I sat up, rubbing sleep from my face.
The lacy lamp cover reminded me of Maureen, but with the scarlet glow of light surrounding me, my thoughts drifted to Betsy sitting in front of the Thanksgiving fire. I remembered her talking about energy changing form. Could the process of seeing the world be interpreted in this same fashion?
If my concept of reality disintegrated, did a new one rise from the ashes, like the phoenix, in another form? Was that an explanation of the two streets outside Rolly’s window, the disappearance of Steel and Santa in the alley, the astounding coincidences of the feather, or the fiery flag drawings? It seemed an hallucinatory otherworld could coalesce into my world of substance. Did it operate in the physical realm I believed I had always existed in? Or did I live in two universes, stepping from one to the other and not able to tell the difference of which I walked in? How would I ever know? It seemed crucial for me to understand the blending or separateness of these two worlds. Yet I couldn’t. My mind ran ragged playing back the odd happenings of the last few months. Reliving the day, Amelia and Jenny’s lack of explanations began to shape into a personal resolution to discover the truth about the mysteries I had been witnessing.
The only possible physical evidence I could think of that related to my experiences were the seemingly blessed feather I had given to Greg and my burning flag drawings. But the enigmatic graffiti-like equation, window box hoof print, and blackened bird stain of Monster Alley had to be considered valuable clues in any attempts to investigate the bizarreness invading my life.
I needed to take action.
Chapter 23
I rose from the bed, checked the time. Two in the morning. I picked up my Polaroid from the dresser. It had a full pack of instant film in it. The top drawer, along with my socks, underwear, and packet of LSD, held a foot-long flashlight. Sliding its switch forward, a strong beam of light shot out. After placing the camera, extra film, and flash accessories in a knapsack, along with a sketch pad and pencil, I dressed in dark jeans and a brown, corduroy winter coat. I pulled on a black wool cap, peered apprehensively up and down the street, and stepped outside, flashlight in hand.
My right-hand wrist tingled where Amelia had touched me.
It was crazy, walking the dark streets, flinching at every scrape or clunking sound. Three cats startled me by dashing unexpectedly from hidden areas. A fourth, whose distorted shadow loomed as large as any jungle feline, hunched menacingly on some steps, its low throaty growl warning me to hurry on by.
As I approached Washington Square, I heard a shot crack the night. Within minutes, sirens screamed a few blocks uptown. I stopped, listening to the near and far layering of emergency vehicles announcing their missions throughout the city. Police, a block or two away, an ambulance blitzing up 6th, a distant fire engine racing east.
Amelia had told me to stay safe. Was I ignoring her advice, or did I believe her touch had been a blessing, allowing me to move freely on the dim sidewalks, slip past the occasional stranger, and dart through shadows at three in the morning immune to harm?
I stayed away from bright lights as best I could. Gripping the heavy flashlight as a weapon, I flashed it sparingly to reveal grotesque demons hidden in piles of garbage or to cast a beam at the twitching, swaying arms of any nightmare shrubbery threatening to assault me. I stole by, recruiting the darkness of the trees around the edge of the Square to become my ally as I moved stealthily across the Village.
Four men sat under a lamppost in the park, singing softly. The mournful squeeze and pull of an accordion’s sad song accompanied by a guitar surrounded them. One of the quartet rested his head against the shoulders of the fellow next to him. The light caught the sparkle of glitter on the rose-painted face of his friend as he tilted backwards to take a deep swig from a bottle.
A car idled at an otherwise empty intersection ahead. The glow of the driver smoking spooked me, so I climbed a low section of fence into the park, using the bushes and foliage as cover. Leaves crunched under my feet. Patches of mist clung close to the ground.
A man’s quiet but insistent whisper, “Psst, Mary, over here,” sent me scurrying backwards. I hefted the flashlight. Then I heard rustling and groaning, sounds of a struggle between two, maybe three people, almost at my feet.
Someone was in trouble. I had to help, even though I knew it meant I was in for a fight, possibly outnumbered. My thumb stopped just short of turning on the flashlight when another voice from a different direction murmured, “So sweet, so sweet. Don’t be shy.”
Then, a cooing plea, from a bit further away, “We need a mare. Come and join us.”
Closer again, heavy breathing was building to a crescendo. “Oh, oh, oh god, that was beautiful.” Someone sighed deeply with satisfaction, then asked tenderly, “What’s your name, darling?”
“Billy.”
“Oh god, I think I’m in love.”
The tree trunks were shifting, leaning, bending, taking on human form. The ground writhed as giant spiders rolled over each other. Men panted and moaned, then spoke or cried softly to each other. A glimpse of pale white flesh within the umbra of the wooded area and I finally allowed myself to understand.
I backtracked, astonished at what I had accidentally stumbled upon. I never would have guessed men who loved men met this way. Dark places, hidden spaces. And on a chilly, near-winter night.
Finding a path, I reemerged around the corner. The car, which I now made out to be an off-duty taxi, still sat at the crossroads. It began moving, turned in my direction, and slowly cruised by me. A strong stench of cigar trailed out a half-open window. The driver’s unshaven, heavy-jowled face glowed red as he held a match up and sucked on the tobacco.
What...? That’s stogie man.
Facing the entrance to Monster Alley, I stepped past my fear, listening for sounds and sending out mental feelers to understand the mood of the passageway. Absolute stillness came back to me.
Moving inward, shining the flashlight on the bricks, I concentrated on the hieroglyphic scratchings. Awkwardly balancing the light and aiming the Polaroid, I snapped a photograph of the scribbled markings. The flash popped. I counted off sixty anxious seconds before pulling out the film. The first shot was perfectly legible. Looking down the length of the wall, I calculated it should take fifteen to twenty minutes to photograph the entire formula or equation or whatever it was.
Damn, why am I doing this at night? A half hour before it seemed the only solution to save my sanity—a first step in moving forward through the mysteries engulfing me. Now it dawned on me that I was behaving stupidly, taking unnecessary risks in a rather ominous and possibly hostile environment.
Two more shots were left to line up when a red light flashed across the wall just as I pulled the film tab on another photograph. Being on edge, remembering the barrage of lightning I had witnessed in the alley, I whirled around shining the flashlight in every direction, swiping at the darkness, readying myself for an assault from whatever haunted the alley.
I heard the crackle of static at the same time I was blinded by a white brilliance shining down the length of the passage. From the street, the red light pulsed cyclically.
“Drop the flashlight and whatever else you have in your hands. Raise your arms up, hands above your head. This is the New York City Police.”
“It looks like a camera, Al. He’s got a knapsack hooked over that one shoulder.”
“Drop the camera and toss your knapsack to the ground—slowly, very slowly now. Keep facing us.”
“Okay, I’m doing it.” I flipped the flashlight onto a cardboard box. Holding one hand above my head, I lowered my camera to the ground with the other. Awkwardly, trying to make no sudden movements, I removed, then lightly threw the knapsack with my sketchbook and the developed photos in it out past the camera.
“Stay absolutely still. Do you hear me? Do not move and keep your hands in the air.
Do you understand? Answer me.”
“Yes. Yes, I’ll keep my hands in the air.”
“Is there anyone else in there with you?”
“No.”
A minute of nervous silence passed as another light beam flashed about, investigating darker recesses beyond me.
“Walk slowly towards us.”
I moved forward, trying to squint away the pain of their powerful spotlight.
When I reached the sidewalk, I made out the figure of a policeman on either side of the entrance to the alley, gun drawn and aiming right at me.
“Turn around and place your hands on the wall.”
One of them frisked me, removed my wallet, handcuffed me, and placed me in the patrol car. He stood as a vigilant lookout, gun still in hand, as his partner slowly searched the alley.
The officer came back out carrying my equipment.
“All clear. I think we caught a peeper.”
“Jack, I don’t see any windows at ground level and there’s no fire escape.”
They searched through my bag, studying each photo, leafing through my sketches.
Jack unscrewed the flashlight, emptying the batteries and looking inside it.
Al had my sketchbook open on the hood of the car. “Well, I’ll be. Look at this. This is beautiful. Janie would love that in the dining room.”
Jack nodded gravely, then spoke to me through the window, “Where’d you get the drawings from?”
“I drew them.”
The two policemen exchanged a quick glance. Jack thumbed through my wallet until he came across my draft card and driver’s license.
“What were you doing in the alley, Mister Parker?”
I lied to him, “An art project.”
Facing their blank stares, I explained I was an artist and made up a story that I was working on a piece that involved photographing graffiti on walls.
“Why are you out at three in the morning taking these pictures?”
“It’s part of the concept I want to portray. Y’know, different light to create different atmospheres. I was going to take duplicate photos during the day to show another quality of light and color.”
Jack rubbed at his chin. “Nutty.”
Al said, “Jack, a lot of these drawings are signed Deets Parker.”
After they had taken the cuffs off me, I asked them if they could leave their power searchlight on for a few more minutes.
“Why?”
“So I can take the last two photos for this piece.”
“Aah, c’mon, Parker.”
“Just two more pictures, man.” I opened up my sketchbook to a pencilled still life of flowers in a glass vase set atop a lace doily. I carefully ripped it out of the pad, slid it onto the hood of their car. Al looked over at Jack. Jack turned around saying, “I gotta reconnoiter the area.” He walked down the sidewalk and hefted a cigarette to his mouth. I took off down the alley with my camera.
They drove me back to my apartment. I left the flower drawing on the back seat of the patrol car, then slid out. Al asked in a low tone that he pretended Jack couldn’t hear, “How did you know it was the one with the flower vase?”
In a conspiratorial whisper I answered, “Well, there were only four or five complete drawings, the rest were just sketches. I bet Janie didn’t want the old guy with the beard or the gnarled oak tree. And the dancing bear was just too weird. So that left either the frogs and dragonflies or the flowers and doily. I figured you’d want to give her flowers rather than frogs.” I shrugged affably. “C’mon, it’s Janie’s dining room.”
Al laughed. “You’re right, Parker. Good detective work.”
Chapter 24
I sorted through the photos. The shots were overlapped, making it easy to trim and tape them onto a piece of rigid artboard in the correct sequence. I jotted off a letter to Betsy, asking her if she could find out what the symbols on the wall meant. Were they a formula, an equation, what? Tempted to write some suggestive quip about her nipple, I left it out, deciding I should let her and Richard work through their problems without my interference.
Exhilarated by the possibility of gaining a clue to the puzzle of Monster Alley, I had trouble relaxing when I finally climbed into bed close to dawn. I felt sure that paying attention to the mysterious, quasi-mathematical scratchings was a positive first step, and I kept thinking of some of the odd shapes in the complex string of symbols. I lay around until noon, daydreaming about what they could possibly mean, then called my mom from the phone booth across the street. I asked her if she remembered Betsy’s last name.
“I think Po... Po.”
“Popo—you mean like the clown or Poe like the writer?”
“No, it was a Polish name, Po something, like inzki, ewski, witz.”
“Popo, what witz?”
She asked me why I wanted to know Betsy’s name, and I told her for a mailing. I mumbled that I didn’t want to ask Richard when she suggested I call him. She became upset, warning me not to interfere in Richard’s life.
“Oh, for goodness sakes, behave yourself. Haven’t you bothered him enough over the years? Uncle Ted and Richard have never gotten over you breaking that BB gun and then stealing those two balls Richard threw in the championships. You’re best just leaving his girlfriend alone.”
“Mom, I was on the other team. I was supposed to try and intercept his passes.”
I had better luck calling a friendly receptionist at Radcliffe. She laughed at the Popo clue, but working together, we had located within minutes an Elizabeth Polczewski, junior class, declared major in physics, residence in Concord, New Hampshire. I scribbled down Betsy’s dorm address and phone number and mailed off the photographs to her.
Just before Christmas, a return letter from Betsy arrived.
Deets,
I gave the photos to an absolutely brilliant graduate student. You owe me big time. When I went to his place to hear his explanation, he handed me a joint and sat back, twiddling his fingers. My reputation had preceded me. He expected me to strip as he interpreted the equation! I ended up unbuttoning my shirt, revealing a bit of my bra. The guy’s a total nerd and harmless enough, but the whole scene was very bizarre.
He told me he can’t figure out what the alleged formula means but said it looked like a parody of mathematical equations using drawings and symbols that amount to absolutely nothing. He thinks it’s a clever ruse, playing with theories on black holes, antimatter, and wormholes. He also found a number of icons that could be interpreted as organic creatures, but none he could identify precisely.
Now, I don’t know how you did it, but it seems awfully coincidental that the scribblings might refer to exactly what we were talking about at Thanksgiving. If this is your idea of a joke I suffered through, you’d better apologize to me in person.
Please come to Boston the next full moon and tickle me fancy!
Betsy
I called her dorm a few times over the next few days, but no one ever answered. Figuring she must be on holiday break, I wrote her a quick thank-you and, my earlier resolve weakening, added a cartoon formula consisting of playful, erotically suggestive symbols.
Chapter 25
Before leaving to my parents’ house for Christmas, I stopped by Rolly’s to smoke a jay with him and check on how his important gig had gone.
The band had been flawless. He was in a good mood, enthusiastically telling me the manager of The Rolling Stones had been in the audience and reportedly liked Wild Bird’s music. Rolly hadn’t heard anything from him yet, but he was hyped about the possibility of a big name tour or recording opportunity.
“I’ve got to get to practice, man.” He clicked shut the clasps on his guitar case. “Hey, you screwed up one of the tuning pegs on that Fender you knocked over.”
“What? I didn’t knock over any guitar.”
“Hey, sorry, man. I’ll pay to fix it.”
“Nah, I had to glue the neck back onto that one a few years back. I just keep it here in the apartment for anyone to jam on. I’ll tell you what—you should play more—why don’t you take it?”
“Wow, you sure, man?”
“We really rocked out that day. Blew me away. That groove was like some kind of spell. You can play.”
“Me?” I chuckled. “I know about four chords.”
“Yeah, well, there’s a lot of number-one hits out there with only three chords.”
My portfolio still lay on his table. “Did you get a look at my artwork?”
“Yeah, man, it’s really fantastic. I really dig the one with all the birds blending together. And the color—it’s like the birds are some kind of angelic thunder storm.”
“I’ll trade you it for the guitar.”
“Deal. Thanks, man.”
As we were leaving, I asked Rolly what he had seen when we looked out the window that day I ran down to the street. He said he couldn’t figure out what I had been panicking about, claiming all he saw was the traffic that was always out there. When we reached the sidewalk, I pointed to where the truck had appeared, and he acknowledged that trucks always unloaded there. No, he hadn’t seen any little girl jump-roping, nor some guy in a car talking to me.
“I was checking out the neck and tuning pegs, man, so I didn’t catch what was going down. Then you wandered off. Man, you even left your drawings here. You must have really flipped.”
Chapter 26
After spending a few days with my parents and sister over the holidays, I got back to the Village and worked on my art for the June show. By New Year’s, I hadn’t seen anyone in four days, so, with a drawing going badly, I put down my pencils and set out to the Blue Cat Cafe on Sullivan Street. I took a seat at a table with some people I knew and drank beer, listening to a good band. The place was wild and the noise impenetrable. Pointy hats, metal whirring gadgets, and cardboard party horns were handed out. A big clock near the stage counted down the year as people yelled loudly, laughed playfully, danced provocatively, and drank way too much.
Mayhem (The Remarkable Adventures of Deets Parker Book 1) Page 12