Children of the Program

by Brad Cox

  The Cadence of the Sun conferred until the wee hours of a cool Texan morning. The warm new day's sun caressed the skyline and awoke them. In the skunked wake of their poor decision making, they found themselves littered across the barren Monkey Bar parking lot. With a heave and ho, Dez mustered the remnants of his physical strength, rose and made concessions for their dire need for a clear direction. From his tattered jean pants pocket, his shaky hands pulled a crinkled piece of paper with the Children of the Program website information scribbled upon it. From another pocked he pulled a tiny Budweiser beverage napkin and added Grayson's email and telephone number, before handing them over to Max.

  “You're going to have to carry the torch, m'boy,” revealed Dez, barely able to speak. “I've got to get back to the bunker, before this sun murders me. I've got the symptoms of some type of bacterial infection or cancer. You should have everything you need. Just find Crystal, before it's too late to carry on.”

  “What happens if we don't find her?” asked Max.

  “It's all I'm asking. Find her, or we're finished!” he said cryptically. “Shoot her.”

  “Dez?”

  “Do you have a problem with that?” asked Dez, mustering the strength to stare directly into Max's trembling eye sockets. “She's carrying another man's baby. She's been in touch with a lunatic who protects these birthers. Even if she's not carrying an alien — please, do it for me! It's not my child. I'm begging you.” His rant exuded his last drop of his mortal energy. Speechless and slow to turn, he walked toward the truck, and charted his course back to the compound.

  chapter 43

  Like a dog

  Getting back east was important. It wasn't that I was avoiding my father's voice, I just didn't know how to bridge the gap. Our series of ups and downs had been exasperated by my lack of effort. With a universe of lost time to cross, I wasn't sure if he'd even accept my collect call or recognize my hoarse voice. Fearing his rejection made the weight of picking up a Los Angeles payphone receiver a Herculean feat. With my tail firmly tucked between my awkwardly tight denim, Michelle yanked the number from my hands, dialed and forced me to reach out and touch someone. Absorbing my nerves, she paced about the Santa Monica Pier, projected confidence and awaited a verdict.

  “Dad.”

  “Neco!”

  “I need to come home.” I said, relieved by the grace in his tone.

  Before I could even finish my awkward stammer, he offered a swift resolve. He locked his judgment in the reserves, only to resurface as a conversational piece, a joke or reason to leverage a future disagreement. With the few dollars he had to his name, he purchased Michelle and I two one way plane tickets to Baltimore-Washington International airport. In that moment, my hopes and his prayers had been answered. His only dream was that I'd return and be ready to lay a solid foundation in Maryland. With The Council's chaos unraveling, I knew it wouldn't be long before the word 'disappointed' reared its ugly head — again!

  “You've got a ton of mail here. Have you been paying your car insurance and eating well?” he asked.

  “We've been on the run. It's a long story, but it wasn't safe to salvage the car,” I said.

  “You can tell me about it at the airport.”

  “I'm looking forward to grabbing breakfast. Like we used to.”

  My words were followed by an awkward silence. Fond memories had a way of tearing open forgotten scars. Though it was likely just the Pacific condensation, I could almost feel his heavy tears falling upon my earlobes. He wasn't alone — the rivers forming in my eyes mirrored his longing for absolution. Our battle to see the world through similar eyes had lasted a lifetime. It wasn't that we didn't understand each other, it was that we were called to enlighten each other. He was sent to be my rock and me, the roll.

  Had the circumstances been different, we'd have probably just thrown tiny verbal daggers, never taking a moment to notice the depths of our cutting sentiments. Luckily, too much time had passed for theatrics or posturing.

  “There's a rather sizable package, here, from Ash of Scotland,” he said.

  “Oh my God!” I squawked.

  “It may give you a little incentive to board your flight,” he added.

  The universe had been resting in our reckless hands for too long. I couldn't wait for the day I could explain my questionable logic and open his mind to the lunacy he had watched parading around the United States – like an acid tripping revolutionary from the 60's. Soldiering on, I knew we had to save Crystal and Grayson from the eyes of madness, or I'd never see the sunrise on that far off moment.

  Ash's package was the piece of closure I needed to move on. Watching her house fill with smoke on Dez's surveillance monitors had left me feeling helpless, heartbroken and frozen in time. I could only hope she'd found her way Beyond it.

  Michelle and I panhandled our fare, caught a cab to LAX and boarded the return flight. The entire tone of the trip was somber. Everything felt surreal. Though we'd learned to depend upon each other, there was still an unconnected landscape of memories and reasons living between us. Long hours on the plane reinforced our divide. Exhaustion made the simplest of dialogs a burden.

  With my head in the clouds, I used my time to stare from my window seat and scribe song lyrics across the passing blue sky. Michelle rested, allowing her soul to sort through loss, regret and flashbacks. Though I was terrified of flying, my father's protective hands seemed to guide the wings and give me peace. When we landed, he was waiting. Despite the distance, our hearts shuffled off the emotional baggage and hugged. Sensing her discomfort, he wrapped his arm around Michelle and forced her into the family.

  “Thank you, Dad.”

  “You're my son and my blood.”

  “Michelle and I plan on sticking around, but we do have to visit a friend in New York – briefly.”

  He wasn't surprised. Michelle continued to absorb the culture shock, as we charted our way home. Arriving at my old house for an all-too-familiar reunion, my instincts lead my itchy fingers directly to the bedroom telephone.

  “Grayson! Has Crystal arrived?” I asked.

  “Not yet. I expect them any day now,” said Grayson.

  “They?” I asked.

  “She's on the road with some hopeless romantic. He offered to bring her here.”

  “Michelle and I are in Baltimore. We're going to get some rest, and head out in a couple of days. Dez doesn't know we are here, but I'm sure his wolves are sniffing around the door. I don't want to jeopardize my father's safety, any more than it already is. We've all been marked. My paranoia is convinced that Cadence binoculars are following my every move. Luckily, he has no reason to believe Crystal is saddled to your back, but you'd be wise to keep a healthy awareness,” I said.

  “I'm used to it. This city is crawling with freaks,” added Grayson, before cutting the line.

  Destiny paved a way for Michelle and me to connect. Fearing my father's house was being watched, we charted off course, and explored the tattered Baltimorean landscape. By moonlight, we exchanged campfire stories and fueled our tired minds with bottomless cups of diner coffee. We found our common thread was tied to a misdirected rebellion. We both wanted to destroy the poisoned world we were forced to accept, and we both wanted to find something greater than what we'd been taught and sold. Though the darkness seemed to shield us from societal expectations, it only perverted our hopes. In a world glamorizing self-aggrandizing behavior and autonomy, we'd foolishly neglected our soul's interconnected nature. The mere thought of building a new life together — on these revelations — made the tiny hairs on the back of our necks stand tall. We were falling in love.

  +++

  Michelle had all but forgotten Max. The truth could no longer be suppressed and the purity of my father's home lit a candle in her blackened heart. She spent countless nights repairing what the Cadence had tried to suppress and destroy in her. Using my ears as a soundboard proved to be the best remedy for her baggage. Long talks healed her more than
her childhood psychiatrist, antipsychotic medications, stripping and the drug cocktails Dez had been giving her, combined. Injecting her heart with a positive faith, gave her a mainline to the Council of the Lords.

  “We really shouldn't stay for too long,” said Michelle.

  Bundled in hoodies, while sitting under a tree in a nearby schoolyard, the blackbirds beckoned for notice. On a wooden bench we perched, built a stable nest and weaved our lives together with trusting words and stale cigarettes. Our names were carved into the tree. A tiny promise necklace was tied into the weeping branches. It was our very own museum, constructed with the purity of simplicity. It was a living love letter – our place in time.

  “Neco, darling?” asked Michelle.

  “I wish we could just turn it off and forget about this crazy world!”

  “We can, and it'll quickly forget about us — all of us!

  “I suppose.”

  Birds chirped. An orange sheen glimmered upon the dawning street. Talking ourselves into an unexpected sleep, we awoke, energized by The Council's call and covered in a cool morning dew. Saddling up our belongings, we soldiered up to my father's house, on top of the hill, and rehearsed our swan song. Slithering across the threshold, the still home offered us a way from the psychological cage we'd built — we could leave before the first rooster crowed. Parting the bedroom curtains, my tired father released a familiar sight of disapproval, and set us free, without ever uttering a damning word.

  “I just couldn't,” I said.

  “Say, 'Goodbye?'” Michelle asked.

  “I feel like my entire life has been a burden on his soul,” I continued.

  “Did you ever think, he feels equally as burdensome? Let's focus on Crystal.”

  +++

  Before watchful eye of fall and the bustling traffic, we planned for the coming war. On highway medians, we hitchhiked for rides, and arrived to the outskirts of New York City in record time. A bus station in New Jersey gave us time to make our final preparations, to connect and beg for bus fares — it was a small price to pay for a one way trip into the belly of America's beast.

  “Grayson, we're here!” I said.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Learning to survive is the closest a person will ever get to knowing God,” I added.

  “Do you guys have a place to stay? If want to get to know sardines, we can try to find room,” offered Grayson.

  “We're going to remain in obscurity. If you're being watched, we'll need eyes on the outside,” I continued.

  As I slowly retired the dingy black payphone to its saddle, a homeless Jamaican fellow caught the corner of my eye — he was no stranger to survival. Buried in an ocean of curly black dreadlocks and wiry gray facial hair, the vacant soul haplessly raised his 40 oz. brown bag of freedom, and delivered the bottomless bottle into his dry and quivering mouth. He was society's truth. A derelict. A tired man crucified by unconquerable circumstances. I was forced to wonder, 'What are we fighting for?”

  “You kids are almost out of time, aren't you?” he managed, cryptically.

  There was something about his tone that made time stop and my spirit jump. My rational side made me think, 'Maybe he overheard the urgency in my call to Grayson?' or 'Maybe he witnessed us repeatedly looking at our watches.' Regardless, the entire world and its inhabitants seemed to be watching our lives unfold on a dystopian stage. Things like numerology, deja vu and synchronicity amplified our suspicions, but guided us.

  “The bus should be here any minute,” he laughed, mocking my wide-eyed paranoia.

  “That's what the ticket says!” I added.

  “The early bird catches the worm,” he grinned.

  “They say,” I said.

  “Don't be modest, son, you know all about waking up with the birds – now, don't you?”

  Turning to acknowledge him, he was gone.

  “God?” I whispered.

  chapter 44

  The Long Goodbye

  Crystal stared from the fingerprint smudged window. Her eyes, like a video camera, recorded the distance between her past and every passing moment. The road relentlessly sowed her story together. Unconsciously, she'd rub her tummy and replay the hurried conversation she'd had with Neco. She could almost feel the threat of the relentless New Mexican air, chasing after her. Lazy mile markers brought anxious butterflies to her stomach. Romantic visions of a life with Dez were nothing more than a passing flu — a small sacrifice to pay for the child growing harmoniously in tandem with the stars.

  “What's your plan?” asked Joe, turning down an unpalatable Beach Boys song.

  “I don't know,” she said, trying to recall a time when anything went as such.

  “I hope you'll stay in touch,” said Joe.

  “Promise me you'll keep Grayson's information handy. I don't intend to forget!”

  Pulling into an intimidating Brooklyn neighborhood, a thick black cloud of finality descended upon the dark streets. His nervous lips quivered as he mouthed each residential complex number. His sadness made it impossible to produce an audible tone. Adding insult to his tragic fortune, a black cat crossed his path.

  “Just my luck. I want you to take care of that baby!” he exclaimed, stopping his words short, aware of how fatherly he sounded. He had never felt so aged and unlovable. Adjusting the rear-view mirror, he couldn’t help but watch his eyes well and his face fall.

  “The future lives inside me,” Crystal said, sensing his pain. She slowly cocked his head toward hers and gave him a long and gentle kiss. “I couldn't have done any of this without you,” she added, never breaking eye contact. “Consider my world — our world — forever indebted to you! Take care of Petey, for me.”

  Joe knew he could stay, but didn't wish to extend his pain with a sleepover. Like a stranger in the night, Crystal descended from his trailer and approached a young and good looking gentleman. He seemed eager to take Joe's place. Draping his confident arm around her petite shoulder, Grayson looked back, smiled and waved him on. If only to break Grayson's assumptive contact, until Joe had managed his truck through the narrow streets, she shrugged him off, and laced her tall boots. Seizing the opportunity and missing the cue, Grayson grabbed her baggage and hurled it around his torso. They ascended into the complex and prepared for a long night.

  “How long did it take?” Grayson asked, putzing around his tiny kitchen, distracted by a pot of coffee.

  “Where do you want to start? If you consider all of the inane variables that lead up to this tiny moment, I guess you could say it took me over 20 years,” she snarked, not prepared to let him in easily. “No sugar and no creamer,” Crystal added, without being asked. “I should probably warn you, I can be a bit guarded.”

  “I understand. A cup o' black oil for the Snow Queen — coming right up!”

  “OK, I assume you want the whole story.” Crystal begrudgingly laughed. Settling into his divan, she parted with her pretension, and assumed the role of a mental patient, tasking Grayson with both journalism and psychiatry. Armed with a pen, he detailed her earliest days. His recorder picked up the scraps.

  “So, stripping?” Grayson asked, welcoming the elephant into the room.

  “I got into stripping because I needed to the money — period. Dez provided me with a way out. He seemed a little crazy, but no more than exploiting my innocence for the hounds of hell. I got started when I was a teenager and found a small studio with my childhood friend, Michelle. My father was an absentee alcoholic. I'm not sure if he even realizes I'm gone.”

  “I'm sure he has,” coaxed Grayson.

  “He says my mother was a saint, and blames his spiraling on her passing. My early days were spent gazing into her old photos and wishing for a normal life. Often, I prayed for an early death, in hopes of hearing her voice. That's how connected I feel to her.”

  “She's with you.”

  “We're bad apples. This child has given me hope. The Program has given me purpose.”

  �
��Are you kidding? You're like a modern day Mother Mary. Your dark past makes it intriguing and poetic. Every word that falls from your ruby red lips sounds like a news headline,” Grayson awkwardly professed, entranced by her back-story.

  “Even if everything Neco told me was a total lie, it's a lie I'd choose to believe,” Crystal quickly added, trying to distance herself from his innocent advance, and her heart's attraction.

  Their eyes trembled to restrain the connection. Catching her cue, Grayson clicked his pen and folded the notebook. He couldn't shake his romantic feelings, but knew their calling was greater than his rush of hormones. With grateful eyes, she offered him her cheek. Redirecting his intentions, he leaned down and gave her a friendly kiss.

  “Thank you, Grayson,” Crystal said.

  “Do me a favor. Don't answer that door for anyone or anything. I'll probably be at work before you wake. I'll leave my pager number on the counter. If you so much as sense danger, please page me — please,” instructed Grayson.

  She nodded and slept. From the back of her eye lids, the gray bird appeared in the darkness and lead her through a cryptic New York City cemetery. It landed upon a shallow and unmarked plot. Holding her newborn child, she leaned over the empty hole. The bird was gazing upon an unrecognizable male frame. Face down, he appeared to be handsomely dressed and coated in the moist mud. His head turned. Disoriented, she awoke, screaming “Grayson!”

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I was dreaming and displaced. I wasn't sure if I was in Brooklyn or Texas.”

  Grayson handed her a glass of water and headed back to bed. In the moonlit room, she stared, trying to envision herself in the comforts of Joe's living room. With strict focus, she could almost hear Petey's brash, but sweet, call. Fearing for his safety, she prayed.

  Joe arrived to a ransacked home. Making a swift assessment, he was grateful to find Petey unscathed. None of his earthly processions could replace his only true friend. With hesitation, his tired heart slunk through the looted rooms. Sadness stirred the acids in his sullen stomach.