Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, vol. 1

Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, vol. 1 Page 6

by Mike Bozart

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  27. Mysterieau Returns (July 2014)

  Mysterieau – that borderline surrealist, that oddly intriguing raconteur, that all-laughter-barred comedian, that strangely lame magician – returned to the stage after pumping Facebook for some new material ideas. (This is the same character featured in the novella Mysterieau of San Francisco.)

  He had left his purple outfit in San Francisco, and thus decided to make his bluer-than-blue debut. It was a one-nighter in Carson City, Nevada at a tiny, third-rate casino that was once a gas station (and still smelled like it). The hands-hidden-by-extra-long-suit-sleeves, high-flying-in-place, skull-masked one took the low stage at 11:11 PM on a hot Thursday night, following a strange act that involved cactus ingestion.

  I was able to get a seat in a near-front-of-stage nook. I then clicked on my trusty analog audio recorder. What follows is the transcript of Mysterieau’s odd performance.

  “Hello Carson. Hello Johnny Carson City. Hey, I couldn’t resist. Rest in peace, Johnny. O Carson City, the capital city that no one ever guesses correctly. No one but me, that is. Yes, I knew Virginia City wasn’t the capital of Nevada.”

  A brief pause. [the sounds of beer bottles being set down on wooden tables and people talking loudly]

  “Ahem. [clears throat] Hello one. Hello two. Hello three. Hello to all of yas. I’m Mysterieau. My name derives from that mysterious water siphoned from the brains of the body-dead.”

  No acknowledgment from the audience. A five-second pause. [continued loud chatter]

  “Listen, could we bring it down to a dull roar in here? [the conversations begin to cease] Dank u. [‘Thank you’ in Dutch] Dank u wel. [‘Thank you very much’ in Dutch] That’s Dutch, ya know. I played Amsterdam last year. No, I think it was last month. Well, whenever it was, it was epik [sic] with a hard-azz [sic] k. You can be sure of that. Well, all the way until I ended up in a k-nal. [sic] I know, that’s what they all say. Anyway, how are we tonight? Already partially aroused?”

  Again, no reply from the audience. An awkward four-second pause ensues with some whispering.

  “Ah, that Gouda? Listen, I just got back from Holland. You know that place? [silence] Ok, the longer, more proper word is Nederland or Netherlands. It houses Amsterdam. Let me tell ya, it was mega. World Cup mania. Everyone and everything in orange, or oranje [Dutch for orange] as they say between windmills. Ja. [Yes in Dutch] Orange faces. Orange hair. Orange weed. Orange brownies. Orange mushrooms. Orange you glad you’re here?”

  There were a few groans from the audience, and then a nervous female’s slight chuckle. Mysterieau paused for five over-dramatic seconds.

  “Yes, it was all going swimmingly. Then, sure enough, I woke up in a canal with a tulip in my lapel. That was the zenith and nadir of the gig in a jist-shell. [sic] Anyway, it’s great to be back in the States, even if it is Nevada.

  Some booing. A few laughs.

  “Hey, I’m just halving a laugh, so that we can have another half-laugh later when the doldrums settle in. Please, don’t be so touchy. At least not yet. I’m jest jesting with yas. We can have some smart fun tonight. We’re up to this. We can gain a new perspective on depth. Why, you ask under your bourbon-saturated breaths? Because I joust-lanced former Agent 69. Yeah, that old canker-cranker. [sic] Well, he’s in a ditch now and very quiet.”

  There was a loud female sigh followed by three seconds of silence. And then, the masked one continued.

  “Listen, have I asked you to listen lately? [no reply] We’re going to have fun tonight, goddamit, beginning right now! I’m going to retell a conversation that I overheard in Amsterdam’s Centraal Station on platform 5a. Open your ears and close your yaps.”

  Another short pause. A chair could be heard sliding on the concrete-slab floor while Mysterieau cleared his throat.

  “An American tourist, a white male in his mid-20s with brown hair, mustachioed and goateed, was talking to this raven-haired Romanian lass who was in her early 20s. At first I thought the dude was simply trying to pick her up. However, after a while, I realized that it was something très étrange [‘very strange’ in French] as they say in Marseille in May.”

  The crowd is now quiet as Mysterieau starts coughing. He then sneezes.

  “I sure picked a bad day to start smoking crack. Just joking. We’re smoke-free tonight. Congranulations. [sic] Ok, back to our overheard Amsterdam train-station conversation.”

  Some groans in the audience. A nearby patron quietly asks, “Are you ready to leave now, Jane?”

  Mysterieau then continued with his Amsterdam tale. “Ameridude [sic] says: ‘My coworker in the US uses hairspray on her armpits.’ And then Romanalass [sic] says: ‘Does she shave?’ Ameridude: ‘Not when it’s hot, humid and sticky; never in such dizzying weather.’ Romanalass: ‘Damn! Hot weather makes me sleepy and think of home.’ Ameridude: ‘Such a slow, sunny, lazy Monday. And, it’s not halfway yet.’ Romanalass: ‘Sunny enough for a bathing suit, but if I put it on I know it would rain.’ Ameridude: ‘That’s mighty funny, honey, on National Nude Day.’ Romanalass: ‘What the fock! Bloody focking hell, you crazy American!’ Ameridude: ‘Wall, please meet forehead. I’m sorry. Please re-mark my last remark.’ Romanalass: ‘It’s ok. Just hurry up with Friday. Did I tell you that I hate my job? That’s why I’m here in Amsterdam, and passing time talking to you.’ Ameridude: ‘Well, I’m ready for Friday, too. Do you think Argentina will win or lose?’ Romanalass: ‘To Holland? They won on penalty kicks. Where have you been the last week?’ Ameridude: ‘Back in the States we have a saying: Git ‘er done … and the Dutch didn’t.’ Romanalass: ‘Neither did the Americans.’ Ameridude: ‘We made it to the Sweet 16.’ Romanalass: ‘Wow, man, like big wow! Just like watching paint flake.’ Ameridude: ‘Dry, but yours is even better.’ Romanalass: ‘It’s the game of life, man. And, I’m here on this train platform in Centraal Station talking to you.’ Ameridude: ‘Yeah, you’ve already said that. Hungry for some lunch? Maybe ManaMatzoBallinsome [sic] chicken noodle soup?’ Romanalass: ‘Never heard of that kind.’ Ameridude: ‘It’s made with the excessive ball sweat of the sous-chef.’ Romanalass: ‘Foul! That’s way out of line. Why do you Americans have to get so vulgar?’ Ameridude: ‘Ok, how about pull my finger and we go to a pasty nether region?’

  “Enough of this crap!” an annoyed, 50-something, white man in a suit exclaimed from the third row. “This shit sucks! Only a stoner would find this verbal dung amusing.”

  Mysterieau looked up at the ceiling, and then back down to his note card. The rambling recitation continued.

  “Romanalass: ‘Nah, it was boring. I’m hot and tired. Please stop with the mumbling dog face. It’s a serial loser.’ Ameridude: ‘As bad as Mysterieau the other night?’ Romanalass: ‘Even when he was good, he was bad and rude, just like you.’ Ameridude: ‘Ok, I’ll let you in on a secret: My life sucks. But, my friends saved me. And, a big thanks to my newfound god.’ Romanalass: ‘You are one whacked-out yank. [chiefly British slang for an American] All I want is sleep, sleep, sleep. Where’s my bed? Can I lie against your chest? Nothing sexual intended.’ Ameridude: ‘Sure, I’ve paid my bills. I own the shirt. Rest your precious head, my train-waiting Euro damsel in heat distress.’ Romanalass: ‘You Americans need to learn that life is about sacrifices.’ Ameridude: ‘Can I pay in fifties or twenties?’ Romanalass: ‘Did you just cop a feel of my breast? You bastard!’ Ameridude: ‘Glisten, doll. I admit it: I drank too much last night and I got all smoked-up this morning in a coughing house [slang for a Dutch coffeehouse where marijuana is available] to mask the hangover. I saw you sitting alone on this railway platform. Trust me, my breath is not usually this bad; my words, not usually this coarse.’ Romanalass: ‘You kind of remind me of that artist, oh what was his name? Wait, it’s coming to me … m. van tryke.’ Ameridude: ‘Darn, I was so hoping for something else.’ Ok, folks, we’re only about 22% of the way through this. Plenty more to go.”

  Loud booing overtakes the reco
rding. Footsteps can be heard. People are walking out.

  Mysterieau continued six seconds later. “Ok, ok, I’ll stop with that overheard train-station conversation. Message received loud and clear. Though, such a converstation [sic] it was and will forever be. Hey, must coin them when you can. It’s what someone said. A living someone, that is. Now a haunter [sic] of gatherers. Ghostly pocket change for a sparse delusional fantasy. Procured on the cheap. Skewered in the deep. Woah, I don’t want all of you to leave. Well, not at once. It’s bad form. And, it could be dangerous. Sure, it’s highly insulting. Not to me, but to the hotel operator. He’s not a bad bald guy. He has a nice wife, son and daughter. We all met for drinks backstage. Beforehand. He made this casino hotel what it is today … with his bare hands … under the roulette wheel. Before he had an aversion to gloves, it would seem. And, really, I don’t want anyone to die from a stampede to the exit door. We’ve already been named in more than enough lawsuits as it is. There’s a word for your feeling, but the required letters have since escaped from my alphabet.”

  Then there were some tapping sounds. Next, a female whistled. And after another short pause, Mysterieau continued with his monotonous monologue.

  “We’re now at the part of the show where people begin smiling. Yes, imagine that. It really does happen. And, why is that all of you ask, after a longwinded, torturous, going-nowhere-fast, badly polished polemic?” [silence]

  Then the sound of Mysterieau walking back and forth on the creaking wood stage is heard. He then stamps a foot down hard.

  “Why, it’s about money! Money, money, money. Filthy lucre! Do I have your near-complete attention now? [still silence] Oh yes, we are going to send someone home tonight with one mighty wad of cash. Maybe more than one. Maybe all … [Mysterieau begins counting the audience] 35 of you! Yeah, you are liking this performance now. Am I right?” [near total silence except for a lone faint ‘Yes’ from a female in the back]

  “So, you’re just a drug-addled con artist,” an Asian man in a white T-shirt shouted from the 4th row. “Folks, this is just a grade-C hustle. Hold onto your wallets and purses.”

  However, Mysterieau was unfazed. He just nodded to the heckler and continued.

  “Now, can we all agree that there are 366 calendar dates on which a person could be born on this oblate spheroid called Earth, including Leap Day, February 29th? [silence for three seconds then some murmuring] Ok, I’ll take that as a covert ‘Yes.’ Now, do you think that anyone in this room shares your birthday? [no reply] I know, you guys just don’t want to show off your brilliance. Well, I’m going to pass around some blank, white, anyone’s-business cards. If you would be so kind as to write your birthday on one side and your first name and last name initial on the back that would be most insightful. And quite helpful.”

  Mysterieau then hands a white, middle-aged, blue-hatted lady a stack of said cards. She then takes one and commences the pass-around. Fifty-seven seconds later everyone has a card and is scribbling down what Mysterieau has asked for.

  Suddenly, a portly, gray-to-white-haired, cowboy-hatted Caucasian man in jeans says, “Hold on, this is that birthday paradox scam, people. With the 35 of us here, he has an eight-in-ten chance of taking our money.”

  Mysterieau then says, “Well then, kind sire, [sic] you can bet the reverse.”

  “You’re on!” the cowboy fires back. “A thousand bucks says that at least two people in here have the same birthday. I’ve seen this probability problem played out before.”

  Mysterieau then lays out the 35 white business cards on a card table in front of the stage, birthday sides up.

  The cowboy is surprised to see that none of the birthdates match. He becomes enraged. “You rigged this! You’re a charlatan! Another mendacious mountebank!” Mountebank?

  Mysterieau, seemingly unruffled by the outburst, just says, “Security, kindly escort this man to the great outdoors.”

  A rotund, gray-uniformed, Mexican security guard then removes the man from the room.

  Mysterieau then claps his gloved hands together. “Now, anyone up for a shell game?”

  28. Bangkok in Salisbury (July 2014)

  So, there we were in downtown Salisbury, North Carolina on a hot, yet dry, July afternoon in 2014. Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33) were hungry for some Asian fare, when lo and behold, we spied a Thai restaurant on the corner of Innes and Lee.

  Bangkok Downtown was the name on the glass pane of the old green door of the renovated, three-story, 90-year-old building. Not being sure if they did late Saturday lunch, I pulled gingerly on the old brass door handle. The door opened easily with nary a creak. We entered the cool foyer.

  A Thai hostess quickly had us seated. There was only one other couple in there at the time, both buried in their plates. Well, they sure seem to love the food here.

  The World Cup soccer match between the Netherlands and Costa Rica was running on the LCD screen, high overhead. The original, white, raised-relief, tin Queen Anne ceiling tiles had been cleaned up and retouched very nicely. In fact, the whole building had been expertly redone.

  Soon a diminutive Thai waitress arrived at our table in traditional attire. We ordered green and red curry dishes. Then the waitress promptly disappeared into the kitchen.

  I refocused on the soccer game, while Monique continued to study the menu. Five minutes later, we ordered.

  Halftime arrived along with our plates. A scoreless draw at the break. Nil-nil. Jeez, I hope van Persie can score in the second half.

  The food smelled heavenly and got the wall elephant’s nod of approval. Monique began to feast as I pondered the first half.

  “Van Persie needs to get his head into the game.”

  “No dolphin dive yet, 33?”

  “No, nothing even close, Monique. Though, Robben, as usual, is playing like a man on a mission.”

  “Well, maybe he can score in the second half.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I said as I looked around for the restroom.

  I got up and headed for a narrow back hallway. I had gulped down a quart of ice water while watching the tense first half. I left a Gold card (a coupon to purchase my e-novel Gold, a summer story for just 99 cents) in the men’s room in a location that probably won’t lend itself to being discovered for several months to several years. I’ll just leave it at that. Well, for now, as it was. (Not sure what that means, either, but I seemed to think it was clever at the time.)

  Once back at our table, I devoured the vegetarian red curry dish. It was – in a commonly used English word – delicious. Good, tasty, healthy chow.

  Monique was now almost done with her green curry bowl. She seemed to like it as much as I liked mine. Her fork and spoon were nonstop.

  Soon the game recommenced as another pair of middle-age couples arrived and were seated on both sides of us with a table between. I’m glad they didn’t cram us all awkwardly together. This spacing is perfect for intentional overhearings.

  The goateed 60-ish Caucasian man to my right had a casual interest in the match, looking up at the screen from time to time. I’m not sure if he had a rooting interest, though. Since this wasn’t a sports bar, I curbed my enthusiasm whenever the Dutch team had a scoring chance, or whenever they were close to being scored upon. Nonetheless, the bearded man to my right picked up on my interest in the game. Now it’s time to have a little fun. Time to click on the digital audio recorder. I, or someone else, might utter a fine line, and I might forget it when write-up time comes along.

  The game seemed to slow down. Costa Rica was being defensively cautious, but would still launch surprise counterattacks. Suddenly, Robben led another break down the pitch. A beautiful cross to Robin van Persie gets misplayed. Darn it! Wake up!

  “Did you see that, lovely Agent 32? Van Persie almost tripped over his own two feet. He can play so great and then … well, I don’t know.” Klutz! [sic]

  “You were just talking him up the other week, telling me how he was going to score at lea
st twenty goals with Manchester United next season with fellow countryman Louis van Gaal as manager, and how Liverpool were in deep trouble.”

  “I know, I know, I know. It’s a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately World Cup kind of thing, I guess.”

  “Don’t take it too seriously, Parkaar; [my ailing alias] it’s not the United States.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, Monique.”

  “Do you even know any Dutch, 33?”

  “Niet veel [‘not much’ in Dutch] I would say in Rotterdam.”

  “Neat feel?”

  “Yes, later, 32.”

  “What in the world are you talking about, 33?”

  “Gosh, Sneijder just hit the crossbar! Dutch luck, I tell ya. Just dumb Dutch luck.”

  “Dutch luck?”

  “Believe me, 32; you don’t want it. Certainly not in the finals.”

  The second half ended with no score. Two 15-minute periods of extra time were played as we sipped our Singha lager beers. Still, no team could score.

  “It’s PKs now, 32.”

  “PKs?”

  “Penalty kicks.”

  “Is that good?”

  “It’s a crap shoot. Throw a coin in the air.”

  “I think Costa Rica wanted it to get to this stage, 33.”

  “Me, too, 32. And, they have succeeded in that.”

  All eight of us in the main dining hall watched the TV screen as the nerve-racking round of penalty kicks began. Replacement goaltender Tim Krull made two big saves and the Netherlands won 4-3 to advance. Maybe there is an oranje [orange in Dutch] demigod after all.

  As the match neared conclusion, I had a strange sensation of seeing all of us from above – from those old ceiling tiles. I saw four random couples at a Thai restaurant on a Saturday afternoon in the hot piedmont of North Carolina, watching a hot soccer game in Brazil, while their food got cold and their drinks got warm. I saw nine translucent numbers hovering around us (one for the waitress):

  2,836,042,002 | 4,045,823,905 | 3,035,012,064 4,212,257,093 | 2,901,084,931 | 3,215,913,416 2,967,391,745 | 4,404,204,357 | 4,503,026,198

  “You look lost in thought, 33. What are you thinking about?”

  “Numbers, 32. Unique human numbers.”

  “Goals scored? Those unique human numbers?”

  “You could say that. The human score on Earth. And when someone dies, their number evaporates. A lot of gaps in the sequence.”

  “Did you quick-drink another Singha beer while I was in the ladies’ room, Parkaar?”

  “No, just more ice water. Did you remember to leave a Gold card in there?”

  “Why, of course, 33.”

  “Salamat, [‘Thank you’ in Tagalog] Monique. Who knows, maybe someday someone will find it and want to check out my novel. Maybe they will buy it and read it, and actually like it enough to tell a friend who will … blah-blah-blah, and so on, and sew [sic] on with an endless thread.” He’s definitely recording.

  “You have that darn audio recorder on, don’t you?”

  “Ja.” [Yes in Dutch] I knew it.

  And then from the table to the right, the older gentleman with a slight Scouse accent: “That was some match.”

  “It sure was,” I replied.

  “But, don’t worry, mate; Robin van Persie won’t torment Liverpool next season. It will be the usual villains: Rooney and Mata.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  “I’ll give you a hint for planting business cards. I did some of that in my younger days. You want to place them in books, newspapers, weeklies, etc.”

  “That sounds logical. Thanks for the tip.”

  “Everyone has to use the bathroom, but not everyone is a reader.”

  “I get what you’re saying. That’s some sage advice, sir. Thanks a lot. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “No problem. Have a nice evening.”

  “Likewise. And, go Reds!”

  “Always!”

  Monique and I got up to leave. We paid our bill and wandered outside.

  “Monique, we got eavesdropped upon this time,” I said to her on a vacant block of sidewalk.

  “Smartly so, though,” she replied.

  “Yes, very smartly so.”

  We rounded the corner and looked up at the sign on the old Hardiman Building.

  “Ah, they’re still leasing office space,” I said.

  “A psecret psociety office in Psalisbury?” [sic] Monique suggested.

  “Psalisbury with a silent P, 32?”

  “Why, of course, 33.”

  “I’ll have to run it by, Ernie.”

  “Yeah, you do that, Parkaar.”

  We both laughed like impish schoolkids.

  29. Airported to Knowhere (August 2014)

  So, there I was, standing in the check-in line at CLT (Charlotte-Douglas International Airport) on a warm, bright, sunny September morning in 2010. I was going to see my fiancée at the time, Monique (Agent 32), in the Philippines. The airport mood seemed to be one of a yawn time ago. Have I used that expression recently?

  There was an older gentleman behind me. He was a white guy with white, large-frame, oval glasses, maybe 70 years old, sporting a white tank top with some Florida beach logo on it. He was wearing white tennis shorts with white socks and white tennis shoes. I guess his favorite attire color is white.

  I had a large piece of no-longer-rolling (the wheels had become immoveable feet) luggage behind me. Both of my hands were carrying items: a laptop, duffel bag, airline tickets, et and cetera. Et and cetera. I wonder if anyone will find that mildly amusing.

  As the line would move up a few feet, I would have to turn and drag the red canvas-covered, three-foot luggage cube, while trying not to lose control of the other items. The older Floridian behind me – who had no luggage – noticed me struggling with this at times.

  “Hey, why don’t you just let me inch your luggage forward?” he very politely suggested.

  “Sure,” I consented. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  “No problem. Glad to assist.”

  He then began to slide the monstrous piece of luggage for me as the line advanced by pushing it with his bony knees and shoe toes. This continued for about twelve minutes in silence until we were next to be called at the ticket counter.

  A white, blonde-haired, mid-30s-appearing, female airline employee looked at the front of the line. “Next,” she firmly announced.

  I walked up to the counter with my ticket and passport in my right hand. She grabbed the items and scanned them. Next, a boarding pass was perfunctorily printed.

  “Any luggage to check, sir?”

  “Yes, two pieces.”

  I then turned to get my colossal baggage from the older guy. But, I didn’t see him … anywhere. And, I didn’t see my extra-large piece of cube luggage, either. A wave of panic rushed through me. Oh, krap! [sic] The old fokker [sic] flew off with it! He scammed me. How naïve am I? I broke rule no. 1 of airports: Never lose sight of your luggage. Now I’ll have to buy Monique a new gift and set of clothes. Darn! This effing [sic] sucks rotting moose eggs. Moose eggs?

  I ran towards the nearest concourse gate. I made a left turn to see what appeared to be the front door of an old American east-coast railway station. I opened the door, and it was like it was the 1890s inside. What the fock! [sic] Am I in the Twilight Zone? Am I dreaming all of this? If so, wake up!

  There were about a dozen people inside going about their business in dress of that time period, but no one paid me any attention. It was like they couldn’t see me – like I was a ghost. I feel like I’ve fallen into one of my surreal short stories … and I can’t get out.

  I retreated back towards the airport’s main concourse in a state of shock. I rounded the corner and I was suddenly back in the 21st century once again. It was the same September day in 2010, just two and a half minutes later. What the hell was that back there? Is a por
tion of that corner a wormhole? Or, have I lost my mind? Did someone put something in my coffee at Starbucks this morning? Or, did I? No, I’m out of those ‘granules de grandeur’ now. Maybe a flashback? If so, I hope there are no more. Well, not for a while. I don’t want to flip out on that long trans-Pacific flight.

  I kept searching the airport, concourse by concourse (and stayed in the present time). Then I saw him, Mr. Florida, in an eating area in Concourse E. My red piece of Titanic-size luggage was beside him. That lousy scoundrel. What a worthless thief! He must be a pro at this. A veteran airport pilferer.

  I rushed up to him. “Why did you leave with my luggage?! Are you some kind of airport thief?”

  “Gosh, no, sir. Most certainly not. I got it checked for you, so that you wouldn’t have to pay the overage fees.” Overage fees?

  “What do you mean that you got it checked for me? You can’t get my luggage checked for me. You don’t even know my name. And, if it’s checked, why is it still with you and not on the conveyor belt, headed for the aircraft?”

  Then he just smiled demurely and softly chuckled. “Relax. You are in a lucid dream phase, mi amigo. [‘my friend’ in Spanish] Just go with it. Ride it out.”

  And with that remark he seemed to vanish into the simulated wood grain on the table top. Even though I now knew that I was dreaming, I felt the need to try to make the flight. I’m going to play this dream out. Going to get my money’s worth. Let’s see where this dream leads … or crashes.

  I wandered out of the food court, looking for a flight departure screen. Then I found one. However, as I tried to focus on my flight number, the digits would change before I could read the gate number. It was maddening. I remember thinking in the dream: Should I just wake up and terminate this now-very-annoying dream?

  Ah, but I decided to play along with this Kafka-esque scenario. I finally found my way to the proper gate. I had all of my luggage and belongings with me. I was going to make this dream-flight after all. I was going to see my asawa [wife in Cebuano] -to-be. But, first I had to use the bathroom.

  After a short walk down a concourse, I entered a door-less men’s restroom. I came up to what appeared to be an unoccupied toilet stall. I pulled gingerly on the old brass door handle. I then realized that I had used a line from another short story, from the one that was lying on top of the commode’s tank. This dream is getting too weird, even for me. It is inside-outing my mind – crenulating [sic] my cerebrum and crumpling my cortices.

  I re-emerged from the restroom. An older Filipina with piercing beady eyes immediately waggled her finger at me and began to scold me.

  “I saw you in the bathroom with the pinay!” [a female from the Philippines] She was emphatic. Emphatically coo-coo. The poor old bird has lost her marbles.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  She didn’t reply. She turned her head down. Then, after about five seconds, she quietly walked away, like she had been shamed. She must have gone mad somewhere back there. She must have fallen out of the nest and bumped her noggin pretty bad.

  Suddenly, there was an announcement blasting down from the overhead public-address speakers: “Your attention, please. Northwest flight 71 has been cancelled. Please consider taking a train.” Taking a train? What the hell? A train from North America to Asia? This dream is hopeless. I might as well wake up now. It’s probably about time to get ready for work anyway.

  Then Monique bumped my left leg and I awoke. Still startled by the bizarre dream, I checked my surroundings. Ok, I’m in my bed next to my wife in our east Charlotte bedroom. All is ok. What a crazy dream that was. I’ll have to tell Monique about it when she wakes up.

  I sluggishly pushed myself out of bed and got dressed for work. I went to the bathroom to shave. Then I returned to the bedroom and gently woke up Monique.

  “Well, I’m off to work, honey.”

  “Will you be taking the car or riding the bike?” she asked, still rubbing her eyes.

  “The bike. It’s 61 degrees [Fahrenheit] and dry outside. It should be a decent ride into work.”

  “Are you sure that you don’t want to take the car?”

  “No, I’ll leave it here with you. I need the calorie burn. And, riding the bike clears my head. Driving to work is no joy – just motorized vehicle mayhem.”

  “Ok, do as you like, Mr. Tour de Pants.” What?

  “Tour de Pants? That’s a good pun for this early in the morning, mahal. [love in Tagalog] Very impressive. My Agent 32 is already in her creative mode.”

  “Are you sure that you don’t want to take the train?” Train?

  “What train?”

  “Oh, that’s right; there is no train yet to where we live. It must have been a dream.”

  “Did your dream feature an old white guy in white shorts, wearing a white tank-top shirt?”

  “No, but it did feature an old pinoy [a man from the Philippines] behind me on that flight from Manila to San Francisco. It was that guy that we talked about before.”

  “Oh, the guy that had notes and signatures from previous adjacent airline passengers from the past three decades.”

  “Yes, him. I wrote a little note in his scrapbook and signed it. He had like three volumes in the dream.”

  “The old pinoy has got enough for a novel now.”

  “Yeah, probably so.”

  “So, how did your dream end, Monique?”

  “With some guy kicking my right leg.”

  We both laughed. She sat up in the bed.

  “No, it ended with that crazy old bird. You know, remember that old Filipina from the church?”

  “How could I ever forget her finger waggling?”

  “I know. I wish that I could forget it, but it’s etched into my brain now. Well, anyway, the old pinoy with the scrapbook asks her to leave a note and sign and date it.”

  “Ok. Does she oblige?”

  “No. She just screams: ‘I saw you on the other plane!’ She was hysterical.”

  “Did she pull out the right index finger?”

  “Oh, yes; it was in full-waggle mode.”

  “What did the older pinoy do?”

  He just smiled at her. Then she stepped down and walked back up the aisle. She didn’t appear in the dream again.”

  “Not even in the bathroom?” He sure asks the oddest questions.

  “No, not even in the bathroom, Parkaar. [my ailing alias] I know that you’re recording this.”

  “Yep.”

  30. Lucky Strikes (August 2014)

  After eating a scrumptious soup-and-bread lunch – and strategically placing some GOLD, a summer story (my e-novel) quadra-fold excerpts – at the Panera Bread on US 52 in Salisbury (NC, USA), we, Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33), went to visit my dad at the VA Hospital.

  He was doing much better. The above-the-knee amputation had been called off. He was in a very jovial way, telling one joke after another.

  “Dad, do you think you got lucky this time?” I asked.

  “No, son, lucky got me.”

  We all laughed. After about two hours of lighthearted, in-room conversation, we noticed him getting tired. Monique and I then left so that he could take a nap.

  Soon we were back on I-85, headed southwest, listening to Roxy Music’s Siren album. Were you ever lonely? Mystified and blue? Realizing only – your number’s up. You’re through!

  “Well, Monique, the whole day is open. We’ve got knowhere [sic] with a muted k to go, and all day to get there. Anywhere that you would like to stop on the way back to Charlotte?”

  “Let’s check Concord Mills for Liverpool jerseys.”

  “Ok, sure, Agent 32. Let’s get our Anfield on.” He must already have that darn audio recorder on.

  We were soon taking Exit 49 to a very congested mall. Parking was an irksome misadventure. The most-visited site in North Carolina: a shopping mall. Go figure. Well, I guess we’re now adding to the tally.

  We entered the mall
and walked the large elongated oval concourse and found one store selling LFC (Liverpool Football Club) gear. The name of the outlet was Flag-something. However, they didn’t have our sizes, and the prices were on the steep slope. I can beat these prices online all day long.

  We then moved along and settled for a pair of cara-fraps (caramel frappuccinos) at the obligatory Starbucks.

  “Is this mall always this busy, Agent 33?”

  “Oh, it gets even worse in the fall, Agent 32. It’s really bad in December in the run-up to Christmas.”

  “Oh, let’s not come then.”

  “Don’t worry; we won’t.”

  We both chuckled and slurped down the gooey dregs of our frozen coffee concoctions. Then we promptly exited the mall.

  Once back in the old, gray Kia Rio hatchback, we slowly made our way down to US 29. At the stoplight, Monique looked in awe at the large, long, curved structure (Charlotte Motor Speedway) looming just ahead.

  “Is there a race this weekend, Parkaar? [my ailing alias] Are the racecars in there?”

  “No, Monique, not this weekend. The next race is in mid-October. Probably no racecars in there now. I think the [zMax] Dragway has something going on next month, though.”

  The light turned green and I turned right. About a mile later we could see the Charlotte skyline from a hill near the Mecklenburg-Cabarrus County line.

  “Hey, 33, let’s go down to uptown Charlotte!” Down to up. I like that phrase. That’s a keeper.

  “Ok, sure.”

  “Yey! You know, just walking around and hanging out in Romare Bearden Park.” [a popular new park in 3rd Ward]

  “Sounds good to me. Let’s do it.”

  “I love hanging out there, 33. I love the downtown scene.”

  “You mean uptown?”

  “Oops! You got me there, 33.”

  “Just joking, 32. Either is correct. But, you know what: I forgot something.”

  “What?”

  “A typewriter.” What in the world? Is he already granulated?

  “A typewriter? Why do we need a typewriter, Agent 33?”

  “Because one is not truly hip in the CLT [the 3-letter airport code for Charlotte] until one brings their typewriter to Romare Bearden Park.” And types collages.

  “Oh, Parkaar, now that would be such a funny pic. Just do it next time when you have your über-hipster sunglasses – the ones with the dangling yellow moustache.” Hmmm … Now, where are those shades?

  “Ok, I’ll wait for a nice fall day. Hey, you want to stop at Ross in University Place first? Sometimes they have Premier League T-shirts. I’ve seen United, Arsenal and Chelsea shirts in other Ross stores.”

  “Sure, Agent 33! You know that Ross is my favorite store.”

  “I do know that, lovely Agent 32.”

  We laughed. Monique was excited about another visit to Ross. Unfortunately, we struck out at this store on this particular mission.

  We continued going south on North Tryon Street. Once in the uptown area, I found a free parking spot on College Street near 8th Street. This free parking zone was once a little-known secret, but now that word had spread about it, vacant spaces could be hard to come by. (And, I guess that typing this info is just going to make it worse.)

  “Well, we’re here, 32.”

  “How long can we park here, 33? I don’t want our vehicle to get towed again.” No, not again. Only eight minutes past ten and they had already hooked the old van. Yeah, that would suck a groty [grotesque in California Valley Girl slang] goat egg. Wait, goats don’t lay eggs. What was I thinking?

  “Monique, we’re good here until ten o’clock. We’ll be back way before then, I’m sure.” Must stay cognizant of the time. Can’t afford another $140 towing episode. / Better remind him. I’m sure that he’ll forget again.

  “I certainly hope so. I don’t want to take the bus home again.” Neither do I.

  We walked up to North Tryon Street on East 7th Street. Once we were at the intersection, I looked across the street.

  “Want to have a beer over there, Monique?”

  “Where, 33?”

  I pointed at the base of the 10-story building. “That place is a micro-brewery, bar and restaurant. They make their own beer. It’s pretty good. Devetron (another psecret psociety agent) bartended there.”

  “Why, sure!” Monique was eager to try it out.

  We entered the Rock Bottom Restaurant & Brewery. It wasn’t very crowded. Just a farrago of tourists, it seemed, but wasn’t sure if any were from Fargo. An assortment of baseball and NFL (National Football League) preseason games were on the flat screens, but no one seemed to be watching the gallimaufry. Gallimaufry, the odd-lot word of the day. Glad I looked that one up earlier. Quite a yawner of a sports-on-TV afternoon. No EPL [English Premier League] matches on now; it’s way too late. NFL preseason? Meh. August baseball games could only interest a MLB [Major League Baseball] purist. And, I’m just not one of them.

  I had a dark beer and Monique had a light one. They were pretty good. Thus, we had another round. However, for some strange reason, time hung like a lumpy necklace.

  We departed for the park. Once there, we found a bench out of the sun’s reach. It was a hot summer day, but in the shade with a breeze, it wasn’t too bad; it was endurable. Where is autumn hiding? The hunt for mid-October.

  Monique was watching people file into BB&T Ball Park, just across Mint Street. “Is there a Knights game tonight, Parkaar?”

  “Yeah, it looks like it, Agent 32. Though, I am not sure who they are playing.”

  Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of someone who looked like Agent 111 approaching. I waited a few more paces to make sure it was really him. It was indeed guitarist-agent 111. He was with his lovely better half.

  “Greetings, 111,” I said. “What a chance meeting!”

  “Hi Larry!” Monique shouted.

  “Howdy, 32 and 33. Going to the game?”

  “No, we’re just hanging out,” Monique said.

  “Are you guys going?” I asked.

  “Yes, we are, but we wanted to check this park out first,” Agent 111 said.

  “We love this park, 111,” Agent 32 said. “We come down here every other weekend. Well, maybe every third.”

  “Well, let us take your pic and we’ll get going,” Agent 111 said as he quickly prepared to snap a pic of us with his cell phone. (The exact photograph is somewhere on the psecret psociety Facebook page.)

  “Ok, shoot us, 111!” Monique shouted.

  He did and they quickly began to walk towards the stadium.

  “Enjoy the game,” I said as they made their way over to the fountain wall and disappeared behind it.

  “Are you ready to leave, Monique?” I asked.

  “No, I want to stay longer, Agent 33.”

  “Hey, let’s walk up to the grassy area at the corner of Mint and 4th, Monique. You can see the game from there, and it’s free.”

  “Wow! Then let’s go!”

  We found a soft section of turf in the shade that had a view from center field to home plate. We sat down. Others began to do the same thing. This aint too bad for the price: zilch.

  We had only been sitting for four minutes when a well-dressed, neat, Caucasian gentleman in his late 50s with a stylishly attired, elegant, white lady of the same age accosted us. They look like a model Myers Park husband and wife. What do they want with us? They sure don’t look like the aggressive Charlotte panhandlers that keep approaching us.

  “Here ya go, guys: two tickets to the game,” the man said as he held out a pair of tickets that looked legit from three feet away. Is this some scam? Don’t get gullible. / Yey!

  “How much do you want for them?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Zero. They’re free. We can’t use them tonight.”

  I took the two tickets from his right hand. “Ok, thanks. I really appreciate that. We weren’t planning on going to the game, but the evening is open for us. We w
ill use them.” They’re probably counterfeit. But, we’ll just try them and see if we get in. If not, it will be a good life lesson for Monique / Of course we’ll use them. Gosh, he can be so demented sometimes.

  “Have a great time,” he said as they began to walk away.

  To my subdued amazement, the tickets passed the bar-code scan test. And, just like that, we were in the sold-out, skyline-view, Triple-A stadium.

  “Where are our seats, Agent 33?”

  I looked at the tickets. “Home Run Club, section 112, row B, seats 7 and 8.”

  We then followed the signs for Section 112. Once in that area, an usher led us down towards the field. The seats were second row, behind home plate. Wow!

  A colorfully dressed African American couple in their 50s sat beside us. The lady nudged my arm and said: “There are still good people in this world.” The man then added: “Do good and good will find you.”

  I smiled. “Yeah, you’re right.” So, that man on Mint Street has given away at least four tickets. But, what will Agent 111 think if he sees us here? Maybe he’ll think that Agents 32 & 33 are a pair of liars! I’ll have him read the short story once I type it up.

  31. LFC in CLT (August 2014)

  Finally. Yes, finally, it was August 2nd (2014). It was the Saturday when the legendary EPL (English Premier League) titan Liverpool would be playing in our city (Charlotte), on our field (Bank of America Stadium), or pitch as they say across the pond, against Serie A (the top soccer/football league in Italy) powerhouse AC Milan.

  We, Agents 32 (Monique, my wife), 33 (me) and 666 (my provocative soccer-playing son) had got hooked on LFC (Liverpool Football Club) while watching them play on NBCSN on Saturday and Sunday mornings the previous season. Their attacking style and raucous, ultra-passionate Anfield fans had won us over. This would be our EPL team through thick and thin, win or lose.

  I had bought tickets for the three of us online several months in advance, as I feared the match might sell out. Once I received the e-mail from the ticketing agency, I printed the attachments (the tickets) and left the sheets of paper in the printer tray, where they proceeded to collect dust. This morning at 9:47 AM I brushed them off and counted to make sure that I had all three of them.

  “Well, today is the big day, guys,” I announced to my two sleepyheads.

  “Dad, do you think that I don’t know that?!” My son gave me a ‘duh’ facial expression.

  “I’m so excited to go in that stadium and see Liverpool play, honey,” my wife then said.

  After lunch we donned our Liverpool shirts, gathered our things and loaded the gray Kia. The six-mile drive to our secret free-parking area (eight tenths of a mile southeast of the stadium) went off without a hitch or a post.

  We disembarked and walked to Bank of America Plaza for some pre-game refreshments. A parade of people in red were walking south on Tryon Street, chanting their way towards the stadium. They were Liverpool fans.

  I had anticipated a lot of noisy LFC supporters, but my wife and son were in total awe with mouths agape. I was a bit surprised, too. The loud, spirited, jubilant procession continued with no end in sight.

  “Hon, how long is that line?” my wife asked.

  “I think it will be nonstop for the next hour, Agent 32” Agent 32? He’s already recording.

  “Really?!” my son shouted.

  “Yeah, Agent 666. [He demanded this nefarious agent number over my semi-fervent protestations.] Liverpool has a global fanbase. There are people in Charlotte today from all over North America, and probably a sizeable contingent from northwestern England.”

  “They are really filing in now, 33.” Great. My wife has already picked up on my psecret psociety recording mode and is calling me Agent 33. Most excellent.

  “Let’s go now!” my son yelled as he jumped out of his chair. “I want to chant with them. We’re wasting time just sitting here! Let’s not let the LFC parade pass by without us.”

  “Ok, ok, ok. Just give us a few seconds.” I was trying to stall my eager-to-go son for a minute.

  My wife and I quickly gulped down our soft drinks. Then we got up and walked over to Tryon Street and merged into the Red Sea march.

  The first chant we heard was an easy one-worder [sic] (the pitch just alternated from high to low). LIVERPOOL, Liverpool, LIVERPOOL, Liverpool …

  Next, we heard the one about the famous Liverpool defender Jamie Carragher. It was being sung to The Beatles Yellow Submarine melody. And number one is Carragher, and number 2 is Carragher, and number 3 is Carragher, and number 4 is Carragher. Carragher! We all dream of a team of Carraghers …

  But then, not surprisingly, the chants started to attack rival Premier League teams. Arsenal got shelled first. Same old Arsenal, always cheating …

  Chelsea got an off-color blast next. F::ck off Chelsea FC, you aint got no history …

  And, as we turned right onto Stonewall Street to close in on the stadium, looming just ahead, the most vulgar chant commenced. All Manchester is full of sh:t …

  “Agent 666, pretend like you didn’t hear that,” I said.

  “I heard it, dad!”

  Then a burgundy-colored SUV pulled up next to us Reds fans. A black-haired, 30-something, Caucasian lady, sporting an AC Milan topper, gave a thumbs-down. Her scream: “Liverpool sucks!” Oh, my. This should get interesting.

  Several Liverpool fans immediately ran up to her open window. I feared that something ugly was getting ready to transpire, and began to wonder if this was the start of a fracas that might end up involving CMPD (Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department). But, happily, just three seconds later everyone was laughing.

  Then, four minutes later, we were getting the metal detector treatment at the stadium’s east gate. Once inside the modern colosseum, my son and wife invariably searched out a souvenir stand. How much will this cost?

  The first team-apparel booth had a line that was at least a half-hour long. We passed on it. Jeez. Hope they are all not so crowded.

  The second booth had just two people in line. This is more like it.

  “Here we go, guys,” I said. “Hardly any line here. Tell me what you like.”

  We looked at the items for sale, pinned to the back wall, and noticed that there was no LFC gear.

  “There’s no Liverpool stuff here, dad.”

  “Oops, wrong line,” I said. “This is an AC Milan booth. That’s why the line is so short.”

  We all laughed. Even the African American female counter clerk had a chuckle.

  “Uh, let’s try upstairs,” I suggested.

  “Ok, 33, lead the way,” my wife said.

  We took a pair of the newly installed escalators up to the 500 level (my wife and I on one; my son on the other one, making silly faces at us).

  We quickly found a Liverpool FC table with a queue that was only ten deep. My wife got a red LFC cap and my son got a YNWA (You’ll Never Walk Alone) red scarf. I settled for an eight-cubic-inch, translucent box of archetypal Liverpool August weather: cool and damp with gray clouds.

  We discovered our seats in section 546 and sat down, watching the stadium incrementally fill. Fans in LFC jerseys took their seats in front of us. Famous Liverpool last names stared back at us. GERRARD | STURRIDGE | SUAREZ | OWEN | RUSH | FOWLER | COUTINHO Ah, the contemporary LFC Hall of Fame here.

  My wife began to scan the stadium. “Wow, this is a big stadium, Agent 33. How many people can it hold?”

  “Around 73,000, I think.”

  “Did this game sell out, dad?”

  “It came close, son. I think the total attendance will come in around 70,000. [The attendance would later be announced as 69,364.] They promoted it fairly well.”

  I studied the jersey colors of the fans. The crowd had to be 80% or more for Liverpool; it was essentially a home game for the mighty Reds. This would be confirmed during the starting lineup announcements, as thunderous applause greeted the team from Merseyside. It was also evide
nt during the singing of Liverpool’s heartfelt anthem: You’ll Never Walk Alone.

  Once the game started, it didn’t take long for the Reds to score. In the 16th minute, Welshman Joe Allen stole the ball and broke into the box. His shot hit the left post and rebounded to Raheem Sterling, who took a shot. AC Milan goaltender Christian Abbiati blocked it, but couldn’t hold it. The soft rebound came back to Allen’s right foot, who didn’t miss this time. One-nil for Liverpool. This would be the halftime score.

  In the second half, AC Milan pressed forward and tried to equalize, but left themselves exposed on the back late in the game. In the 89th minute, Suso passed to a charging Coutinho on the left flank, who passed it back to him. His sly, low, curling shot made it two-nil, and that’s how it would end.

  It was a wonderful, majestic, unforgettable night. The Liverpool team would do a slow victory lap while their song – the Gerry and the Pacemakers version – was replayed over the stadium speakers, a pair of which that were just above our heads. Walk on, walk on / With hope in your heart / And you’ll never walk alone / You’ll never walk alone

  “Thanks, dad. That was freaking awesome!”

  “Thanks so much, honey, I mean Agent 33,” my wife added.

  “You are most welcome, guys. Glad we could do it. I knew that you two would like this.”

  “When does Liverpool play again in Charlotte, dad?”

  “Not sure, Agent 666.”

  “I hope they come back every summer!” my wife shouted.

  “Me, too, Agent 32,” I cheerfully said.

  “Dad, why are you calling us by our agent numbers? Is this really psecret psociety material? A sporting event?”

  “Well, remember how it looked like there would be a violent thunderstorm before we came to the game, son?”

  “Yes,” my son conjunctively answered.

  “Well, by releasing the contents of that box of Anfield atmosphere, I was able to keep those lightning zappers in South Carolina. Notice how the sky stayed overcast with only a few lonely raindrops.”

  “Dad, you are stretching the truth again.”

 

  32. The Bulge (October 2014)

 

  While on a Wednesday-in-mid-October lunchbreak, a from-the-old-daze, yet still quite inventive, 40-something, dark-haired, Caucasian, actor-friend that we code-named Al Niño (Agent A~O) – who now lives the posh life in Manhattan – dropped by my spartan Charlotte office without a whiff of a warning. Though, he did reek of the green leaf.

  “Mike, Mike, Mike. Mr. Mike van Tryke. [my art name] Old, and getting older by the hour, ancient Agent 33 [my psecret psociety number]. And, what nefariousness would you be up to now, improbable scenester?” [sic] Improbable scenester?

  “Oh, boy. And, oh the joy! Well, look who is here. If it isn’t the amazing one himself. It’s great to see you, Al. It has been a wily while.” A wily while? He’s still as cooked as ever.

  “It certainly has. It sore-really has, my friend. You still look like … well … you. And not a day over 75.” [real age at the time: 50] Once a joker …

  “You’re still quite a funny guy, Al. You shouldn’t have given up on that comedy angle.”

  “I have a cute, acute angle of attack now, my friend.” Prepare for PUNishment. [sic]

  “Piling on the punnage [sic] already?”

  “Ah, you caught it, 33.”

  “Why, of course I caught it. I always have my flutterfly [sic] net open for way astrays.” What the hell did Tryke just say?

  “Way astrays … straying wayward, by chance?”

  “Sure, why not, Al?”

  “Ah-hem. Hey, why don’t you ever make good on your autumnal threats to visit me, Michael?” Oh, no, not the ‘Michael’ bit. He knows that I hate being called that.

  “Ebola, man. I’m not getting on a plane until it settles down.”

  “You’ve been freaked-out by the mass media, mate. The threat is way overblown for people in the US.”

  “Maybe so, Al. Maybe slow.”

  “See, this is why I don’t watch American news anymore. It’s all shock and sensationalism for ratings.” Here comes his anti-American-media tirade again.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah; whatever, Al. I’ve heard that rant before. Please spare me the harangue.”

  Al then looked at the back of my computer monitor. He raised his eyebrows and gave a snarky smirk. “So, what do you have up on your screen today, 33? Some kinky Asian porn?” (It was just a diagram of a streetcar track alignment; you can see it by clicking here.)

  > [return mark] Thanks for coming back. Your tea was getting cold.

  “Yeah, right. Fock [sic] you, Al.”

  We both chuckled and nearly got engulfed in an unbridled guffaw as he walked around my desk, stopping behind my creaking swivel chair to see what was on my computer screen (which was the image that you just viewed, minus the black arrow and the text The Bulge).

  Al then cleared his throat. “Is that the light rail extension that I keep hearing about? Making the single line longer and straighter?” He chortled.

  “No, no, no. Wrong again, amazer. It’s actually the middle section of the streetcar route, the new Gold Line.”

  “I don’t know, Michael; I’m not finding this image to be very arousing. Maybe I’m missing something. What’s the attraction? Are you on pills? Got any extras? Sniffing rubber cement again? Ok, where did you hide it? Is it in this drawer? Why is this locked?” What the hell is he on? Gosh, he’s all hyped-up today.

  “Alright, alright, alright. Please stop. If you can be still and quiet for 100 seconds, I’ll explain.”

  “For a whole 1.67 minutes, Michael?” Just lovely. He’s already stuck on the ‘Michael’ bit.

  “Good math, Al.”

  “As you were saying, 33 …”

  “Ok, just don’t interrupt me. This is slightly complicated. Just slightly. Can you just hear me out without interjecting nonsense and ransacking my office?”

  “Ok, I promise to keep my tongue tied in a wet slipknot and my limbs in invisible shackles.”

  “Excellent. Let’s hop on subject and stay aboard. Here we go.”

  “My ears are wide open, Michael.” Oh, jeez.

  “Well, as I think I’ve told you in the not-too-distant past, I ride my bike to work, weather permitting.”

  Al just nodded and rubbed his black beard stubble with his right hand. I noticed a silver ring on his middle finger. Did he secretly get married?

  I continued. “Well, this morning while riding my bike over the freight train tracks that cross Central Avenue next to the Thirsty Beaver Saloon, I wondered how they would run the streetcar tracks in this area. I knew that CSX would never allow an at-grade crossing, as it would be way too dangerous and probably a logistical nightmare, and most likely not even allowed by the overseeing governmental agencies.”

  Al gave me an affirming tilt of his noggin, which seemed to say, ‘ok, I follow you; now, please continue.’

  “So, if an at-grade, street-level crossing is out of the question, how will they do it? Will they tunnel under the freight line? No way; it’s too expensive and it would flood. Will they build a bridge, or a pair of bridges, over the freight line? That seems awfully expensive, too. Well, needless-to-say, streetcar track-alignment curiosity got the better portion of my mind. As soon as my lunchbreak arrived, I was going to research this. Well, lo, hi and behold, I found an official streetcar alignment map on the CATS website. Now, take a closer look at the map, Al.”

  He scrunched closer. His mug was now hovering just above my right shoulder. I could smell herb (marijuana) on his breath. He probably got baked on the ride over here. I won’t bring it up. Well, maybe later.

  “Al, notice how the green line bulges up to the Hawthorne at Barnhardt station? Uh, you can speak now. Your mute button is now off.”

  “Why, thank you, Michael.” Just effing [sic] great. His annoying ‘Michael’ routine hasn’t yet ended.

&n
bsp; “Only my mom calls me that, Al. And, it’s usually when it’s not good. Can we go back to Mike or Agent 33?” I wonder if Trykle [sic] is recording me. I bet the sneaky bastard is. / I wonder how many of my short stories he’s read.

  “I must tell you, Michael. That’s the longest I’ve ever held my breath.” No letup. He’s flying high on more than just a bowl of Arcata [California] weed.

  “You do look bluer than normal, Al. Completely hypoxic, I’d say – and did. Maybe I should call for a paramedic.”

  He snapped out of his ‘Michael’ nonsense for just a moment. “Ok, I see the green bulge, 33. I hope you have more than that chub for Agent 32 [Monique, my wife] tonight.”

  “Very funny. Very focking [sic] funny. You never stop, do you, Al? Never miss a chance to lob in a zinger.”

  “Hey, you usually start it.” Do I? Don’t think so.

  “Ok, let’s get back on topic.”

  “Absolutely. We must keep pumping topic, Michael.” Pumping topic?

  “Well, amazing one, what do you think the solution is to this crossing-railroad-tracks dilemma?”

  “The bulge, right?”

  “Well, yes, but what does the bulge do, Al?”

  “The bulge seeks a bulgette.” Al chuckled.

  “Sheez, I’m glad that I’m recording this conversation.” Oh, yes, I knew it.

  “Oh, are you really, 33?”

  “Affirmative. We safety guys don’t trust unrecorded verbal statements. People have a way of conveniently forgetting what they’ve said when in the hot seat.” What hot seat? What in the world is he talking about?

  “Well, please do some redacting before typing this convo [sic] up, Mister Agent 33.” Mister Agent?

  “Yeah, sure. Now, back to the question. Notice the green line crossing the faint brown line?”

  “Yes, Michael.” Oh, jeez.

  “Remember Hawthorne Lane in this area?”

  “Yes, that old bridge – it’s a railroad overpass.”

  “Right! Which means that the at-grade streetcar line can safely …?”

  “… go under the freight train overpass?” Well, he’s not completely stoned out of his gourd after all.

  “You got it, Al! You must have smoked your Smart Weedies [sic] this morning. I’d stay with that brand.”

  “It’s par for the curse, [sic] brother.” Yep, he’s read some of my short stories. I wonder where. Which website?

  “The proposed streetcar route then curves into the end of Clement Avenue, which then loops back to Central Avenue. An ingenious solution, don’t ya think, Al?”

  “I do, Michael. I think a lot, even more than most women.”

  “Now, there’s a keeper, amazing one.” Must include that line in the write-up.

  “So, you buying dinner later, Michael?” What the fock! [sic] Mr. Moneybags wants me to buy him dinner?! / That should get Trykle’s goat. Let’s see how he reacts.

  “Yeah, right, Al. Get the hell out of here.”

  ___________ ▼ __________

  Click here to return to story.

  33. One October Day (October 2014)

 

  One windswept October day in 2014 found me at the corner of Elizabeth Avenue and North Kings Drive, the corner where the old Central High Building (of Central Piedmont Community College, which was once Charlotte College and Garinger High School) rests atop Little Sugar Creek in an often flooded depression in near-uptown Charlotte (just outside the inner loop). I wonder if anything valuable is down in that creek tunnel at this very moment. Maybe some hidden gold? Why would anyone hide anything valuable down there? Why do I think such nonsense?

  I was waiting to cross Kings, while watching the cars and trucks zoom by on I-277, which was about a football field or so in front of me. Liverpool played in this city a little over two months ago. I think they looked better back then. They had better win the next three games. Chelsea is running away with it. [Chelsea would win the 2014-15 English Premier League season going away.] Still can’t believe Gerrard slipped. The football/soccer gods must despise LFC [Liverpool Football Club] now. Some cruel payback for the glory years in the ‘70s and ‘80s.

  I turned my gaze back to the pedestrian signal that still had a red hand up. I waited, though no traffic was coming, as I didn’t want to set a bad example for the students nearby. Ah, just wait it out. No rush.

  I glanced over at the streetcar rail construction across the street. Most of the trackway had been poured and the rails inset; that segment was almost done. Looks like the project is back on schedule now. Can’t believe that the contractor set the tracks down at the wrong gauge. Maybe the foreman was from Russia. [Russian rail gauge is 5’-0”, not the standard gauge of 4’-8.5” that is used throughout America.] One costly screw-up. I bet he got fired.

  Then suddenly, a middle-age, white guy with semi-long blonde-to-gray hair was next to me. Where did he come from?

  “Hey man, which way to the South Boulevard?” he asked. ‘The’ South Boulevard? He’s from out of town.

  I noticed his untied, tan, oil-stained, ran-through-the-last-mill hiking boots. “On foot?” I asked to prequalify my answer.

  “Hey now, does it look like I have a car?” I wonder if this guy has been drinking all night.

  A Google Maps image of central Charlotte appeared on my mind’s front screen, flickering at first before gaining a clean horizontal hold.

  “Ok, listen, just cross this street and go about four or five blocks to Caldwell, and turn left. Caldwell will become South Boulevard after four blocks as you go over I-277. That’s the shortest route.”

  “No, I don’t want the 277. I’m going to the 77.” What is it with his exaggerated use of ‘the’ definite article?

  The Elizabeth Avenue pedestrian signal was now in red-numeral countdown mode: 9 – 8 – 7 – 6 …

  “So, let me get this straight … you want to walk down South Boulevard to get to I-77. I’m sorry, but South Boulevard doesn’t cross or connect with I-77.”

  “I know. I know that, man. I just need to take the South Boulevard to the Tyvola to the 77.” The, the, the … it sounds so insane.

  “So, cutting across on TyvoIa. Ok.”

  “I mapped it out before I left. It’s only 4.5 miles. I can walk ten miles. This is nothing. I walk everywhere. I’m a bigtime walker, man.”

  “I hear ya. I’m a walker, too. Actually, more of a bicycler.”

  “Dude, I walked a marathon route one day. Twenty-six point two freaking miles!”

  The Kings Drive pedestrian signal cycled again. I was now staring at a white walk sign.

  “Ok, I hear ya. Just follow me.”

  “Ab-soooo-lutely.” He’s polluted drunk, or inebriated on something. Pills?

  We walked across Kings Drive and stopped on the northwest corner.

  “Ok, which way on the 77?” I asked. Wow, I’m now overusing the definite article, too. His the-the madness is infecting my mind.

  “South, man, south. When I get to the shoulder of the 77, this right thumb is going out and I’ll be off to the Columbia, South Carolina – my next stop.”

  “Ok, so you’ll be hitchhiking?”

  “Yes-sir-ree. All the way to the Florida. Eventually.”

  “Getting out of Charlotte before it gets cold?”

  “Uh, yeah; that, too, I guess.”

  “I’ve been to Florida twice. Tampa Bay area. Clearwater and Bradenton. That’s about it.”

  “I’ve never been to the Florida, man! Can you believe that? Man, I’ve never ever been to the Florida! I’m like 48 freaking years old and I’ve never been to the F-L-A! Is that crazy?!”

  “I don’t know about that. There are plenty of states that I haven’t been to.”

  “But, you’ve been to the Florida, man!”

  “Yeah, like I just said: I’ve been to the Florida.” ‘The’ Florida. Gosh, it sounds so whacked.

  The soon-to-be-hitchhiker then noticed the Litt
le Sugar Creek Greenway on the other side of Elizabeth Avenue. I hope that he doesn’t decide to walk it. He’s too amusing to be arrested by the police.

  “Hey, I saw this greenway on the MapQuest. Can’t I just follow this greenway trail to the 77?”

  “No, I wouldn’t advise that. This greenway just goes farther and farther away from southbound I-77.”

  “But, it goes south, right?”

  “Well, yeah, it does. But, I-77 South goes more southwest than south as it leaves this city. You really should continue walking up Elizabeth Avenue, which will become Trade Street without a clue.” Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.

  “Without a clue? What is this, the puzzle town?” Yep, I shouldn’t have tacked on that ‘without a clue’ prepositional phrase. He’s confused enough as it is. No need to pile on.

  I looked at him with a straight face. “I mean that the street name will change for no apparent reason. It’s very typical for this burg.” Should I have just said city?

  “Yeah, I’ve already noticed that since I’ve been here.” He’s more observant than I suspected.

  “When did you get here?” I asked out of a quickly expanding curiosity.

  “Five freaking days ago.”

  “Where are you from, if I may ask?” His accent sure is hard to place.

  “Everywhere but the Florida.” He started to guffaw.

  “Hey, that’s a good one. Very funny.” I chuckled for a few seconds with him. He seems to be very inebriated on something. No alcohol odor. Probably pills. But, what pills is he on? A mix? Hydro and Xanax? Oxy and Adderall? Does he have any extras? What the hell am I thinking?

  “Dude, I came in from Richmond – Richmond, Virginia. I had been staying with some old friends. One dude’s father dropped in on our conversation last night about old times and said that he went to high school down here in the 1950s. Central High, I think he said.”

  “Wow, that’s the building across the street. The community college acquired it over a half-century ago. It was built in the 1920s, and the basement proves it.” I wonder if there is water in it right now. Probably so. [There was an average of 2.54” inches of water on the old slab floor.] Glad they filled in that creepy void with concrete. / I wonder what is in the basement of that building. Why would he say ‘the basement proves it’? Is Jimmy Hoffa buried in there?

  “You learn something old every new day.” He’s still quite clever in spots, despite his woozy stupor.

  “Nice turn of a phrase. You should write that one down. Maybe use it in some writing someday.”

  “That’s a grand idea, man. You got a piece of paper and a pen?”

  “Sure. One sec.”

  I extracted an old psecret psociety card from my left front shirt pocket. I then handed the card and blue ball-point pen to him.

  He accepted the two items. Then he read the front of the card. “Huh? A psecret psociety? What in the heck is that?”

  “Nothing to get too concerned about. Just a frivolous Facebook group.”

  “All of Facebook is frivolous!” he yelled.

  “Yeah, you might be right. But, I can’t knock it completely.”

  “Why not? It’s just a colossal time-waster that removes you from your immediate environment.” And, that’s probably why it’s so popular.

  “Well, I met my wife on it. But, as to your point about it wasting time and removing a person’s mind from their here and now, well, I agree. I think that’s why so many people are on it. It’s a bit of an electronic-escape drug. And, it’s free.”

  “My escape is the open road. Always has been.”

  “I hear ya, man.”

  “Well, it’s been nice chatting with you, kind sir, but I must be on my way as the song goes.”

  “Likewise. Stay safe. Bon voyage!”

  “How about Von Boyage? Can that be my alias in the psecret psociety?”

  “Sure. Why not? Run with it. Join and stay in touch.”

  “Will do when/if I get in front of a computer again. But, don’t hold your breath, man. It may be a while. Quite a while.”

  “Well, excellent. No rush. There’s no shot clock running.” Shot clock?

  He then began to walk up Elizabeth Avenue, heading towards the sky-reflecting glass towers. A definite article, he sureth [sic] be.

  His 5’-10” frame soon disappeared as I crossed Elizabeth Avenue and began walking down the greenway en route to Target – my usual weekday lunch stop.

  As I looked at the southward-flowing, greenish gray creek, my mind began to meander, ending up in a knot in the 1.15 MPH current. I wonder if he makes it to Florida. Heck, will he even make it to Columbia? Ah, sure he will. He seems like an old pro at this. I wonder what his story is. When did he start wandering? Did he lose it all in Virginia? Will he join ‘the’ psecret psociety? Will he return to Charlotte next fall? Will he find what he is looking for? Will he ever read this short story online somewhere? Or, in print? Will he relay this tale … one October day?

  34. Fall of the Yellow Jackets (October 2014)

  Agent 32, aka Monique (the Asian Zing), and I, Parkaar, nebulous Agent 33, found ourselves on the back patio on a splendid late October afternoon in east Charlotte, feeling as if we were inside one of those plastic-wrapped, pricy, gift-shop postcards.

  What follows is the largely unedited audio track set to typographic characters, as it’s so hard to read sounds on a blank white screen. Though, I’ve tried on many an occasion.

  Agent 32: “It sure is a nice day, hon. It’s not too hot and not so cold yet.”

  Agent 33: “It really is, mahal. [love in Tagalog] It’s simply sublime today.”

  32: “Autumn splendor in America, Parkaar.”

  33: “No doubt, Monique. And, the summer mosquitoes seem to be gone now. We can finally enjoy this patio without being gooped in a pint of bug spray.”

  32: “Yeah, that stuff is gross. And, you know how I hate mosquitoes. In the Philippines, we see them as dangerous disease carriers. They are no-good airborne transporters of dengue, yellow fever, and the dreaded malaria.”

  33: “Well, our American mosquitoes don’t carry those unpleasantries, at least not at last check. However, some do transmit the West Nile Virus, which can be deadly.”

  From out of who knows where, a yellow jacket began to check out Monique’s plastic cup on the frosted glass table. It crawled around on the rim with its antennae twitching all about.

  32: “Woah! What kind of bee is that, bana?” [husband in Cebuano]

  33: “Oh, it’s just a yellow jacket, dear. They get very active this time of year.”

  32: “Can it sting me?”

  33: “Only if it is a female.”

  32: “Do female yellow jackets only sting female humans?” She then laughed for a few seconds.

  33: “The males don’t have stingers.”

  32: “So, you’re safe? Lucky you!” Monique laughed again.

  33: “And, no, I could just as likely be stung, mahal.”

  32: “Have you ever been stung by a yellow jacket, Parkaar?”

  33: “Yes, many times. Way too many to count. Most of the stings occurred when I was mowing the lawn or out hiking in the mountains.” Who was he hiking with?

  32: “Oh.”

  33: “They like to make their nests in the ground. Once you step on one, the aerial cavalry is dispatched.”

  32: “Really?”

  33: “Yep. It’s then full assault.”

  32: “Well then, can you tell if this one is a female?”

  33: “Not from here, Agent 32. I’d have to examine that little wasp in my office.”

  32: “That’s so funny.” Monique giggles for a couple of seconds. “Like the yellow jacket is your patient.” She laughs some more.

  33: “Bee still under the microscope. Get it? Bee spelled with two e’s.” He’s obviously recording our conversation.

  32: “Of and on course, Parkaar. These yellow jackets sure seem to be buz
zing around today.”

  33: “They do get very ornery this time of year, Monique.”

  32: “Why is that, 33?”

  33: “I think that they know that their time is about up. Maybe they think: Might as well annoy some humans before we become crunchy corpses.”

  32: “That’s crazy, bana! Look, there’s one by your left shoe. Stomp it! C’mon, get it, Parkaar!”

  33: “No, I’ll let it go. If I squish one, a call-to-arms chemical will be released, and then we’ll be battling 50 of them, 32.”

  32: “Are you sure about that, 33?”

  33: “Well, maybe just a squadron of 49 in a 7 x 7 formation.” What in the world?

  32: “You are so silly, my dearest kano.” [Filipino slang for American]

  Now a pair of yellow jackets circle Monique’s cup of hard cider. She swats at them with her small, bronze-colored, cupped hands. She then pulls her legs up on the chair and starts wailing away, only to fan the air.

  33: “No, don’t swat at them, hon. They are spoiling for a fight. They are perfectly willing to trade a stinger in your finger for their own death. Just ignore them. Cover your cup with the coaster. It’s the sugar in your drink that is attracting them. And, wipe your lips.”

  32: “Really?”

  33: “Yes. Also, keep your pants leg openings closed.”

  32: “What?!”

  33: “I remember this one guy who was hiking with us at Crowders Mountain on an October day – just like this one – and had a yellow jacket fly up his jeans to the back of his knee.”

  32: “Oh, dear … what happened then?”

  33: “The yellow jacket freaked out when it couldn’t get back out of his pants leg, and promptly stung him.”

  32: “What a drag! That must have sucked!”

  33: “And, he was not in the best state of mind to deal with it, either.”

  32: “What do you mean, 33?”

  33: “He was flying high on magic mushrooms at the time. Psilocybe cubensis. Saint of the fields.”

  32: “Oh, my God! When was this, hon?”

  33: “Back in 1988. Millions of yellow jackets ago.” I chuckled.

  32: “Gosh, did he need medical attention?”

  33: “No, he was ok. Amazingly, he didn’t freak out; he stayed pretty calm. After fifteen minutes of an ice compress, he was hiking again. But, as for his hiking pal, well, that was another story entirely.”

  32: “Huh?”

  33: “Even though his buddy never got stung, the guy started to hyper-hallucinate: He saw yellow jackets everywhere. This dude then took his flannel shirt off, wound it up, and started whipping it about everywhere, thinking he was swatting yellow jackets. Stop me, if you’ve heard this story before, Agent 32.”

  32: “No, honey; I’ve never heard this one. Please continue, Mr. Agent 33.” Mister? At least she doesn’t call me ‘Michael’.

  33: “Well, from what he told me, it was quite a scene on the trail. He was a whirling, whipping dervish. Other passing hikers had shocked looks on their faces.”

  32: “Wow!”

  33: “Luckily, the park ranger didn’t see him.”

  32: “Yeah, I guess so. Darn, these yellow jackets will be back again next spring.”

  33: “But, the yellow jackets are not like this in the spring and summer, mahal. They don’t display such bad behavior.”

  32: “I know, Parkaar.”

  33: “They are feisty now because many of the insects they feast upon are already dead. They are desperate to find food, especially sugars.”

  32: “I see. If summer’s most annoying insects are mosquitoes, then autumn’s have got to be these darn yellow jackets.”

  33: “Yeah, but I can deal with the yellow jackets, asawa. If you ignore mosquitoes, you still get bit and bit and bit. If you just ignore yellow jackets, you’re usually ok … unless you sit on one.”

  32: “Yikes! Is there one on my chair?!” Monique then twists her head and body around.

  33: “No, you’re fine, honey. Relax. Just let them have their final buzzathon.” [sic]

  32: “I don’t trust these flying kano stinger-bugs.”

  We then began to hear a song from inside the house. It was Waves by Mr. Probz. Kirk [Agent 666] must have turned on the radio.

  33: “Do you hear that song, Monique?”

  32: “I do, mahal; I surely do. Nice melody, but the story behind the lines is so sad.”

  33: “Wave after wave. I’m slowly drifting. Drifting right out of Maria Bay.” [on the east side of Siquijor] I guffawed at my little twist of the lyrics.

  32: “I really miss my island, [Siquijor] hon, especially Lazi.”

  33: “I know you do, mahal. So lovely in Lazi. You’ll be back there soon.”

  32: It’s ok; I’m not homesick. I’ve adjusted to life in America.”

  33: “I’m very happy to hear that, Monique. I know that it has been a big change.”

  32: “Change is part of life. I accept it. Always another wave of change coming.”

  33: “Speaking of waves, have you seen the video for that song Waves, mahal?”

  32: “Yeah, I did. Kirk showed me. It’s kind of dark, hon, even tragic. The couple is not getting along at all. They are always arguing. I think that the man commits suicide by drowning himself in the hot tub at the end of the song.”

  33: “Yeah, it does look like he gets drunk and goes under for good. And, of course, it made me think of Frank von Peck.” [the late, great Agent 107]

  32: “I know. I miss him, too.”

  33: “What I like about the video is the cinematic feel; it’s like we’re seeing truncated scenes from a movie – an interesting movie – not just silly, random, meaningless images blasted at a rate of 400 per second.”

  32: “Four hundred images per second? You are exaggerating a bit, aren’t you, 33?”

  33: “Ok, maybe slightly, 32.” For some strange reason, I then wondered if there were any yellow jackets in the music video. “I think the video is free of yellow jackets, Monique.”

  32: “Are you certain, Parkaarazzi?” [sic] What did she just say? She’s feeling that Strongbow.

  33: “Parkaarazzi? You sure come up with some clever coinages, Agent 32. That’s psecret psociety grade all the way to a nether whey.” More nonsense for the recorder.

  32: “Maybe if we analyzed every single frame and zoomed way in …”

  33: “That sounds like a very time-consuming assignment, lovely Agent 32.”

  32: “Well, we’ve got the time, this time.” Huh?

  33: “Maybe some other time, sweetie. Say, do you notice any yellow jackets now, mahal?”

  Monique checks around her cup, hands, arms, torso and feet, and sees none. Then she looks at my cup.

  32: “Yikes! There’s a yellow jacket floating in your cup, Parkaar! Yuck!”

  I picked up my cup and gently jostled it. The dying, slowly sinking, ventral-side-up yellow jacket bobbed up and down with the ripples. Waves. Wave after wave. Heading for the grave.

  33: “And it seems like, yeah, it seems like, its final fall day is fading, fading away.”

  32: “Cut it out, Parkaar. You’re no singer.” That’s the truth.

  We both had a hearty laugh as the digital audio recorder chirped and cut off.

  35. One Day in November (November 2014)

  One day in November of 2014 found me at a window seat in the Starbucks inside the Metropolitan Target in midtown Charlotte. It was about noon, I guess. I was on my lunch break.

  The weather was sunny yet windy: a refreshing autumn day. I was consuming a cheap lunch of miscellaneous grocery items that I had just purchased, as I watched the construction of another mid-rise apartment building inside the I-277 bend at Stonewall Street. Well, the cranes are certainly going again in this burg. I wonder how much those units will rent for. Over $1000 a month for just a studio, I’m sure. A two-bedroom unit would be out of the question. Ah, just stay focused on the
complex at 3rd and Kings. Easy walk to work from there. Would be perfect. Monique [Agent 32] would certainly like it. But, with my credit score … maybe, no way. Enough fantasy.

  I then began to overhear a conversation behind me, about twelve feet away, at a table next to the wall. Two middle-age white guys in gray blazers were talking very excitedly. I quickly activated my DAR (Digital Audio Recorder).

  One guy seemed to be an author and the other guy … well, I couldn’t quite figure out if he was a prospective literary agent or client of some sort or a potential customer. Without further ado, here’s a veritable transcription of their conversation with the apparent author, Dave, leading off.

  “And that’s what I’ve been doing.”

  “No, wait, tell me that again, Dave.”

  “Damn it, George! You are much more focused on that frilly coffee than what I’m saying.”

  “Ok, Dave, this time you will have my complete attention. I promise.”

  “Listen, I’m only going to repeat this one more time, and that’s it.”

  “Ok, ok. Go. I’m all ears.”

  “You do have some big, hairy-ass ears, George.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. And fock [sic] you, too, Dave.”

  They both had a hearty chuckle. Then the George guy continued the conversation.

  “Now, what did you say that you were doing with the chapters of your new book?”

  “I’m doing what I did to get the last book moving along. I’m posting whole chapters on different sites, on different platforms, in different media.”

  “What the hell do you mean, Dave?”

  “I mean, for instance, with my last book, I put all of chapter one on my personal blogsite.”

  “Ok, did you charge a subscription fee to read it?”

  “No, it was – and still is – up for anyone to read.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No, I’m not. It’s still there.”

  “And, I think I remember you saying that chapter two is online somewhere, too. Is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s correct, George. Chapter two of my last book is still on my Facebook page.”

  “The whole chapter? Can you really post something that long on Facebook?”

  “Well, it’s broken up into sections, but it’s all there, and it’s set to public viewing, so even non-friends can read it.”

  “Amazing. And, you said that chapter three is on twitter. Am I right?”

  “Your memory isn’t so bad, George.”

  “So, chapter three is only 140 characters?” George asks and quickly guffaws.

  “No. It’s a short chapter alright, but it’s not nearly that short. I mean, c’mon, George, a six-sentence chapter? Really?”

  “Hey, I never know what you’re capable of, Dave.”

  “I broke it up into about 400 tweets.”

  “Broken up into about 400 tweets? Unbelievable, Dave.”

  “I try to be, George.”

  “Ok, where is chapter four?”

  “Excerpts from chapter four were posted in the comments section after various news stories on the internet.”

  “You posted them on news websites?”

  “Yep. Just a few paragraphs here and there. Always managed to cryptically get the amazon link in.”

  “So, you spammed your way to literary glory, Dave.”

  “It’s not spam, George; it’s obliquely related to the particular news article.”

  “Obliquely? You’re too much, Dave. I’m sure you got torched with hate mail along the way.”

  “Yes, sometimes. And when it occurred, I just replied with chapter five.” Dave grinned while adjusting his glasses.

  George looked completely stunned. “You are absolutely mad, Dave. Truly mad.”

  “George, you have to do out-of-the-box things to get anywhere if you’re an unknown and unconnected author.”

  “Yeah, I know what you’re saying. Ok, what are we up to? Chapter six?”

  “Yes, chapter six.”

  “Ok, let me guess, you handwrote it on rolls of toilet paper in select hotels in New York City.”

  “No, in London.”

  They started laughing hysterically. Their untethered laughter continued for about ten seconds.

  “Actually, George, chapter six was printed on large, 11-by-17-inch, yellow sheets of paper, which were then folded into airplanes and launched off random building terraces all over the US.”

  “You’re surely kidding me this time, Dave.”

  “No, I’m not, George. I saw people below on many occasions taking pictures of the paper planes. And, get this – this still gives me goose bumps - I later saw the unfolded planes on the internet. Ingenious publicity, huh, George?”

  “I’m really surprised that you haven’t been arrested yet.”

  “Me, too. But, I never launched more than three paper airplanes from any one building. Wouldn’t want to be known as a litterbug.”

  “Whew! Too much, Dave.”

  “Just doing what I feel like I need to do.”

  “Ok, and where can one find chapter seven of your last book for free, Dave?”

  “Chapter seven of Eight Minutes Below Dawn, which, by the way, is the final chapter, is only available at my seminars. I project the text on the walls. It’s also where I distribute the paperbacks.”

  “Paperbacks? So, you have actually been physically published.”

  “You thought I was just shopping a digital file?”

  “I never know what you are pushing, Dave.”

  “I’m getting the paperbacks printed for about three bucks each. I charge $19.95 a head for the seminar. I just give the books away as door prizes.”

  “Door prizes? Seminars? Who would pay money to come to your seminar, Dave?”

  “You would be very surprised. Quite an assortment of people from all phases of the spectra. Once you advertise that you get a book, a lottery ticket, coffee and finger food, you’d be amazed at how many attend.”

  “Well, what do you bill the seminar as? What’s the moniker? What’s the hook line, Dave?”

  “The hook line? Learn how to fold the longest-flying paper airplane and win big money.”

  George started laughing. “That’s hysterical! I should be recording this conversation, Dave.”

  “I’m sure that someone around here is recording us.”

  That’s when my DAR died. I got up to leave. Dave and George stopped talking as I made my exit.

  Walking back to the office, I pondered what I had just heard. Should I employ some of these methods? Paper airplanes with a chapter from ‘Gold, a summer story’ [my e-novel] printed on them in a tiny font size. Why, that’s crazy! But, maybe crazy enough to get noticed. Maybe just one airplane per city or town. I don’t know, I’d probably get charged with littering. And, since it’s an adult novel, I wouldn’t want it to land in a kid’s hands. Yeah, nix that idea. Probably better to just stick with internet tactics. No physical issues with online methods. Maybe use hyperlinks galore.

  Two passing cars on East 3rd Street almost make contact. One driver was texting and started to lane drift. Everyone is glued to their cell phones now. Maybe do some advertising targeting mobile phones. Maybe just keep writing and posting short stories. Maybe just watch out for non-stopping right turns.

  “Hey, watch it!”

  36. Rooftop Horror (December 2014)

  The strangely tragic death of Chinese Canadian Elisa Lam made its way into our chattering office circles this past week. In case you forgot, or never heard, Lam was the 21-year-old female from a Vancouver suburb who ended up dead inside a water tank atop the Cecil Hotel in the Skid Row area of downtown Los Angeles in February of 2013.

  This particular hotel is notorious for infamous guests, such as serial killers, [names redacted; we are not in the business of making murders (any more) famous] and for strange events, like a wife’s act of defenestration in 1962 that killed a 65-year-ol
d man on the sidewalk below. Talk about a bad day to go for a stroll down Main Street.

  Perhaps you remember seeing the über-creepy elevator video (if not, it is still on Youtube as of this write-up). However, Monique (the customary alias for Agent 32) had not heard about this bizarre case until yours truly (Agent 33) informed her. She was very curious to know more, as she’s a bigtime Forensic Files fanatic. She began reading up on the story on her pink tablet computer.

  “The hotel guests reported odd-tasting drinking water with some even describing it as somewhat sweet,” Monique recited from a news article. “That’s totally effing [sic] gross! Major yuck!”

  “I know. What a crazy postmortem situation that was.” Sickening. / So sad.

  Monique then switched from her tablet computer to our laptop. She prefers it for analyzing videos. She watched the elevator video three times in focused silence. Then she spoke. “So, no other person was seen with her at that hotel?”

  “No, no one.” I answered as I looked around for the crunch bowl.

  “And, she was travelling alone?” I would never travel to downtown L.A. alone. Never. What was this girl thinking? / She must have been a free spirit.

  “Yep, solo, according to all accounts that I’ve read. She had a history of travelling alone and using public transportation. She had gone to Toronto alone.” Gosh, she was crazy to do that. No way would I do that.

  “Was she visiting anyone in L.A.?” Monique then asked.

  “No, not that anyone is aware of. She checked in with her mom daily by phone. That is, up until January 31st, when she disappeared, only to be found on February 19th in one of the hotel’s four rooftop water tanks by a maintenance worker.”

  “That’s crazy! I can tell from this video that she is buang.” [buang is Cebuano for insane]

  “Well, apparently she did suffer from bouts of depression and had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder,” I said as I swatted at a tiny fruit-decomposition gnat.

  “But, being bipolar or depressed wouldn’t explain her bizarre behavior in that elevator. Is that hotel haunted?”

  “I don’t know about that, 32. Isn’t that kind of stuff in an individual’s head?” I wonder what’s in his head.

  “I don’t know, Parkaar. [my ailing alias] To me it looks like she saw a mumo.” [mumo is Cebuano for ghost or phantom]

  “Maybe so. And as you were saying, being bipolar is quite different from being or acting schizophrenic. In that elevator video she appears to be hallucinating – severely hallucinating.”

  “Yeah, it does appear that she is interacting with things, persons, or who knows what that aren’t really there.”

  “It sure does, 32. In fact, it almost looks like she’s on acid.”

  Monique looked puzzled. “On acid? What kind of acid?”

  “LSD, that strong psychoactive drug,” I replied.

  “Oh, right. But, I just wonder how she got up on the roof. Didn’t you tell me that the door to the roof was locked and alarmed?”

  “Yes, I did, and it was. But there are three fire escapes that lead to the roof from the ends of the corridors. In her frightened psychotic state of mind, she could have taken one up to the roof without being detected. There wasn’t a roof-cam [sic] up there. At least, not at that time.”

  “Are you sure that a hotel employee wasn’t involved? A lot of people on the internet seem to think so, 33.” Always a possibility.

  “Well, Monique, I did, too … for a while. And, well, I guess that it can’t be totally ruled out. But, the autopsy report said that there were no signs of foul play. LAPD [Los Angeles Police Department] considers the case closed. There were no injuries to her body. No signs of rape or a struggle. And, no drugs were found in her system. Well, at least no nineteen-days-after-being-in-a-water-tank traceable drugs, that is.” What is he getting at?

  “What do you mean, Parkaarazzi?” Parkaarazzi?

  “I just can’t rule out LSD or some similar psychedelic drug. I don’t believe they are detectable after three or four days.”

  “Ok, then, 33. So, what was the official cause of death in your book, my psuper psleuth [sic]?”

  “Did you remember the psilent [sic] p’s?”

  “I did. Did you?”

  “Psertainly pso!” [sic] Psilly kano. [sic]

  “Ok, continue, Pumperazzi.” Pumperazzi? What’s the next inflection?

  “The L.A. coroner’s official cause of death: accidental drowning.”

  “What?! Accidental drowning? Do you really think that she wanted to swim in cold water inside a dark tank?” Something is not right here.

  “I don’t think that she entered that tank to go for a swim.”

  “Suicide?” She read my mind.

  “Yeah, very sadly, I think so, Monique. If I had to bet the farm on a cause, well, that would probably be it.”

  “Bet the farm?” Monique gave me an inquisitive gaze.

  “Oh, it’s just an old American expression. A figure of speech.” That figures.

  “Ok, so you vote for suicide as the cause of death, 33?”

  “Yeah. While maybe not premeditated, probably something she arrived at.” Arrived at? He’s so odd with his phrasings since he got that darn voice recorder. I’m sure that he has it on now.

  “I wonder what was going through her mind. She must have been in pure agony.”

  “I agree, 32. I think that she became immersed in a horror movie that she couldn’t get out of. I really think that after she left the elevator for the last time, she wandered down the hallway in a completely freaked-out state of mind, thinking that someone or some thing was chasing her. She then saw a fire escape and made her way out onto it without being detected by hotel staff. She was able to quietly scurry up the metal steps to the roof. Once on the roof, she realized that she was still not safe from the mumo; it was still chasing her and getting closer. She realized that being on the roof was not going to be a sanctuary; it was actually going to be where the phantom would trap and kill her. Thus, she refocused on getting to a safe place and fast. She noticed the four large water tanks on the roof, along with the ladder mounted to the adjacent wall. Then a synapse of recollection fired in her brain: She remembered the movie Dark Water.” What?!

  “Wait, wait, wait! Hold on, 33. Halt that hypothesis right there. How do you know that she ever saw the movie Dark Water? Do you have any proof of that? Has such been posted anywhere online?”

  “Well, actually I don’t know that she ever saw it, 32, but just hear out my mindset theory. Then you can poke copious holes in it later on, my pscintillating pscanner.” [sic] I bet that he will type up those last words with silent p’s. I can already see the Arial text.

  “Ok, continue, Professor Parkaar.” Am I really sounding professorial?

  “With a Dutch double-ah?”

  “Sure, why knot?” [sic] I wonder if she meant not or knot … or naught?

  “Ok, Elisa quickly scales the ladder and gets up onto the left rear water tank. This is where I think her mind shifted from escape and survive to commit suicide and end this nightmare – permanently.”

  “Ok, keep going, 33. I’m following your lurid trail.” I wonder if she knows that I have my digital audio recorder on.

  “Miss Lam then lifts the heavy hatch door with a rush of adrenaline. She then leaps down into the tank. Sadly, this is where her life ended. That would be my best guess.”

  “You think you’ve got a water-tight theory, don’t you, 33?”

  “It seems plausible to me, 32. I’m familiar with the psychedelic experience. I could see this playing out in her mind.” Familiar with the psychedelic experience? How many times familiar?

  “You crazy American psychonaut!” [sic] Monique shouted. Psychonaut? “Your great theory leaves one thing wide open: the hatch door!”

  “Wham, bam, and slam! Great observation, Monique. That’s one very important detail. I think that’s a wrap. Hungry?” He obviously was recording our conversation. Ag
ain. I wonder when he’ll type it up and make copies. Will he post it on the psecret psociety Facebook page? Will he get my thoughts right this time? Oh, I think I need some more coffee.

  _______________________________________________

  Editorial note: This particular rooftop water tank’s hatch door was reportedly discovered in a closed, sealed position by the police.

  37. The Balcony (December 2014)

  We, Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33), checked into the Golden Sands Motel at Carolina Beach around noon on Thanksgiving Day 2014. We quickly learned that the motel actually consisted of two mid-rise oceanfront buildings.

  A bored, oafish, 60-ish, Caucasian innkeeper assigned us to a room on the top floor of the taller north tower.

  Very soon, we were on the elevator of the nearly vacant hotel building. Monique depressed the 7 button and up we went in the glass enclosure, watching the parking lot grow smaller.

  When the elevator doors opened, I was staring at our room: 718. Jeez, this is right where the elevator dumps out. Hope it doesn’t get too loud tonight with holiday drunks.

  I double-checked the numerals on the door and turned to Monique. “Well, this it, hon.”

  “I’ll open the door, honey,” Agent 32 offered. “You have all that luggage in your hands.”

  “Salamat, mahal. [‘Thank you, love’ in Tagalog] You’re a big help. Cute, too.”

  Monique smiled and quickly swiped the key card, got a green light, and opened the door. That was easy.

  It was a nice room with a mini-fridge, microwave, coffee maker and hair dryer. The king-size bed was clean and quite comfortable, as I promptly flopped down on it. I was quite tired from the 210-mile, four-plus-hour trek from Charlotte.

  Monique wasn’t ready for naptime just yet. “Don’t fall asleep, my dearest kano. [kano, Filipino slang for American] You’ve got to check out this incredible view!”

  I quickly got up from the bed and followed Monique through the sliding glass doorway, making sure to step over the door’s lower trackway. It was a narrow balcony. The view, though, was ultra-expansive.

  “Yeah, you’re right, Monique; this is a million-dollar view. From far left to far right, nothing but Océano Atlántico. [‘Atlantic Ocean’ in Spanish] It’s mega-maritime!” Why is he talking in Spanish? Does he already have that darn audio recorder on?

  “Good pick, 33.” Good. She knows that I’m recording for a future short story.

  “Look, Agent 32, if you squint your eyes just right and stare straight out, you can see Rick’s Café Amércain in Casablanca.”

  “Casablanca? The place in that famous movie?”

  “Yes, that place: Casablanca, Morocco.” He’s teasing me. Surely he knows that I know that the Atlantic Ocean is far too vast to see across.

  “Parkaar, [my ailing alias] we can’t see that far, even if it is a crystal-clear day.”

  “Just a geography pop quiz, asawa.” [wife in Tagalog and Cebuano] You passed.”

  We both had a laugh. Some seagulls cawed as they flew by. Maybe they thought it was funny, too.

  “Hey, my geography isn’t that bad, map freak,” Monique blurted out. Map freak. There are worse things. We’d be better off with more map freaks.

  I chuckled. “All kidding aside, we are on about the same latitude as Casablanca.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep, yep, yep, as Mr. Malloy [a character in the novella Mysterieau of San Francisco and in the short stories A Search for Sidle on N and Vermont Street] would say. We are about 34 degrees north of the equator, give or take a few minutes to think about it.” Give or take a few minutes to think about it? Yep, he’s definitely recording.

  We then got quiet and just stared out over the immense expanse of saltwater. A lone cloud cast a dark splotch on the languidly rolling blue-green surface. The sea was generally calm, but a few whitecaps could be seen about a mile out. What a picture-perfect nautical scene.

  I then grabbed the top, white, plastic-covered, metal balcony railing and gave it a little shake. Thankfully, it was snug. No loose bolts or screws.

  “What in the world are you doing, 33?!” Monique exclaimed.

  “Just making sure it is secure. You can never trust these railings. People die from balcony falls every year.”

  “You’re always Mr. Safety, aren’t you?” Safe Tea?

  “Well, I’ve just read and seen the horror stories over the years, Agent 32.”

  Monique then peered over the top railing, looking straight down, and then promptly stepped back. “Whew!”

  “Higher than you thought?”

  “Yes, 33, way higher than I thought. And, that pool down there has no water in it.”

  “So, no risk of drowning if your dive goes flat.”

  “Very funny, Parkaar. But, if we fall from here … splat!”

  “Yeah, we’re dead for sure if we fall from this height. We’re probably 70 feet up.”

  “Yikes, that’s over 20 meters!” [65.6 feet]

  “I don’t think I could stay in a room like this with a toddler.”

  “Oh, yeah, they could climb up on a chair or table, and then get up to the top railing, and then …”

  “Yep. Up and over – and gone. Finito bambino. [‘Finished baby’ in Italian] Tragically, it has happened.”

  “Is this railing at the proper height, mahal? It seems too low.”

  “Yeah, the top rail appears to be 42 inches high. That’s all it has to be by building code.”

  “If this were my hotel, I think I would have taller balcony railings, 33.”

  “Yeah, I agree, Inspector 32. I think I would make them 54 inches tall. Less chance of a fatal mishap.”

  “Or, why not just run the vertical bars all the way from the floor to the ceiling?” That’s a grand idea.

  “Uh, maybe the fire code. Maybe cost. Or, maybe it prevents guests from launching large paper airplanes.” Large paper airplanes? He’s just talking for a future story once again.

  “Large paper airplanes? What in the world are you talking about now, 33?”

  “You know, Monique, the kind that can soar all the way to Lisbon on a nice spiral toss in an offshore breeze.” To Portugal? That’s in Europe. Totally bonkers! He’s just testing my geographical knowledge yet again. I’m not falling for it this time.

  “Or, maybe all those vertical bars ruin the view, huh?”

  “Well, you can still see through the four-inch-wide gaps in the balusters, 32.”

  “Baluster’s ball-busters, 33!”

  We both guffawed. Her smile was so genuine and pure. Wonder how this night will go. Sinfully sublime, me thinks.

  “Nice spare coinage, Monique.”

  “You liked that one, 33?” Might as well call him by his agent number, as it’s obvious that he has the DAR [Digital Audio Recorder] on.

  “Yes, indeed. Very creative. That’s good stuff, 32.”

  “You want some really good stuff, 33?” Monique asked with a sexy grin. She’s already horny.

  “Sure, but just let me hit the krapper-kapper. [sic] [commode] Hold that pose.”

  “Please try to take less than two hours this time, 33.”

  I chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I headed to the bathroom. I might as well get online and check Facebook. He’ll be in there for at least 22 minutes. Why did I just think 22 minutes, and not an even 20? His numerical madness has infiltrated my brain.

  Monique sat in the desk chair and got her tablet computer connected wirelessly to the internet.

  While on the white porcelain throne, I heard our hotel room door open. What the hell!

  But, before I could speak or move, the door shut. I never heard anyone enter the room.

  “Who was that, hon?” I shouted through the bathroom door. “Is everything ok?”

  “It was some Latino man with short black hair, asking if our balcony needed repairs. He saw me in my panties!”

  I jumped up off the toilet a
nd opened the door. “What the fock! [sic] Did he look like a motel employee?”

  “I don’t know, hon.”

  I quickly exited the bathroom. Monique looked shocked. I hugged and consoled her. Then I locked the dead bolt and called the front desk.

  “Hey, listen, did you send a maintenance worker up to our room?”

  “No, I most certainly did not,” the desk clerk said.

  “Well, some guy entered our room, and the door was locked. It freaked my wife out. How many people have key cards to room 718?”

  “Only you and your wife, sir. What did this guy look like?”

  “My wife says that he was medium build with short black hair, perhaps Hispanic. Do you have any idea who that would be?”

  “No, I don’t, sir. Wait a minute; I’ll check with our maintenance supervisor and call you back.”

  “Ok, thanks.”

  “So very sorry about that, sir.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  I hung up the desk phone and turned to my wife. “The hotel manager is going to check around and find out who that was. Probably just a misdirected maintenance worker, hon.” I sure hope so.

  “Is it safe to stay here, honey?”

  “Yeah, I think so, Monique.”

  The man at the front desk never called back.

  That night I had a terrifying dream of a Mexican construction worker falling from our balcony. It happened as the crew was nearing completion of the building. Apparently the worker tripped over something (the sliding door’s trackway?), hit a sawhorse on the balcony, and flipped over the railing, which he frantically grabbed to save himself. The last scene of the dream was of him falling down, looking up at me, with a piece of railing in his hand.

  I jerked my arms, bumping Monique. She woke up, too.

  “Hon, did you have a nightmare?” she sleepily asked.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  We soon drifted back asleep. The remainder of the night was dreamless for me. As for Monique, she was out like a lamb. Or lamp?

  Upon checking out, the hotel desk clerk, a white, middle-age lady today, said that she heard that someone died in a Carolina Beach hotel’s construction, but wasn’t sure if it was our building.

  “Well, never trust your life to a balcony railing,” I said as we began to walk away.

  38. Found Note (February 2015)

  Fred Wozinski had recently moved from Brooklyn to Charlotte. The twenty-five-year-old Caucasian IT tech had scored a plum gig with an uptown data analytics company. He was liking his new town, and had even met a local girl at a bar in the century-old Elizabeth neighborhood, where his apartment was conveniently located.

  One quiet Saturday winter afternoon, while unpacking the remaining boxes in the guest bedroom, he opened the small closet door to check for available storage space. Luckily, it offered up enough room to push those never-seem-to-get-opened boxes inside.

  Before closing the closet door, he noticed an odd, slightly raised, rectangular shape under the ancient beige wallpaper, about five feet above the pockmarked hardwood floor. For a moment he wondered why anyone would want to wallpaper a tiny closet. Then he ran his left hand over the offset surface. It felt like metal underneath the wallpaper. He then wondered if the closet had an overhead light at some time in the past, and if this was where the switch once was.

  He felt the area of relief closer, detecting what seemed like a keyhole. He ran his left index fingernail vertically over it to confirm his suspicion. Curiosity then got the better of Fred.

  He retrieved an Xacto knife from his little gray tool box (that was actually a converted tackle box), and began to neatly cut out the 2” x 4” rectangle of wallpaper over the raised object. After cutting right along the edges of the protrusion, he picked at a corner of the cut piece of yellowing wallpaper, trying to peel it back. The backing adhesive had lost most of its hold over the years; the wallpaper cutout was quickly removed, revealing an inset, black, tin box. There was a door on it, and sure enough, it was locked.

  However, Fred wasn’t going to stop now. He found a large paper clip on his desk and began to reshape it. Seventy-seven seconds later, his impromptu skeleton key had tripped the little lock’s single tumbler. He pulled the door’s left edge open with his fingertips. Inside there was a severely-browned-by-age piece of paper with cursive handwriting, folded into sixths.

  Fred cautiously retrieved it and brought it into the living room where there was more light. He carefully unfolded the little note. Some small edge pieces of the old paper crumbled off. Fred then flattened the note on the coffee table. He used his granddad’s old magnifying glass to read:

  February 5, 1929

  About four inches of snow fell today in Charlotte. My friend, Jim Royster, seemed to think that it might set a record for this date. Well, I guess you can check on that in the latest weather almanac (do you still have those?). A slow Tuesday. Work at the lumber mill ceased, so I came home early with a novel idea in my head. I would begin a little short story (yes, you are reading it right now!) and later hide it somewhere for someone to find (i.e., you!) at a hopefully much later date. A date after I’m dead and gone. Yes, I’ll hide this piece of paper somewhere that will be found after my imminent passing. You see, my heart is failing me, even though I’m only forty-nine. My dad died early – only made it to forty-five. But, back to this noteworthy endeavor. I wonder who will find this note (who are you? what is your life like?), and exactly when will they (you) find it (is it the 21st century now? did this little note stay hidden that long? is it still legible?). Well, you’ve found it, serendipitous reader. Now it’s your turn to add a paragraph or two. Go ahead; don’t be the one who severs the tale. It’ll be the longest ‘short’ story ever written, because it will never end. I have the utmost faith in you. I just know that you’re the type to continue this time-traveling missive. Transfer my words onto your paper (what kind of paper do you now have?) and add two hundred more! Credit, date, then hide.

  Mirth and mystery,

  Dave Adst

 

  Fred nearly spit out his hot Herbal Gerbil tea. He was quite shocked by the curious little note. He immediately googled the keywords Dave Adst and Charlotte, NC and learned that Dave did indeed live on Lamar Avenue in Elizabeth; was born on January 23, 1880 and died of cardiac arrest on May 17, 1929.

  Fred was now even more intrigued by the old note that gave instructions for its survival. He then researched Jim Royster, and saw that one Jim Royster from Charlotte died on July 19, 1934 of consumption. Fred thought: Wow, Dave didn’t experience the October ‘29 stock market crash or the ensuing Great Depression; it was all the roaring 20s for him. But, his buddy Jim sure did. I wonder if they are aware of me now, at this moment. Well, what should I do? This is too good not to continue. I could make a dozen or so copies to hide around Charlotte. That would greatly increase the chances of this story continuing after I’m dead. I’ll place copies in nooks, crannies, cavities and voids that won’t be breached by my contemporaries. I’ll make sure that the notes won’t be found until the buildings are razed. Wait, is that ‘too’ hidden? Hmmm … I wonder if Dave wrote more than one note. Are others already playing this paragraph-every-eighty-six-years short-story ‘game’? Hmmm … I should google the note’s exact words. Verbatim.

  Fred then did just that on his tablet computer, but nothing came up related to Dave Adst.

  Fred’s mind started to churn some more. Ok, maybe this is the only such note that Dave wrote. Ok, what in the world should I write? He asks for a paragraph or two. Two hundred words. Hmmm … I know – I will just mention the note’s discovery, today’s weather and my job. Must remember to date it.

  Fred then transcribed Dave’s text onto a white sheet of 20-pound printer paper and then added a succinct, six-sentence paragraph, which read:

  Hello fellow note discoverer!

  I found the above note today – today being February 7, 2015 – in a hidden wall compartment in my L
amar Avenue apartment. I initially thought that the inset metal compartment was a light switch junction box. Boy was I surprised when I opened the locked door to find Mr. Adst’s message from 1929. And, who was the US president on February 5, 1929? Why, it was still Calvin Coolidge for another month. (Herbert Hoover was sworn in on March 5, 1929. And, yes, I had to look it up.)

  Well, weather-wise, no snow today here in Charlotte. A cold below-freezing start to the day (frost on the grass), but I think it will warm to the mid-60s.

  As for my occupation, well, I don’t work in a lumber yard. No lumber yards around here anymore. I work in the IT (Information Technology) field. I don’t think that Dave would have been familiar with that. And, if this note is found five-plus decades from now, I’m sure that I’ll have no idea of some of the job fields in your present time.

  Well, serendipitous note reader, let’s not disappoint Dave. Add your two-hundred-word addendum and hide strategically. Lengthen his legacy.

  Enigmatically,

  - Fred Wozinski

  Later that day he made thirteen copies of the newly expanded tale. He folded and rolled them, and then placed each one in a 35mm film canister. Before placing the cap back on, he applied a thin bead of silicone sealant to keep water and moisture out.

  That evening he began hiding the encapsulated, scrolled, two-note short stories. He hid the first one in the tin box (but kept Dave’s original note). The second copy went into a picnic table’s seat pipe in Independence Park. The third, in a wall crevice behind Starbucks on East 7th Street at Pecan Avenue.

  And the strange wandering Asian lady … well, she saw him.

  39. A Trek to Zeke’s Island (March 2015)

  Back in mid-September of 1986, the late, ever-so-great, sprightly Agent 107 (Frank von Peck) and I traversed the 4,800-foot-long, crumbling, stone-and-concrete breakwater from Federal Point (just south of Fort Fisher, NC) to Zeke’s Island, a large estuarine sand shoal near the mouth of the Cape Fear River.

  The other day, lo, hi and behold, I found an old cassette tape (remember those?) in a drawer of an oaken chest that had captured the audio from our twenty-two-minute walk on that five-star day. What follows is a condensed version of the transcript.

  Future Agent 33 (me): “Well, do you think we have everything, Frank?”

  [the sound of a pickup truck door closing]

  Future Agent 107 (Frank): “Man, we’ve got enough food and drink for two days. When does high tide come in?”

  33: “It’s been going out for the last two-and-a-half hours. We’ll be fine. The water level will still be going down, even when we come back.”

  107: “You had better be right. I don’t want to be stranded on that island overnight.”

  33: “Afraid of Blackbeard’s ghost, are we?”

  107: “No, I just have stuff to do.”

  [only the sound of seagull caws and splashing water for several minutes]

  33: “Now, watch your step in this breach. These rocks are slippery, especially the green mossy areas.”

  107: “You just figured that out? Listen, I’ll be fine. We just need to worry about you.”

  33: “Are you feeling anything yet?”

  107: “Just feeling high adventure.”

  33: “Wow! Those clouds down the river … they seem to be wavering ever so slightly, like on that day last year with Slim at Wrightsville Beach.”

  107: “Oh, not already. We’ve just started this rock-hopper.” [sic]

  33: “Rare coinage, dude. That’s definitely what we’re doing.”

  107: “I wonder when this jetty was built.”

  33: “It’s a breakwater, Frank. A jetty just juts and a breakwater breaks … the water.”

  [splash]

  107: “A jetty just juts? You’ve lost another marble, dude. Maybe your last one.”

  33: “I still have three or four left.”

  [both of us are laughing]

  107: “So, what’s the story behind this breakwater?”

  33: “Well, Frank, back in 1873, they wanted to make New Inlet vanish, which they did, to keep a deep Cape Fear River channel for oceangoing ships.”

  107: “Hmmm … 1873. Hey, did you just pluck a year out of the air?”

  33: “I’m not a magician in this kind of weather.”

  107: “How do you know that it was built in 1873?”

  33: “I placed the last stone with my bare hands. I was there with the Corps of Engineers. It was epic, Frank. Make that epik [sic] with a hard Germanic k.” [chuckling]

  107: “Already getting silly, I see. Great. Just frigging [sic] great.”

  33: “Ok, I’ll divulge my source. I saw 1873 mentioned in a pamphlet in the gift shop at the museum.”

  107: “What museum?”

  33: “The one next to the seafood restaurant with the cannon out front.”

  107: “You’ve already lost your mind. That was not a restaurant; that was Fort Fisher, you flipping fool.”

  33: “I was just testing you, Frank. You gobbled up the bait.”

  [more seagull caws and the sound of wind gusts for about ten seconds]

  107: “Test this, dude.”

  [the sound of coughing]

  33: “We’re already to the first bend, Frank. We’re making good time. We should be there by midnight.”

  107: “Fawk [sic] you. I’m not going to be on this sinking pile of rocks after dark.”

  33: “Why not? It would make the high tide more exciting.”

  107: “Forget it. That’s a tragedy in the making if I ever heard one.”

  33: “Ever think that it’s all a tragedy in the making?”

  107: “You’re bringing me down, dude. You need to elevate your thoughts above the waterline.”

  [some more coughing with some wind gusts]

  33: “Do you think that you could swim across this lagoon?”

  107: “Sure, if I had to. But, that’s not a lagoon; it’s an estuary basin. I thought you studied maritime geology in college? Were you sleeping in on that day? Didn’t you study coastal features?”

  33: “Uh, yeah … I guess I did. Hey, let’s swim it!”

  107: “Nah, I’ll pass. But, you can go ahead and drown if you like. I’ll wave to you as you go under for the third time.”

  33: “So much for high aqua-adventure. Hey, you’re right: Sometimes it does appear that this rocky trail is sinking, doesn’t it?”

  107: “You need to get a grip. Don’t wig out until we’re back on land, or dry sand.”

  33: “I’m not wigging out; I’m just having a laugh. Ha-ha. Ah-ha-ha.”

  107: “Do you think we’re over halfway there yet?”

  33: “Over halfway to where?”

  107: “To Zeke’s Island! You know, the intended destination.”

  33: “We’re close. There’s the turn for home. Relax. We’re going to make it. The crowd is cheering.”

  [several minutes of no one talking with just the sounds of splashing water and wind gusts]

  107: “I’ll race you the last hundred feet. I’ll stay in the left lane; you stay in the right.”

  33: “Excuse me, pal o’ mine, but I don’t see any lane markings.”

  107: “Just stay on the right side of this linear rock pile.”

  33: “I’ll forfeit the race for the sake of personal safety. Thus, you win. What do I owe you?”

  107: “You owe me a gold coin.”

  33: “Well, who knows, Frank, there may be some buried gold on Zeke’s Island. Did you pack a spade?”

  107: “No, just a club.”

  33: “Ha-ha. Now that’s genuinely hilarious. Good one, Frank. You clubbed that low-hanging fruit. You punctured that plump piñata. You made that cute girl smile.”

  107: “What cute girl?”

  33: “The one in that cheeseball dance club last night at Carolina Beach.”

  107: “The short brunette?”

  33: “Yes, her. That sexy
rod-popper.”

  107: “Was she looking at me?”

  33: “All the freaking time, man. All the freaking night. You should have made a peck move on her, captain.”

  107: “I don’t know; I think she was with the bartender.”

  [sounds of the wind howling for several minutes]

  33: “Well, we’ve made it to Zeke’s Island. It wasn’t that bad; now, was it, Captain Stacks?”

  107: “No, it really wasn’t. But, at full high tide, it may be a different story.”

  33: “It’s always a different story, Frank … until you find out that you’ve just retraced a deceased person’s pattern.”

  107: “Man, lay off the morbidity. We’re still alive, dude.”

  33: “You think so?”

  107: “Oh, pleeeease. Please do come back to Earth at once, Astronaut Mike.”

  [the sound of a helicopter passing overhead]

  33: “Oh, crap! They’ve found us, Frank. Put your hands up before the snipers take us out.”

  107: “Stop freaking out, man. Put your hands down. You’re going to get them to land over here if you don’t stop. What’s wrong with you?”

  33: “Ah, they’re on a training mission. Probably headed back to Camp Lejeune. They don’t have time for our nonsense.”

  [about two minutes of no one talking]

  107: “Does the other side of this island front the Atlantic Ocean?”

  33: “No, there are a series of tidal creeks and marshy shoals between us and the deep blue sea. If you want to hang out on that deserted beach, you’ll have to get wet.”

  107: “Hey, let’s do it! If the creeks are less than four feet deep, we can keep the dry stuff dry, by holding the knapsacks over our heads.”

  33: “Wait, are you for real?”

  107: “Yes! C’mon, man. Don’t wuss out on me.”

  33: “Ok, sport. Keep heading this way.”

  [several minutes of just walking sounds and the wind howling]

  107: “Well, here’s our first crossing, dude. The middle looks less than three feet deep. We can do this.”

  [no more voices or sounds, just tape hissssssssss]

  40. Vermont Street (April 2015)

  We, Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33), decided to check out San Francisco’s second-most curvy street – the largely unheralded Vermont Street – before the Giants-Padres game on Wednesday, August 24, 2011. I remember thinking at that time: A psecret psociety pshort pstory [sic] could come out of this. And, of course, I had my DAR (Digital Audio Recorder) running on a fresh charge.

  It was a quiet, uneventful, still-foggy, noontime, mid-week N Judah train ride from our two-star Outer Sunset motel to the subterranean Civic Center MUNI station. Once there we exited and walked up to Market Street to the sound of drums and the sight of beaming sunlight. Darn, I preferred the fog and overcast sky.

  At the route 19 bus stop on 8th Street, we saw the source of the percussive reverberations: a bright-red-vested street musician with a dozen miniature drums of various types strapped to his body. What an odd act. Only in San Francisco.

  The 40-something, brown-bearded, portly Caucasian dude billed himself as Beat the Con-Un-Drum. He actually seemed to have some rhythm. I placed several silver coins in his black top hat. Maybe import him to an MLS match in Portland. Pso psinfully psyncopated. [sic]

  Then a mid-to-late-60-ish, white-haired, Caucasian guy of slight build, sporting an SF (Giants) baseball cap, walked up to the bus stop. Monique surveyed him. I spoke first.

  “Going to the game tonight?”

  “Yep, yep, yep. Malloy never misses a home game. Well, not since the big earthquake.” Wow! It’s him. The real Malloy. [The Mr. Malloy character also features in the novella Mysterieau of San Francisco as well as the short story A Search for Sidle on N.]

  “The one in 1906, Mr. Malloy? Hey, I’m just kidding. Just having a laugh. We’ll be there, too. Great to see you again after nineteen years.”

  “Likewise and wise-like,” Malloy said. “So, where are you two wily wascals [sic] going now?”

  “We’re going to check out Vermont Street – the serpentine section,” I said. “Ever been there?”

  “Many times. Many, many times. We used to roll old bowling balls down that street back in ’79. We invented a game. Even had a league. The Potrero Hill Potatoes was our team’s name.” Huh?

  “The Potrero Hill Potatoes?” I asked out of bemusement.

  “Yep, yep, yep. We would call our heavily gouged bowling balls potatoes, as they would wobble like misshapen spuds. Yep, yep, yep.”

  “Ok. So, how did the game work?” I was very curious to know what kind of street game a younger Malloy would partake in.

  “It was uh … well, it was kind of like bowling, but with just one pin at the end of the run. Play would start about a hundred feet south of 20th Street, just before the switchbacking descent. Yep, yep, yep. We would chalk a foul line across the street. The object was to bowl your team’s ball down the street, alternating bowlers, in as few bowls as possible to set up for the first easy shot at the lone pin. Whenever the ball touched – or jumped – the curb, it was out of bounds and a chalk mark was scratched where the ball struck or jumped the curb. The next bowl would then be from that spot, and so on until someone knocked down the pin at the bottom of the zig-zigging slope.” Wow!

  “Sounds pretty cool, Malloy,” I said.

  “As in K-E-W-L? That’s the hepcat way to spell it. I invented that spelling long before the hipsters of today.” I doubt that, but I won’t challenge him on it.

  “Ok, I’ll make a note of that.” I then looked down and saw the green light on the DAR (Digital Audio recorder) inside my shirt pocket. Excellent. It’s on. We got that recorded.

  “Let me tell you something. [I immediately thought of the Durutti Column song when he said that.] Yep, it was one helluva [sic] game. We would hoot and holler. The neighbors despised us at first, but we won most of them over; they became epic all-leaguers.” [sic] What?!

  “How did your team do?” I bet Malloy was on the misfit team.

  “We won a few Saturday night extra-spatials.” [sic] What the hell did he just say?

  “Extra-spatials or extra-specials?” I calmly asked, seeking some clarification.

  “Yep, yep, yep. We lost in the quarter-finals, though. Won a ribbon or something. I think Ed has it now. Late at night was the only safe time to bowl.”

  “I see. Did any bowling balls ever hit any people, cars or houses?”

  “No, not that I am aware of. Bowlers were spaced up and down the hill, wearing thick gloves and steel-toed shoes. However, we did lose a ball one night. I never heard it hit anything. It just quietly disappeared in a hairpin turn.”

  “Did that cost your team a penalty? Did your team have to forfeit the match?”

 

  “Yeah, I think we lost that round. Yep, yep, yep.” He sure still loves to say, ‘yep, yep, yep’. Nothing has changed on that count. It must drive his wife insane. Or, maybe he has no wife now.

  The orange-and-white, freshly washed MUNI bus pulled up to the bus stop. We all got on, but Malloy sat up front and we drifted to the back. Maybe we should have sat behind him and just kept the DAR running. There’s a novel in that guy. Make that three. At least.

  Malloy got off at Mariposa. Monique, who had been mute thus far, then spoke up.

  “I wonder what his life story is, Parkaar.” [my ailing alias]

 

  “Oh, it’s probably an interesting tale, Monique. A most propitious tale, no less.” What?

  “Propitious?”

  “Yeah. You know, he won the state lottery back in ’90 or ’91. That lucky bastard.” I chuckled. “But, he likes to appear near-destitute as he wanders around San Francisco, muttering ‘yep, yep, yep.’ What a life.”

  “Ah, well, there goes the rich man in disguise,” Monique said as she looked back at Malloy one last time as the bus pulled away.
/>   “Yep, yep, yep,” I said as Malloy-esque as I could manage.

  Monique laughed. “You almost sound like him.”

  “Well, maybe in good time.” ‘Good’ time?

  We had a chuckle and then quieted down. It was a splendid day by the bay (even if the sun was very bright now).

  Two minutes later, I pulled down on the stop-request cable. The sign illuminated and the bell dinged.

  “Well, this is our stop, Agent 32.” He obviously has his DAR on. That’s the only time he calls me ‘Agent 32’.

  We got off at 20th Street. We were now on Rhode Island Street. Vermont Street was only two blocks to the west.

  “Well, Monique, it’s just a short walk from here.”

  “Ok, lead the way, Parkaar.”

  “I like how you pronounced the Dutch double-ah, sexy Agent 32.”

  “You always say that, 33.” She’s right. I’ve probably worn that groove out. I’ve worn everything out. My mind is worn out. My time is worn out.

  “Are you sure that your great maternal grandfather wasn’t Dutch, Monique?”

  “Maybe Spanish or Chinese, but probably not Dutch.”

  Soon we were on Vermont Street, looking down at the series of curves through the cypress trees. What an über-super-duper [sic] street.

  “Well, this is it, 32: the other curvy street in San Francisco that some say is more crooked than the famous Lombard Street on Russian Hill. Want to walk down it?”

  “Sure. But, let me take a picture here first.”

  “Yeah, sure, go ahead. It’s some view.”

  Monique then got her cell phone out of her handbag and snapped a few pics at the top of the hill. We walked down the sidewalk to the bottom of the curvaceous section, occasionally stopping to snap some more photos.

  “What is that green space over there, 33?”

  “It’s McKinley Square. Want to check it out?”

  “Sure. Why not? We’ve got time, right?”

  “Yeah, plenty of time before the gates open for the game.”

  We then began walking up a trail that roughly paralleled the sinuous section of Vermont Street. About halfway up, Monique stopped, needing a water break. She gulped down some mineral water from Iceland. (I noticed the text on the bottle’s label.)

  While Monique was drinking the Icelandic glacier water, I looked down at an evergreen shrub. There seemed to be something bulging under its mulch. I bent down and brushed the mulch and thin layer of earth away to reveal a third of an old, black bowling ball. I used a nearby stick to dig around it. Three minutes later I had the ball extricated.

  I held up the old, chipped, black bowling ball like a trophy and made a pronouncement. “Well, Agent 32, I truly believe that this is the one that got away from Malloy’s gang.”

  “Maybe so, 33. Does it have any deep gouges in it?”

  I twirled it around in my hands, and sure enough it had some chasms of missing plastic.

  “It sure does,” I said, noticing a jet flying overhead at a low altitude. Wonder if any of the passengers on that airliner can see me. If so, are any of the window-seat passengers now saying to a middle-seat passenger, ‘There’s some guy holding up a bowling ball down there.’ Oh, why do I think such ridiculous things?

  “Yes, I would bet that that is Malloy’s missing bowling ball,” Monique said. That that.

 

  “Yeah, this has got to be the one that went AWOL [absent without leave] thirty-two years ago.”

  “It really does look about three decades old, Parkaar.”

  “What should I do with it, 32?”

  “I’d just leave it right there, 33.”

  “Oh, I know … I’ll leave it in the playground.”

  “A small child may get hurt by it.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right, 32. Hmmm … I’ll just let it roll down this open area towards US 101.”

  “Are you crazy, Agent 33?! It might hit a hiker or jogger. It could be rolling fast enough to kill someone. Do you want to be charged with murder for some silly stunt and serve ten years in a California prison?”

  “Uh, no, I most certainly don’t, Monique. But, I don’t see anyone – not a soul … anywhere.” And, he’s a safety guy?

  “You’re not really going to do it, are you?” Please don’t.

  “I think it will be ok. There’s no one in harm’s way. And, there’s no chance of it reaching the freeway. It will be fun to video it bouncing down the dusty slope.” Fun? He’s getting loonier by the minute.

  Monique sighed and relented. “Ok, go ahead. But, if it strikes and kills someone …”

  “Yep, yep, yep.”

  We watched – and videoed – the old, deformed bowling ball bounce down the nearly grassless, barren hillside, spinning up a cloud of trailing dust. It then careened off a cedar tree trunk near the bottom of the slope and disappeared into some low brush. Thank God that no one got hit by it. I hope that he’s done with the crazy stunts now.

  “It’s gone now, 33.”

  “Maybe someone will find it in 2043.” Probably way before then, but who knows?

 

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