much better than the alternative says a lot about the world we live in; Dorothy was back behind her counter and at the computer a minute later. She gestured me back behind the counter, but as always, I leaned across the counter to talk with her; I'm a guy very much aware of which side of the counter I belong on, and I keep to the correct side. We talked a bit about the latest group of leashes, about an idea for a harness that I had, about the dogs (the new dogs, the dogs that had found homes, and the dogs that had been there forever), about the gigantic mastiff that Jacob Hostetler had at their farm up in Madrid Springs, about a trashy novel that she had loaned me (and that I had enjoyed despite myself), and about a few other areas in which we shared an interest... but not my concerns about Cynthia (they were still uninformed, maybe even unformed... unfounded).
In most cases, about most things, my trust-circle is very small, about the size of my belt. I sometimes talk with a limited number of people about some aspects of my work; even more rarely, about my personal and family life and history. Dorothy is one of those few people, Cynthia is another, Meg, Mickey (to some extent, as he has known me longer than anyone on the planet), Rick (a guy that I connected with online, and who goes camping with me every month or two), and... oddly enough... Frank. Frank was a surprise to me because he came as a package deal with Meg, and although we don't have a lot in common, I actually spend a significant amount of time/energy either misleading or outright lying to him, we do enjoy and trust each other (within specific parameters). I didn't mention Cynthia, either my concerns or my actions in support of those concerns, to Dorothy because I don't know enough yet, and also because I have concerns about how either/both of us will react if it turns out that Cynthia’s disappearance is something more than a death in the family and unannounced leave.
Dorothy and Cynthia are two completely different types of human females, perhaps different species; I am the only thing that they have in common. Dorothy might be upset if Cyn was missing because she knows that I am fond of Cynthia, but she also might fake upset, for my benefit, which would be off-putting. I don't yet know what my actions or reactions might be to the information waiting for me at Smart Pig, or to any information that I may gain in the coming days about Cynthia; by not talking with Dorothy about it now I am reserving the right to discuss the matter with this friend of mine whom I find to be interestingly amoral.
Dorothy is by no means an immoral person, but I have found that she operates her life based on attaining and preserving what she wants, or thinks is best, for herself and those nouns that she cares about; there are things that she cares about, and standards of behavior that she follows, but the moral compass by which normal society navigates day to day was not insta
lled when Dorothy came from the factory. I've known her to accept dog food and toys that must have been stolen, along with venison and bear scraps from families that poach year round; and seen her dose dogs and unpaid/underpaid human TLAS volunteers and staff with the steroids and antibiotics on site without benefit of a vet or doctor. I once helped her break into a farm way out in the country to steal some twenty various animals that were starving and neglected; six were near death. We were too late to help three that we buried in the woods behind the farm, using time we couldn't spare (but did anyway). She works eighty-plus hours per week, stretches the lifespan of her work-shoes with duct-tape and gorilla-glue, and plows lots of cash (some from her salary, some from less reputable sources) back into the TLAS to keep things running. I like the way that she thinks, the way that dogs act around her, and I like to use her as a sounding board when the brain-trust at Smart Pig is in the weeds on a sticky problem.
On my way out, I grab the Tupperware container (which looks as though it has been finger-squeegeed clean), promise to check back in a couple of days, and avoid the nasty cat guarding the front door as it hisses and swings a lazy claw in my direction as I walk by. On my way to Smart Pig for an afternoon of reading and coke and snacks, I stop at the good Chinese place (as opposed to the shitty Chinese place) for a to-go box of hot and spicy and greasy goodness. I'm ready to get serious about Cynthia, threading my way through the minefields of secrets and people to get my life back on track (normalized) again.
Smart Pig Thneedery, 9/5/2012, 1:28p.m.
I grabbed a pair of cokes from the coke-fridge, a fork from the clean-stuff mug on the counter, and sat down at the table to fuel up with the Chinese food. I could feel the spice and fat and protein and caffeine from this nearly perfect meal fine-tuning my mind and body for an afternoon of productive work. They know that I like my food hot, and by the time I was done and cleaning up, I was both sniffling and gently sweating, in spite of the cool breeze that ran from the window fronting Main Street to the one at the back of the building. I washed my hands and face, opened the coke-fridge for one more to drink while I was working, saw the mocking sign that Cynthia had made for me, and sat down heavily with all of her stuff, determined to find something that would allow me to get a grip on her being gone; to help me find her.
Here Be Monsters (Tyler Cunningham) Page 5