by Fritz Galt
“Got a hot date waiting for you?” Brad teased.
“No,” came the gravelly voice from behind the whiskers.
“Sorry to bother you on a Sunday.”
Chuck shook his head. “It’s not that. All the restaurants are closed and I’m worried that the grocery store will run out of fresh vegetables.”
Brad had noticed the boarded up shop fronts in campus town. Lack of organic foods could pose a problem there. “Then we’ll be quick about this.”
He described what he needed while Chuck struggled to concentrate.
“Got it,” Chuck said, and nervously grabbed for a university phone. “Let me call ahead to the lab.”
A minute later they were walking across the wide square that ran through campus. Brad tried to avoid the skateboarders and young Asian coeds hurrying across his path.
Professor Weiss, the head of the computer lab, met them in his office, a glassed-in cubicle overlooking a pair of supercomputers on a raised platform.
The bald scientist seemed more at ease than Chuck, who excused himself, shook hands with Brad, said goodbye, and flew out of the building. Perhaps Professor Weiss was calmer because he had a wife to buy the groceries. Or maybe the academic world took him so far beyond the mundane details of life that he didn’t even notice that the state’s economy was faltering.
But as Brad described the nature of the problem, using the circumlocution of one academic to another, he realized that the guy had at least theoretical knowledge of the trade embargo.
“So how may I assist you?” Weiss asked.
Brad handed him the envelope containing the data generated by the CIA’s computer models. “I need you to crunch these numbers and find out who among the futures traders or foreign countries stand the most to gain from the trade crisis. I’ve got raw data from the CIA, but what I need is to narrow it down.”
“Would you like us to double-check their data?”
“Not necessary. I think the CIA has a comprehensive list here.”
“But have they based their lists on the correct model? I could throw a few grad students on the problem for you.”
“Do you mean to tell me that the lead intelligence and analysis agency in the country can’t even gather statistics correctly?”
“I’m just saying that slight variations in the model might yield completely different results. Thus I could hand you an array of different results from which you have a more sound statistical basis upon which to proceed.”
“You’re telling me that there’s more than one possible set of data?”
“Good lord, I can give you an infinite number of variations. You can’t trust just one.”
Brad edged away from the man and clutched his numbers to his chest. “Thanks, Professor. I’ll keep that in mind as I go about this.”
He was not going to start all over with a different set of figures, and it appeared impossible to get the shiny-headed naysayer to embrace the numbers he had. He’d have to find someone who would take a different philosophical approach to his problem.
He left the impressive bank of computers behind. Maybe unlike Jed Clampett, California was not the place he ought to be. Outside, he had to avoid even more panicked people just to get back to town.
In addition to finding a university that would listen to him, Brad had personal items to attend to. He was hungry. And he couldn’t find a single restaurant open in Berkeley. Maybe at the airport.
He took the cabby’s advice and jumped on the Bay Area Rapid Transit train heading back to the airport. Once he began gliding under the bay, he put the disquieting scenes on the street behind him. Now, where exactly was he going?
All he knew was that he had to leave California. The place was worse off than Beijing and all he wanted was a bite to eat. It seemed pretty extreme to hop on an airplane just for an in-flight meal.
Two train transfers later, he was standing before a monitor showing departures. Several flights were already canceled, particularly local puddle jumpers. He was prepared to go just about anywhere.
The young, blonde ticket agent was harried and overworked and barely glanced up at Brad as he elbowed the other passengers aside. Maybe he had lived in China too long.
“Get me a flight anywhere,” he said. “Just get me out of California.”
“Could you be more specific?”
Okay, May was in Colorado. “How about Denver.”
She shook her head without looking up. “Denver International Airport is on strike. How about Chicago?”
Damn. There went his chance of catching up with her anytime soon. He considered the suggestion. He had once interviewed at the University of Chicago. He hadn’t gotten the position, but liked the campus. It was a reasonable place to take his problem.
“Great. Book me on the next flight out.”
She looked him over critically, one young person sizing up another. “You do realize that you’ll have to go at full fare.”
He involuntarily felt for his wallet. “I’m prepared for that.”
“First Class,” she said.
He gulped. That would be a tough one to justify to the government. “Sure. Why not?”
She leaned forward confidentially. “Uh, sometimes flight attendants enforce the dress code in First Class.”
“What dress code?” He had never flown First Class before. He began to envision people walking around the spacious cabin in tuxedos and cocktail dresses.
“You might rethink the jeans.”
“Okay, I’ll do that.” He didn’t come that far to get hung up on a technicality.
A minute later First Class ticket in hand, he dropped to one knee and checked his backpack. As he suspected, he was wearing his only pair of pants. And the gate was closing within minutes.
He looked around the terminal. The airport had undergone a major renovation since he’d last transited there twelve months before. The gate had to be at least ten minutes away if he really hoofed it.
He checked around for a men’s store. Even an Armani would do. But there was no such place in view. And the smell of sourdough bread was beginning to eat away at the lining of his stomach.
The guy selling bread was roughly his height, though chubby. Brad angled closer for a better look. Under the apron, the guy was wearing tan trousers.
“See anything you like,” the man said, suggestively.
Brad noted the way the guy eased a loaf of bread into a bag.
“Yeah. I’d like one of those baguettes. And why don’t you throw in that pair of pants you’re wearing.”
May had trouble squaring the tiny towns with her image of America as a superpower. The dry landscape produced none of the abundance and affluence that she had come to expect from her vantage point in China. There was certainly no comparison with the mega cities of Asia.
They passed one town that had a motel! The importance of such a convenience loomed large in her imagination.
So by the time they saw cultivated fields, billboards advertising hotels, and the turnoff to Monte Vista, it seemed like they were entering a metropolis. Perhaps Liang was headed there.
They entered town with high expectations. But as they traveled down the wide street lined with businesses and nicely kept single-story houses, disappointment sank in. Unless Liang wanted to hide out, really disappear from society, he wouldn’t be staying in Monte Vista.
Their search was futile and evening would soon be upon them. Exhausted, she said, “Let’s find a place for the night.”
Jade was heading back west out of town when they happened upon a Best Western motel. For some reason, all the rooms were facing in one direction.
They checked in. Availability was tight, but the manager had a recent vacancy. Right. He gave them a key and they found their room on the second of two floors. The door had a plaque on it that read “Jean Harlow.” Maybe that was the previous occupant.
They let themselves in. The room was okay, but dark with the curtains closed.
Jade began flippin
g on switches. “What’s this?” She fingered a dial in the archway between the bathroom and bedroom. She turned it and nothing happened.
May swept the curtain aside. The deep blue evening seeped in through an enormous picture window. The view was not of mountains. Rather, they faced a dirt parking lot with posts set up every three meters. In the gathering dusk, cars were beginning to pull in, park beside the posts, and hang intercom boxes on their open windows. They all faced the giant white screen below which children were playing on swings and a merry-go-round.
“Let’s see what’s happening out there,” May said. Her Mandarin seemed out-of-place in the uniquely American scene.
They climbed downstairs and walked between two hedges onto the parking lot. In the twilight, the only illumination came from a snack bar where a man in a white cap busily scooped popcorn into bags.
May felt like she was walking through an alien land where people behaved in inexplicable ways. In a country where cars waited for gas for hours, continuing such odd rituals struck her as surreal.
Hungry, they purchased an oversized bag of popcorn and two large sodas. Though there was a respectable-looking coffee shop associated with the motel, Jade claimed driver’s privilege to go to bed rather than sit down to dinner. Hot buttered popcorn would have to satisfy them for the night.
They were standing in the middle of the parking lot watching headlights pull in when the giant screen came to life. A movie preview began to flash on the screen. The lips of the actors were as large as a truck, but there was no sound. Then May heard tinny voices coming from the cars around them. What a strange juxtaposition of the large and the small, the public and the intimate.
All she could conclude was that Americans loved their cars.
She looked at Jade, who returned a dissatisfied smirk. This was not for her.
When May opened the door to their room, she was met by a wall of music and bursts of dialog. Jade winced and rushed in past her.
May set her soda down and covered her ears. Out the picture window, she could see the movie playing above the parking lot. The sound in their room was neatly synchronized with the action on the screen.
“It’s this dial,” Jade yelled from the archway, and turned the volume down.
May picked her soda up and entered the room. Jade scooted to the edge of the far bed and stared mesmerized at the looming screen.
“Hey,” May shouted. “Save me some popcorn.”
Soon it was dark enough for the feature film to get underway. It was a love story combined with space creatures.
What were they doing there?
She and Jade were letting the magic of movies sweep their worldly cares away. She was just like all those people in the cars below. At first the idea repulsed her.
Did Brad waste his time like this when he was home?
But the love story was captivating, and she found a comfortable position on her stomach from which to watch. Maybe escaping reality wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Chapter 25
Brad landed at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport feeling more rested and comfortable than from any other flight in his life.
Flying First Class above the turmoil below, he was the very picture of serenity and contentment. He had reclined in his leather seat, his eyes blindfolded by eye covers, and he had sipped on mimosas while the flight attendant heated up his shrimp scampi with asparagus tips.
Upon arrival, he was one of the first to step off the plane. In one hand, he carried the sourdough bread that he had bought in San Francisco. In the other, he carried the CIA packet. He followed the underground passageway into one of the main terminals at O’Hare Airport. Only then did he realize how dark the skies looked. He was losing time rapidly as he traveled eastward. But there was no rush to get to Hyde Park and the University of Chicago since it was a Sunday.
So he switched from finding transportation to finding lodging. He remembered an old school friend from his undergraduate days. They could hook up, have a few beers, talk about old times, and he could ask to crash there.
The only uncomfortable part was that his friend was female. Claudia was cool, but a girl nonetheless. How would May react to that?
Which got him thinking about May once more. How was she doing? He’d have to give her a call.
The airport was noisy from crowds of people rushing about, buying tickets and yelling into their cell phones. He scoped out the terminal for a relatively quiet place from which to make a call. At last he found refuge inside a Mercedes-Benz on display atop a platform.
He slipped in behind the wheel of the sedan with its burl walnut trim and nappa leather upholstery. The entire display slowly pivoted around inside the passenger terminal. Having become accustomed to First Class surroundings, he sank into the deep leather with accustomed ease, pulled out his cell phone and dialed May’s number.
It was a man who answered.
Brad shifted his focus from the passengers scrambling toward gates to the voice that was supposed to be his girlfriend’s. The guy sounded Asian or Middle Eastern. “Who is this?”
“Who is this?” the man retorted indignantly.
“I wan to speak to May.”
“Well, she doesn’t want to come to the phone right now.”
Brad spoke quickly before the man hung up. “Who are you?” The voice on the other end sounded all too familiar.
“Haven’t you already guessed, smart boy?”
“Liang! What have you done with May?”
Brad listened carefully for background noise that might reveal Liang’s whereabouts. All he heard was a low drone. Liang was most likely inside a moving vehicle.
“I have her with me,” Liang said. “She is all over me right now. Her arms are wrapped around me. She is kissing me.”
“Put her on the phone!”
Several passengers paused to stare at the car that rocked on its suspension and the man shouting at the top of his lungs inside.
“We can’t talk now. We’re off to see a concert by the Boston Symphony Orchestra.”
And the line went dead.
Boston! What on earth were Liang and May doing in Boston?
He stared at the blank screen of his cell phone. That was as close as he would get to May for the time being. But did she still want him? Why the hell had she given her phone to Liang? A bitter feeling began to rise inside him. Once again he was beginning to doubt his choices in life.
Do you know where you’re going to?
Hell no. He didn’t have the vaguest idea.
How sad the answers to those questions can be.
No kidding. But wait. That wasn’t Diana Ross singing. It was Xenhet, his spirit guide twisting the knife in his side.
“I can handle this myself. Okay?”
He stared at the buttons on the phone. It would be so easy to click 411 and get directory assistance. Find out Claudia’s number.
Do you get what you’re hoping for?
“Yeah, I’m gonna get it no matter what you think.”
When you look behind you there’s no open door.
“You so sure? We’ll see about that.”
What are you hoping for?
“Wouldn’t you like to know? Now get out of my mind. I’ve gotta make a date.”
Directory assistance yielded the phone number, but not the street address, of Claudia Knocker his old college flame. The phone number was all he needed. He already knew where she lived. Hmm, she was still going by her maiden name. There was a distinct possibility that she was still single.
“Shall I connect you?” the operator asked.
Brad stared sulkily over the steering wheel. “Sure. Put me through.”
He waited while the phone clicked, then he heard a ring tone on the other end. Several rings.
“Yes?” It was her voice.
“You’ll never guess who this is.”
There was a pause. “You’re right. I can’t guess.”
“It’s me, Brad.”
No sign o
f recognition.
“From the University of Arizona,” he prompted.
Suddenly the lights went on. “Brad. The weightlifter!”
“Well, no.”
“No, let me think.”
Brad rolled his eyes and waited. A security guard looked at him from across the terminal.
“I’ve got it. Brad, the guy who ran for the state senate.”
“Nope. Not me.”
The guard began heading his way.
“No. I know. You’re the one who tried to invite me to St. Moritz.”
Brad popped the car door open and stepped out. “Sorry, sir,” he whispered to the security guard. “I was just testing it out.”
“Sure you were. Spread ’em.”
“Brad, the ballet dancer?”
“Listen. I can’t talk right now.”
“Oh, I’ve got it. Brad the art teacher.”
“I’m sorry.” He pressed his head against the roof of the car so that he could angle his words into the phone while the officer frisked him. “I’m going to have to hang up. I appear to be under arrest.”
“Oh, I remember you now,” she said with a laugh.
“Well, that’s gratifying.”
“Brad, the convict!”
“Bye.”
“Not so fast, Mr. Anthropologist. I’m just messing with you.”
“Oh right, right,” he managed to stammer.
“I sure do remember you,” she said. “I always wondered what happened to you.”
“No kidding?”
“Really.” Her voice had softened, almost choking up with emotion.
“Listen, they’re just about to clasp handcuffs on me, so I gotta go.” He lost one hand to the handcuffs and had to drop the CIA packet. “I need to get to the university, but I’ll have to call you later.”
There went the other hand and the sourdough bread. The guard closed the cell phone and dropped it straight into the pocket of Brad’s baggy, borrowed trousers.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
The security guard pinned Brad against the Mercedes-Benz and got on his two-way radio.