Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, vol. 1

Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, vol. 1 Page 15

by Mike Bozart

  Part of me absolutely wanted to follow her and continue the conversation. No, not out of primal lust, but out of an extreme curiosity. Who is she? What is her story? Could our stories be interwoven? Would it make for a novel someday? Ah, the endless mysteries of this existence.

  Well, my saner, though much less adventurous self won out (to the detriment of this short story, it would seem; but wait – there’s more). I kept marching down the street, feeling very amused – exceptionally euphoric.

  Then I was at another T-intersection. NW Old Springville Road ended at US 30 Bypass. I remembered – amazingly – that this was the highway that the St. Johns Bridge carried over the Willamette River.

  I crossed the road without getting hit by a car, and began to walk southward on the sidewalk. My shoes felt a bit marshmallowy. [sic]

  In know-time, [sic] I was at the same T-intersection I was at 2:22 ago. Yes, I was back at the bridge’s western approach. Excellent. I didn’t get lost or injured.

  I curved left on the sidewalk, and began to walk across the 1931 masterwork. I looked up at the towers. Good: no eyes!

  An overcast sky punctuated with low-flying clouds had moved in. It looked, indeed, like it would be raining at nightfall. Still have plenty of time. Might as well take my time going back to the motel. There’s no rush. Let’s just peak, and take a peek, at the peak [middle] of this splendid bridge.

  I slow-walked it to the western tower. I touched the green-painted steel portal. It felt like low-voltage electricity was running through the girders. Is there some kind of ground fault? Probably just me: I’m the ground fault.

  When I was at the halfway mark, I spotted that same red tugboat again. The river seemed to be grabbing at it. It was bobbing in the water. I focused in on the vessel. It was actually sinking. Oh, my dearest demigod of on-time delivery! That tugboat is a goner. I hope the crew has already abandoned ship. I think they have. I don’t see anyone.

  I then watched the tugboat sink below the surface over the next nineteen minutes. It was an astonishing sight.

  Later, back at the motel, I would learn via the 5:00 local news that the tugboat had struck some submerged, just-below-the-surface, metal pilings near the eastern tower’s protective barrier wall. That dream really was a harbinger. Should I tell anyone?

  44. Kron by Night (October 2015)

 

  [|] Convention for the thoughts of characters in this short story:

  My [Tryke’s] thoughts look like this. / Burke’s thoughts look like this. / Mary’s thoughts look like this. / Franks’ thoughts look like this.

  In memory of Mr. Frank von Peck

  It was back in mid-June of 1984 when Burke Braun (future Agent 2), his then-fiancée (and now wife) Mary (undisclosed agent no.), Frank von Peck (future Agent 107) and yours sure-really (future Agent 33) decided to head up to Morrow Mountain State Park (near Albemarle, NC) for a mind-expanding camping trip. Burke had just procured some high-grade, water-soluble, psychoactive beads from a fellow employee (now deceased) at Grapevine Records (now defunct) on East Independence Boulevard (now Expressway).

  Mary’s still-reliable, olive green, trunky 1972 Plymouth Valiant 4-door sedan would be the mode of transit for the four of us twenty-something and nearly-twenty Caucasian cosmic cadets on a muggy Saturday mid-morning. After Frank’s courtesy oil dipstick check, we were off.

  It quickly got smoky inside the cab. Mary, a winsome brunette, cracked her window to exhaust the herbal exhalations. This car is a moving smokehouse.

  The ride was largely uneventful, except for the conversation regarding content and dosage.

  “What exactly is it that we are going to take, Burke?” Frank asked from the backseat, next to me.

  “Mark, the guy in the EP (Extended Play) section of the store told me that the active ingredient is a psilocybin spinoff,” Burke replied from the shotgun seat. A psilocybin spinoff? / What in this wacky world? / A toxic spinoff?

  “Is it safe?” I asked. “It’s not some strychnine amalgam, is it?” Gosh, he is already paranoid.

  “Yeah, it’s safe; it’s not rat poison. Several of the Grapevine crew have already done it. All glowing, super-positive reviews.” Nice to hear.

  “What’s the recommended dosage?” Mary asked as she briefly glanced over at Burke, while keeping two hands on the steering wheel. Good question. A very good question.

  Burke turned his brown-haired head to the left. “Mark said that ‘one is fun’; ‘two will do’; ‘three will set you free’; but, ‘four will slam the door’.” What door? / Wow, Mark managed to make a rhyme out of it.

  “In that case, I’ll be taking five,” Frank immediately blurted. Good lord.

  “Are you crazy, Frank?” I asked rhetorically. “You don’t want to flip out and fall off the mountain.”

  “I’ll be fine, dude,” Frank said assuredly. “That old mountain is just a tired, burnt-out, sloughing-away hill.”

  Burke looked back at me. “Let me guess, Tryke, [my nickname, which became my nom de brosse] you’re only going to take half of one.”

  “No, Burke, I was thinking of four and a quarter.” He’s already gone. / Why so precise?

  “Four and a quarter!” Mary exclaimed. “I hope that someone has a razor blade and a magnifying glass.” I don’t.

  “What’s with 4.25, Tryke?” Burke asked.

  “I happened to notice that there were 17 of those orange micro-orbs in the Ziploc bag, Burke,” I replied. “Seventeen divided by four is …” I’m already too high for math.

  “My sweet Mary will be zonked out of her gourd if she takes that many,” Burke said. Probably so.

  “Maybe we should divide them up proportionately by relative body weight,” Mary suggested. Great idea.

  “If Frank wants to take five, he can go for it,” Burke said. “I’ll only be doing four. Four should be more than plenty.”

  “Ok, if Frank is going ultra-cosmonaut and taking five, and Burke is taking four, then I’ll take four, too,” I said. “And, if my math is correct, this leaves four for Mary as well.” Did he add that up right?

  “No way is little old me taking four,” Mary announced. “That would be like you and Burke taking seven.” She’s right.

  “I’ve got it solved,” Frank said, projecting his voice mainly to Mary, who was directly in front of him. “Mary will take three. Burke and Tryke will take four each. And me, your fearless Frank, will take six.” Famous last words. / What an epitaph that would be: ‘He took six’ … a guaranteed graveyard head-turner, for sure.

  “I don’t think I even want to do three,” Mary said.

  “Ok, how about 2.5 for Mary, four for Burke, five for me, and 5.5 for Frank?” I suggested. What’s with Tryke saying point-five instead of half? / He’s stoned out of his mind.

  Burke smelled a rat. “No, you’ll get way to flaky on five, Tryke. I don’t want to have to babysit both you and Frank while I’m off the rails myself, treading water in that green pond. [This green pond is featured in the novella To Morrow Tomorrow.] No way, José.” Wish I had a tape recorder for that one. / Burke is quite baked from my Frankenblend. [weed] / My guy is high.

  As side one of Burke’s custom-edited art-rock cassette tape came to a close with the fade-out of the Genesis Los Endos song, I spied the Albemarle City Limit sign on NC 24/27. Wow, those 45 minutes sure flew by.

  Burke flipped the tape over and the Pink Floyd Summer ’68 song started. How do you feel? How do you feel? Most excellent, thank you very much!

  Then we began to climb the Morrow Mountain entrance road. Soon, we passed the welcome sign. And then, the ‘Alcoholic Beverages Prohibited’ sign appeared. Won’t have to worry about violating that one this time. / No beer in here.

  When we arrived at the triangle intersection, Mary slowed the car to a near-stop. “Which way, guys?” Mary asked.

  “Uh, let’s score a decent campsite before we start roaming around,” Burke answered. Good idea.

  Mary turned
to the left and we made our way down to the campground area. The gray tree boughs and green leaves whizzed by. Wonder where this day goes. / Wonder what adventures lie ahead. / I hope I have enough smoke. Yeah, I am sure I do. / I hope the boys don’t get totally incoherent.

  A couple of minutes later, and we were in the campground area. It was only about 40% full. We claimed a distant site on the loop furthest from the main road. Hope no one sets up shop right next to us.

  We set the tents up, after some proper-assembly confusion, and began to eat lunch on a wooden picnic table. It was a sunny, warm-bordering-on-hot, very high noon.

  I then asked the question that I thought was on everyone’s meandering mind: “When should we eat those little orange orbettes?” [sic]

  “I think now is too soon, Tryke,” Burke said. “I want to be peaking when I see the sunset from the top of the mountain.” Me, too. / That sure would be nice. / I’m ready to drop them down the hatch right now.

  “What’s the duration of the trip?” Mary asked. A most excellent question.

  “Mark said that it lasts about six to seven hours,” Burke said. Good, it’s not 14 hours like A. [A = acid, slang for LSD] / Perfect. / Nice.

  “How about a staggered start?” Frank proposed. “That way we can gauge the potency and not end up in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Interesting idea. / Yeah, that would certainly suck.

  “That’s a great idea, Frank,” Mary said.

  “Sounds smart to me, too, Frank,” I added. “But, did you mean an incremental start? A staggered start would have each of us ingesting those little orange beads at different times, which would be a very interesting way to do them, no less.”

  “Ok, Mister Technical, you got me. I meant an incremental start.” Am I really sounding too technical? Maybe squelch it.

  “But, we may never get the full effect by taking it incrementally,” Burke contested. That could be true, too.

  “Sorry, my love; it’s three votes to one for a test run first,” Mary said as she gave Burke a funny grin.

  “Ok, ok, I’ll do it your way,” Burke relented. “But, I better get some high voltage in my bean, or you’ll be buying the next round of 17.” Burke wants to go over the galactic cliff.

  Frank and I just smiled. Mary playfully stuck her tongue out at Burke. And Burke, well, he seemed suddenly lost in thought as a lone sparrow darted by. Burke’s ozoned [sic] by the weed. / Burke is cooked. / What is my beau thinking of now?

  In surreptitious short order, we each dropped one orange micro-ball into our paper cups of pulpy orange juice. We looked at each other. The moment of truth has arrived.

  Frank broke the anxious silence: “Here’s to an epik [sic] with a hard k voyage.” Epik kaos. [sic]

  We raised our cups and tapped them together. Then we commenced the psychedelic-solution ingestion. With the last gulp, I looked down at my Casio digital wristwatch. It was 12:21 PM. A curiously palindromic start time. I wonder when we leave the launch pad. / Tryke, already watching the clock.

  “Ok, group, where should we go first?” Frank asked.

  “Do we already have to go somewhere?” Mary questioned. Oh man, I don’t want to stay here all day.

  “Hey, if Frank feels the need to move about, why not just let him drive your car, Mary?” Burke suggested.

  “Ok, that’s fine by me,” Mary said. “But, stay in the park, Frank.” Absolutely. / Please stay inbounds, Peck. / Why, certainly. Do they really think I would drive out of here?

  And with that tempered approval, Frank got the car keys from Mary and we re-occupied the venerable Valiant. I grabbed shotgun; Burke and Mary sat in the backseat.

  “Did everyone bring their valuables?” I asked. “No one left anything important in the tents or on the picnic table, did they?”

  “All good back here,” Mary and Burke said in uncanny unison.

  “Got my stuff,” Frank said as he eased the steering-column shifter into D. Gosh, I hope this goes off without a legal hitch.

  Frank slowly drove us out of the campground area, going extra-slow to keep the gravel dust down. A few campers waved to us and we waved back. Maybe they appreciate Frank’s considerate, slow speed. / If they only knew …

  He turned right onto the main asphalt-covered road and we began to descend towards Lake Tillery. We all rolled down our windows. The late spring air was infused with a multitude of fragrances. Am I already having olfactory hallucinations? The scents in the air are divine.

  In no time we were down at the lakefront. Frank parked Mary’s sedan near the unoccupied boat ramp. We walked over to the wooden dock.

  “Well, we’re about fifteen minutes out, group,” I stated. “How are we flinging, I mean feeling?” Group? / Flinging? / Tryke’s already getting goony.

  “I’m flinging just fine,” Mary said. Whoops! Misspoke there.

  “I think I am getting an initial start-up charge,” Frank announced. I’m sure he is. / I hope Frank doesn’t end up in a dangerous place again.

  “Nothing for me, yet,” Burke said. “I hope this isn’t like the last great mushroom excursion. What a fizzle that was. I sure hope these little beads aren’t stale.” Or oxidized?

  I looked down at my watch. “Folks, my mind’s elevation is twelve hundred thirty-seven feet above ennui level.” Ennui level? / Gosh, I hope he doesn’t spout off French words all day. / He’s already wigging.

  Frank quickly picked up on my time-as-mental-elevation game. “Well, in twenty-three minutes, your lofty thoughts are going to crash down eleven hundred sixty feet. That’s one tall, steep-ass cliff, leading to complete despair, my friend. That will probably be all she wrote for you, Tryke.” What a rosy prognosis. / 1260 – 1160 = 100.

  “That good, huh?” I retorted.

  “Let’s not make this a by-the-numbers trip,” Burke said.

  I then took my watch off and put it in my left front pants pocket. Burke’s right. I don’t want that damn watch to meter this trip. Let’s forget about the exact time … for a long time.

  Then we all sat down on the dock and looked at the slightly undulating surface of the lake. We were quiet; the conversation ceased. Getting lost.

  It appeared that the different shades of bluish green on the lake’s surface were being raised to different levels. The effect was like looking at a 3-D image without the glasses. I wonder if anyone else is seeing this. / I wonder if Burke is feeling what I’m feeling. / Woah, I feel it now. Oh, boy. Here we go. / Whose keys are these? Oh yeah, they’re Mary’s. Must not lose them.

  After a speechless twelve minutes, Frank stood up. “Ready to go to the top?” I hope that he can still drive satisfactorily. / Where?

  “Sure!” Burke exclaimed with verve.

  “Think you can still drive ok, Frank?” Mary asked.

  “Better than ever,” Frank said über-confidently. Oh, no.

  We got back in the now-glowing green Valiant. Frank started the car up and began the climb out of the valley without a hint of trouble. He went straight at the triangle intersection and began to ascend Morrow Mountain, an extremely old, rounded, heavily wooded Uwharrie peak.

  Frank’s driving skills were still excellent as he expertly navigated the stone-wall-lined hairpin turn. He had the window down with his left arm on the door. With his dark shades on, he looked like a younger Bryan Ferry. (See the In Your Mind album cover.)

  A minute later, Frank was parking the car near the circle at the top. We all got out and walked over to the overlook.

  “Man, it looks just like a book cover, [This scene is the cover of the To Morrow Tomorrow novella.] a most magical book cover,” Frank said.

  We stopped for a moment to take in the splendid view of the green forest blanket with other well-worn Uwharrie peaks here and there, and Lake Tillery way down below. It was probably in the low 80s (F) now. The sun was bright. White cumulus clouds seemed to be puffing out and expanding every nanosecond. This day sure feels incredibly alive.

  After a five-minut
e group silence, I spoke up. “It sure is something else.” He’s ripped.

  “It certainly is,” Mary added. She’s ripped, too.

  “Unless it’s just something,” Burke contended. Burke’s shredded.

  “Or else,” Frank looped on. Or else, what? / How is that?

  “Are we nowhere or elsewhere?” Mary asked. Knowhere? [sic]

  “Maybe it’s a meaningless distinction,” I said. “You know, the treachery of words and all that jazz.” What did he just say? / Here comes the nonsense. / His cake is baked.

  Frank then began walking on the slate-and-mortar wall. We followed him. He stopped about a hundred feet down (in the main parking lot area) and jumped down on the outside of the three-foot-high stone barrier.

  He seemed to be looking for something for a few seconds. (What he was looking for is mentioned in the To Morrow Tomorrow novella.) Then he shot up on the wall again. Eventually, we all sat down on the masonry wall.

  “Burke, where are those orange dots?” Frank asked. “I think I’m going to go for it and take another four.” Oh, dear. / Four more?! / So, Frank really wants to get some mileage. I’ll match him.

  “They’re right here in my pocket,” Burke said as he looked around to see if the coast was clear for extraction. “Four seems like a man overboard, Frank.” He’ll be overboard alright, after creating a foundering of our ship. / Maybe I can talk him down. / Why does he want to do so much?

  I now felt it was my time to claim a cut. “I guess I could go for just one more. I’m pretty high already. This stuff is clean. Elle Sioux Prima.” El suprema? / I hope that we don’t encounter the park ranger. His mouth will get us all hung.

  “I could maybe do two more,” Burke said. Two more?! What is my fiancé thinking? / Burke and Frank may end up over the dam at this rate.

  Mary then looked at the two psychic daredevils. “Guys, just do another one. I’m already soaring. Just a single one each. Then see where you are an hour from now. Doing two or more seems like an invitation to a grave mishap.” Superb advice. / Yep, she’s right. / Ok, I will go all night, taking one every five hours.

  Burke got the plastic bag out and carefully unziplocked it. He, Frank and I each swallowed one more orange orbette. Buckle up, spaceman. It could get bumpy. / Booster rocket, commence firing. / I’m ready to really zoom. Want to exit the stratosphere. / Hope the boys will be ok.

  “Hey, let’s check out the old picnic shelter up on the knob before we leave,” Frank suggested. Up on the knob?

  I looked up towards the shelter. It looked vacant. “Sure, good idea, Frank. Let’s do it.”

  “Yeah, let’s check it out.” Mary said in continued agreement.

  “Let’s get some drinks out of the car before we go up there,” Burke advised.

  With non-alcoholic drinks in hand, we marched up to the slate-and-mortar shelter. One hundred twenty yards later and we were there. It was still unoccupied. Great. No one is here. / How long before a family of eight invade?

  There were four large picnic tables under the shake roof. Burke and Mary sat on one and I sat on an adjacent one near the shelter’s wide, rear, expansive-view opening.

  Frank hoisted his left leg up on the slate-and-mortar wall. We were all looking out towards Lake Tillery and the other Uwharrie Mountain Range mounds to the northeast, two to five miles away.

  With the shade and the mountaintop breeze from an approaching cold front, the setting was not that uncomfortable. After a few slugs of our drinks, we all grew quiet. What does it mean to have such abstract, seeming inconsequential, random thoughts? And, what does it mean to question them? / Sure is a wonderful day. / Patterns are everywhere, in everything. / Fifteen months ago …

  Frank suddenly blurted out a shocking revelation (to him): “Damn, man, your hair has the weirdest shades of red in it, Tryke. It looks like it’s on fire. I see individual flames.” Well, he sure doesn’t need anymore. / I see it, too. / Glad that I didn’t do another one.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah; I’ve heard that before,” I replied.

  Then, ten or more minutes would often go by without anyone saying anything. Yes, we were mega-mind-zapped. The orange dots were not placebo-ineffectivo. [sic]

  Over the course of the next two-plus hours, someone would say something like ‘Wait, did you say something?’ Then someone would reply, typically several minutes later, with a line like ‘No, I don’t think so.’ And, sure enough, this would be followed after a significant delay with a line like ‘No shortage of thoughts today.’ And, yes, this in turn would be sent onto a Moebius strip with a line very similar to (if not exactly) ‘Wait, what did you say?’ Moreover, our minds were flying way too fast for a real-time oral description.

  There were a few visits from other park guests of various temperaments and ages. But, we just held our tables. (Frank had settled on the other side of my picnic table.) Perhaps we were being picnic shelter hogs, but at the time, we were honestly oblivious to it. We were tactically immobilized.

  Then Mary noticed some large bees that appeared to be hornets buzzing around. We all started to watch them, noticing that they would return to the fireplace and fly up the flue. They left a nice, easy to follow, trail in the air. Man, I’m trailing bigtime. / They must have their nest in this fireplace’s chimney. / I’d hate to get stung by a bee right now. That would truly suck. / Probably time to move elsewhere.

  Mary finally spoke up. “Guys, I think it’s time to leave this place to the bees.”

  “Agreed,” I said.

  Burke and Frank just nodded. They are chasing after their lost marbles, I can tell.

  We slowly walked back to Mary’s car, which was now pulsating. Man, I’m glad that I’m not driving. / Hope she’s ok to drive. / Take it slow, Mary … nice and slow.

  Mary got her keys back from Frank, opened the driver’s door, got in, and acted like she was going to drive off without us. We all had a laugh, though I think we all fell for her joke for a second or two. She then unlocked the other three doors. We all retook our Charlotte-takeoff seat assignments.

  “Are you ok to drive, honey?” Burke asked Mary.

  “Yeah, I feel ok. I’m high, but not nearly as high as you guys. The road still looks like the road.” Whew! It looks like a cooling black lava flow to me. / It has ripples and waves in it.

  “There’s something I must confess,” Burke said. “Frank and I each took another orange orbette.” Tiny orbettes and extra-large orbits. / Not really surprised. / Burke had to confess.

  “When?” Mary asked.

  “In the walk up to the shelter,” Burke said.

  “No wonder you two were essentially speechless back there,” Mary said.

  We all buckled up (somehow still attuned to personal safety). Mary started the car up, cautiously backed up, and then began to slowly descend Morrow Mountain.

  Mary’s driving seemed to be pretty good. She never came close to crossing the center line or touching the right shoulder. Her speed was below the posted limit the whole way down.

  As we cleared the hairpin turn, Burke pressed the cassette back into the tape deck. The song Awaken by Yes began playing. It was a magical descent, like we were in some fantastical movie. The road and trees seemed to be advancing towards the car: an onrush of hyper-pleasant sensory overload.

  We breezed through the triangle intersection. There was a ravine to the right that seemed to be out of a fairy tale. I kept expecting a gnome to appear amongst the sylvan serenity. Such a splendid scene. Such a splendid day.

  I even thought that I could hear the small creek babbling for a moment. However, I then realized that it was just those dissolved dots in my brain. Man, I am cruising at 37,000 feet. A saturated bean seven miles high at 777 MPH.

  Soon, we were pulling back into the campground. I noticed that it had filled up a bit since we had left. When did we leave here? What time is it? Should I look at my watch? [I refrained.] Everything appears to be going quite well. I feel fine, at least physically. Blood circulatio
n to my extremities seems ok.

  We disembarked from the most-valuable-at-the-time Valiant. A family of four with a dog had set up camp just one small spot over from us. It never fails. I knew someone would pop a tent next to us. Why does this happen? Maybe do a study on this someday. / We now have neighbors. Wonderful. Freaking wonderful. / Damn. This could be a major buzzkill. / Hope the boys can keep it reeled in.

  Their tan-and-white dog came over and sniffed us. I petted the collie-mix on the back. He was friendly and just seemed curious. Or, maybe he was looking for an auxiliary food source for the evening. Dogs and humans. Such a strong linkage between the species. Amazing how they can sense intentions, emotions … and thoughts? Does the dog know that we’re not in our usual frame of mind? / Maybe the dog smells the cat on me.

  The dog wandered back to his campsite. The owners apologized for any inconvenience. We just waved and smiled (strangely). Frank said, “No problem.” Well, no problem so far.

  We then all sat down in folding lawn chairs and tried to decide what was next on the neural agenda. Without thinking, I took a peak at my watch. It was 4:17 PM. So, almost four hours since the initial dose. A nice high. Still coherent, I guess. Though, I wouldn’t want to be quizzed.

  Frank gulped down some iced tea. He recapped the bottle and said, “Hey, let’s check out the Kron House.”

  “That could be very interesting,” Mary replied.

  “Yeah, I’m up for that,” Burke said. “I feel like we’re on display here at this campsite.” Totally.

  “I agree,” I said. “This campground setting is inhibiting my whirling and a-twirling buzzeroni.” [sic] A spinning slice of buzzeroni pizza, please. / We better get Tryke out of here before he starts talking to the campers. That would be bad. It wouldn’t end good. / Time to vacate the premises.

  After about seven minutes (my best guess), we got back in the green, sponge-like-textured car with our drinks and some protein bars. Mary navigated the forest-canopy-covered roads perfectly. And in just over five minutes, we were parked far away from the two vehicles in the Kron House parking lot. (The Kron House and environs were also visited and examined in the To Morrow Tomorrow novella.) Wonder how this will go. / What awaits us? / Always a must-stop. / This just might be a whole lot of fun.

  We disembarked and began walking up the timber steps to the restored Kron House, a German doctor’s family house from the 1800s, which sat atop a knoll clearing. A joyful, merrily skipping along, Hispanic family of three passed us without incident. Ok, that accounts for one of the two cars in the parking lot.

  Once at the old house, we walked around it, occasionally peeking through the curtain-less windows. We were lost in our thoughts, everyone imagining living in such a house in the 19th century with no electricity or indoor plumbing. No sensationalized TV News after dinner. Maybe not that bad. / No commercials chopping up the day. / A cold crap in January. / Hot as hell in those upper rooms in the summer.

  I finally spoke up as we made our way over to the doctor’s small office building (also restored). “I wonder what went through their minds on long, hot summer nights.” Or, on long, cold winter nights.

  “Probably not what’s going through your mind,” Frank said. A nice friendly zinger from Peck.

  “They probably weren’t thinking about us being here today,” Mary added. Thinking about them, thinking about us …

  “Certainly not in this state of mind,” Burke concluded.

  “Do you think that the good doctor ever got inebriated on anything?” I asked.

  “I think he was a teetotaler,” Mary said.

  “Not even a Monday morning moss smoker?” I asked, thinking it would elicit some laughter. However, it went over like a lead-cladded zeppelin. Crickets. Moss smoker?

  After peering into the windows of Dr. Kron’s office and patient examination room, Frank had an idea for the next move. “Hey, let’s walk down to the little graveyard.”

  “Sure, why not?” I replied.

  “Yeah, I’m game for that,” Burke said.

  “Ok, lead the way, Frank,” Mary said as she motioned towards the trail.

  It was an easy four-minute stroll through the woods on a footpath to the Kron family gravesite. Once there, we studied the names and the dates on the headstones. 1798 … born just 22 years after the start of this American nation. George Washington was still alive then. / Prussia … that’s not even a country anymore. / Ah, he married a French lady in Paris in 1823, just a couple of years after Napoleon croaked on St. Helena. / Human lives just become names and years on a stone. And, many times not even that.

  Frank rested the palm of his right hand on Dr. Kron’s obelisk. “I can feel the stream of history,” he said.

  “Is it hot or cold?” I asked. No one seemed to find it humorous. Bombed again. Drop attempts at humor.

  “It’s electric, dude,” Frank replied. “Fifty milliamps. I’m feeling the electrons.” He’s astro-crocked. [sic]

  I touched a cracked, white marble headstone. “I wonder what the stone carver’s life was like.” Life or wife? / Did anyone carve his or her headstone? Where was he or she buried? And, what were his/her wildest thoughts? Oh, what does it matter now? Why am I thinking such craziness? Those orange orbettes, of course.

  “It sure puts one’s life in perspective,” Mary said.

  We then all sat down in various spots around the little graveyard and became enveloped (and developed) by our thoughts. No one said anything for at least fifteen minutes, maybe many more. I really have no idea what anyone is thinking, including myself. And, that’s funny just to think. Just these incessant meandering fragments. / I bet it was a hard life out here. No interest in going back in time. / Wow, I just know that we are all thinking the exact same thoughts. / I could live out here in that little house after a few minor additions, like an A/C unit.

  Time had become hard to estimate. Relational temporal measurements seemed uncertain. I then glanced at my wristwatch again. It was now 5:25 PM. Five hours out. Still cruising nicely. No asteroid collisions.

  Finally, Mary recommenced the conversation. “Are you guys ready to go now?” Good call. Enough channeling of the Krons. / Did Mary just ask a question? To whom?

  “Sure, dear,” Burke replied.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I said. “I was getting quite confused by the backwards clocks in that rabbit hole.” What rabbit hole? / Backwards clocks? / Tryke is toast.

  Burke was then staring at the ground. “It really sucks that some worthless vandals have broken these gravestones and left trash here,” he said. It certainly does. / Would love to dump this trash on their living room floor or in their car. So tired of being human sometimes. / Walking trash.

  We all then became painfully aware of the sad condition of the gravesite. We began to pick up the beer cans, soda bottles, plastic wrappers, partially decomposed napkins and paper plates, and place them in a discarded plastic grocery bag. A picnic at this gravesite? Weird focks. [sic] / I bet whoever smashed up these graves is a certified mega-loser. / Pigs that walk on two legs. Wait, that thought is insulting to swine everywhere. Strikethrough. / A world losing respect.

  Frank held the bag open as we quickly filled it. He began looking around for a trashcan.

  “Looks like you got left holding the bag, Frank.” No laughter. Remember, no attempts at humor. Everyone is way too zonked to get any jokes.

  Burke knew what Frank was looking for. “Frank, I remember passing a trashcan at the doctor’s office building.”

  “Ok, I’ll take care of the trash,” Frank said as he began to march back up the trail.

  We followed behind him in silence. I wonder how many people have walked on this little trail. 435,534 unique visits? Why am I thinking such trivial nonsense? Because it’s what I seem to always do.

  Once clear of the last piece of understory, Frank saw the trashcan and promptly deposited the gravesite trash. Score. Two points for the unassisted dunk.

  “You get the good-dee
d-of-the-day gold medal, Frank,” Mary said as we all gathered near the grape arbor.

  The sun was very bright and quite warm. However, a dry line had now passed through and the humidity had dropped under 30%, which made it tolerable in the shade. I would venture to guess that is was 84º F with an 8.4 MPH breeze out of the northwest. Just venturing a guess.

  “Hey, there are a pair of extra-large, army-green, outdoor-type blankets in the car’s trunk, and even some small throw pillows,” Mary said. “How would you guys like to lie down and relax under one of those tall oak trees over there?” Oh, yeah. That’s the ticket. / Perfect. / Just hope that no one bothers us. They seem to be growing more sedentary.

  “Sounds like a grand idea, Mary,” I said, already glancing over and sizing up a nice spot.

  “I will second that,” Burke added.

  “Ok, give me the keys and I’ll run down and get everything,” Frank enthusiastically offered.

  “Sure you don’t need any help?” Burke asked.

  “No, Frank is the man who can get it all.” Ah, he’s cementing his claim on the third person singular.

  Mary gave Frank her car keys and he disappeared down the steps to the parking lot. Hope he doesn’t lock the keys in the trunk. That would suck moose eggs. Mousse eggs? / Hope he does ok down there.

  In just three minutes he was running back up the hill with the blankets and some assorted toss pillows under his arms.

  “How was my time?” Frank asked, almost out of breath.

  “Most peculiar,” Burke said.

  I laughed as I pulled out my watch and spied its face. It read 5:45 PM. Ah, a quarter to six and all is well.

  “Well, how fast was I, Mr. van Tryke, the man with the stopwatch?” Frank implored. Stopwatch?

  “Five forty-five,” I dryly announced. “You’re going to have to work on your trunk-searching strategy and step-scaling technique if you want to make the team this year.” What did Tryke just say? / What team is he talking about? / That time is bullshit!

  “No way!” Frank exclaimed. “I know that I was quicker than five minutes and forty-five seconds.” Oh, I get it: That’s the time of day. / It’s already 5:45? Wow!

  We all had a bit of a guffaw. Five and a half hours out and we were feeling great. I want to do another one. / Glad there are no health issues with anyone. / No bad people or animal interactions so far. / I want to do two more, maybe three. Make this a landmark psychedelic experience.

  We set up the king-size blankets next to each other under a giant, century-old oak tree. It provided total shade. And, the ground wasn’t too hard or damp. We soon found comfortable spots and fell back into our thought parades. This is it – right here. / The boys seem to be doing ok. The colors are amazing. Ultra-iridescent. / A perfect rest stop this certainly is. / This sure beats the campground.

  We were all lying down, heads resting on toss pillows, faces up; all just staring at the boughs, branches, twigs and leaves of the massive old tree, when Frank made his demand for refueling: “Is there any way that I could do two more, Burke? Just two more.”

  Burke extracted the clear plastic bag from his front jeans pocket and counted the remaining orange micro-orbs. “Ok, there are exactly eight left,” he announced. “We can do two each to finish it off.”

  “I’m game,” I said. “Pass the bag.” This will be a nocturnal grand finale. I won’t do anything psychoactive for at least a year after this. Well, maybe a month.

  Burke extracted two of the orange orbettes and threw them down his throat. Then he passed the bag to me, and I promptly did likewise. Frank got the bag next and tilted it, watching the four remaining, not-quite-perfectly-round, cantaloupe-colored orbules [sic] wobble down the seam.

  “Mary, how many do you want to do?” Frank asked.

  “One is plenty for me,” she replied. That crafty fox is going to get to consume a total of six. / Frank sure pulled a smooth one there. / Does that mean that he will do a half-dozen? Wow! I hope he can keep it together.

  And with that, Frank ingested three more apricot orbettes, chasing them down with a couple of slugs of his bottled iced tea. He then handed the Ziploc bag back to me and smiled. We both had similar thoughts. You sly dog. / I bet Tryke knows that I pulled a keen move there.

  Then I handed the plastic bag back to Burke, and he handed it to Mary on the far end. She then extricated the last peach-hued pinhead from the corner of the clear bag and popped it in her mouth. All gone. / All gone. / All gone.

  “All gone,” she then calmly stated. She read my mind. / She read my mind. / She read my mind.

  “Just for reference, what time is it, Tryke?” Frank asked.

  I checked my watch. “It’s 6:06,” I announced.

  “We’ll be flying high to at least midnight,” Burke said. “Maybe touch back down at one or two in the morning.”

  “Is that when you plan on returning to the campsite?” Mary asked.

  “What campsite?” I asked, momentarily forgetting about our tents. Well, he won’t be making any sense tonight. / Has he really forgot about the campground? / Looks to be a long night with/for Tryke.

  “Have you really forgotten about our tents?” Mary asked out of complete disbelief.

  “Oh yeah,” I sputtered out. “I was just testing you guys.” Wonder if they believe me. Probably not. / Whatever, Tryke. / Nice try. / Oh, boy! Tryke is burnt toast.

  The conversation ground to a halt as we began to study the intricacies of the amazing oak tree. It looked like a matrix of mosaic leaf-tiles that tilted ever so when the wind blew. The unearthly textures seemed to permeate the air between my eyes and the upper branches of this most awesome tree.

  After about twenty-five minutes of under-tree silence, I felt the urge to speak up, as cued by the passing of a raven. Poe’s bird ate the manuscript. What a silly thought.

  “You know, this massive oak tree probably existed back when Dr. and Mrs. Kron were still alive. It was most likely just a seedling in 1876 on the nation’s centennial.” He might be correct. / What is he saying now? / That’s just a wild guess. Who knows what the exact age of this tree really is?

  “I sure would like to climb that tree,” Frank disclosed. Oh, no. Did he really say that?

  “Well, don’t attempt it now,” I said.

  “Why not? I feel so spry.” Spry, my ass. / Is he really going to climb it? / Surely, Frank is just kidding.

  Frank then stood up and announced his climbing plan. “See that magnolia tree next to it? I’ll use it to get perched in the oak tree. Magnolia trees are like ladders: They are very easy to climb.” What?! / He’s zapped more than I thought. / I can already see him tumbling out of that tree and breaking a leg. This is where it all goes south.

  “Are you sure, Frank?” Mary asked in a dissuading tone.

  “Medic may not get here for an hour,” I added, backing up Mary. “We’ll have to drive to the park office and explain your accident while tripping our heads off. Or, you could immediately die from the fall and save us the trouble.” Tryke has no faith in my climbing abilities. / Gosh, what a horrible scenario. / Oh, please no. Dear God, no.

  “Very funny, Tryke,” Frank said. “I’ll be just fine. Thank you very much.”

  “Be careful, man,” Burke cautioned. “Check for dead limbs and don’t go up too high.”

  “Oh, I’m already up so very, very high,” Frank replied. Oh, dear. / Just what we all feared. / Lovely.

  We watched Frank dash over to the magnolia tree that was about ten feet from the base of the big oak tree. He very adroitly scaled the magnolia tree to a height of about twenty-five feet. Then he grabbed hold of a crossing ten-inch-diameter bough of the oak tree and climbed up on it like a gymnast. He really does seem pretty deft. / Wow! / I couldn’t imagine doing that right now.

  He then shimmied his way to the limb’s crotch and rested his back against the huge trunk. Once securely ensconced, he smiled down at us, just like the Cheshire cat in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. H
e was in no pain or distress. Well, look at that. He did it. Just hope that he can get back down safely. / He sure accomplished that in short order. / Only Frank, only Frank.

  “How do you feel?” I shouted up to our agile arborealist. [sic]

  “Higher than you,” Frank replied, followed by an owl sound that seemed to warble as it came down to my ears. Was that reverb or preverb? [sic] / I sure hope he doesn’t fall. That would suck unimaginably. / I would freak out if I were sitting up there right now.

  “How’s the view?” Burke asked.

  “Great. Looks like there’s a raccoon in the top of the Kron House chimney.” Can he really see that from there? / Frank’s hallucination station. / He better get down before he leaps for an imaginary nymph.

  “How long do you plan to stay up there?” Mary asked Frank.

  “I’ll be down before it gets dark,” Frank said. “I’ll descend with the setting sun.” That should get a rise out of them. / How poetic. / That long? / That’s nuts.

  “Sunset is probably two hours from now,” Mary yelled. “Is your perch really that comfortable?”

  “It’s an impekkable [sic] with a double-k perch,” Frank replied.

  Suddenly, we heard a vehicle door shut in the parking lot. Damn! I sure hope that’s not the park ranger or a park employee. / Oh, crap! The park ranger is here to bust us. We should have never parked in that lot. / Well, it was all going too good. Reality has now arrived, unannounced and most unwelcome. / Things may get very interesting now. I hope they don’t see me in this tree. Maybe I should tell them not to look up at me.

  We all remained silent. Then, after a hyper-extended minute, we heard an engine start, followed by the sound of wheels backing over the pebbly asphalt. Next, the sound of that vehicle driving away. That must have been the other car that was parked in the lot when we arrived. / That must have been the other car that was parked in the lot when we arrived. / That must have been the other car that was parked in the lot when we arrived. / That must have been the other car that was parked in the lot when we arrived.

  “That must have been the other car that was parked in the lot when we arrived,” Frank said from on high.

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Mary said.

  “Me, too,” Burke said.

  “Me, three – I mean four,” I tacked on.

  Then we all got quiet again and began wondering about the car’s occupant or occupants. But, where did they come from? / Where were they the past two hours? / Was he/she/they at the green pond, flipping their wig all day? / Was some psychopath spying on us?

  Frank still looked very relaxed in the oak tree. As for me, the pillow and blanket felt more than adequate. I was quite comfortable right where we were, and Burke and Mary seemed content, too. Equilibrium re-established. Though, I can’t totally relax until he gets down out of that monstrous tree.

  A tranquil 27 minutes passed with each of us lost in the morass of our deepening thoughts and surreal visions once again. The Kron children probably played right where we are lying, maybe 140 or so years ago. / I hope no one else comes up here. I like having this to ourselves. / I sure hope no bear wanders up here. / The three of them look dead down there.

  At a near-dusky 7:27, (Yes, I checked my watch again, and was once again surprised by the palindromic time.) Frank carefully descended from the oak tree to the magnolia tree to terra firma (solid earth). Thank God he’s safely back on the ground. / Yey, he’s out of that tree. / Glad that he made it down ok. / Why are they so immobilized?

  Frank walked over and sat down on the far end of the blanket that I was lying on. He didn’t seem to be over-exerted by the tree climbing adventure. He actually seemed to be thinking of his next forest foray.

  “How was it up there?” I asked Frank. “Did you feel any vertigo?”

  “Not at all,” he replied. “Usually I am somewhat uneasy with heights. But today, a piece of cake. I felt very fluid in my hand and foot movements and body positioning. It was like I was in some automatic climbing mode.” Automatic climbing mode? / Automatically zapped. / Automatically adept.

  Frank then laid his slender torso down. He stared up at the tree with the rest of us. “That sure is one mighty-ass tree,” he said.

  “It really is,” Mary replied.

  “I’m sure that it has seen a lot of human foolishness over the decades,” I added. And now some more.

  “The tree has seen?” Burke questioned. “And, where exactly would the tree’s eyes be, Tryke?”

  “Everywhere, Burke,” I replied. “On each barkette [sic] on every limb.” Barkette? / What did he just say? / I had to ask.

  A few chuckles then we grew quiet once more. Sunset silently arrived, followed by a glowing gloaming. The first stars appeared. Then a crescent moon came into view. And then a dozen more stars. And then a bright planet Venus. Wow! All of these celestial bodies seem to have stringy linkages with each other. / What a universe it is! / What will this night matter thirty years from now? Will I still even be alive? / Wonder how many times Dr. Kron stared up at the night sky from this knoll? What were his thoughts?

  The psychoactive ingredient from all of the day’s dosings seemed to hit a crescendo as darkness settled to grass level. We were essentially speechless for about two hours. Our thoughts twisted through the trees. What a magical night in North America. Yeah, just somewhere in North America with thoughts ripped asunder. / I wonder who or what is lurking. / I’d like to put this day in a jar for future reference. Maybe write a song based on it. / I wish I had my motorcycle up here. The ride would be freaking awesome.

  Then, at maybe ten o’clock (my best guess; no, I didn’t look at my watch), Frank got up and walked over to the Kron House. He peered in the now-almost-black windows.

  “Hey guys, I think I just saw the ghost of Dr. Kron,” Frank shouted back at the supine three of us.

  “Oh, really,” I said as I rose to my feet, feeling a head rush. “Let me see if I can verify that for you.” Tryke, the apparition verifier? Please. / Too funny.

  Burke and Mary followed suit, and we all walked over to the Kron House and peered in the windows. Not sure what they saw paranormal-wise (if anything), but when I pulled my face back I saw my eerie dark reflection with the electric sky behind my head. Wow! I look like one hopelessly lost soul in the cosmic sea.

  Frank then grabbed the back doorknob and gave it a turn. It was locked. Why does he want to go in there? / No, let’s not go in there. / This is where we get busted.

  “We don’t really want to sleep in there, do we, Frank?” Mary asked. Hell no. / I’ll pass on that. / They really thought that I wanted to sleep in there?

  “Just checking to make sure it’s locked,” Frank said. “Don’t want a black bear to get in there and eat Little Red Riding Hood.” What? / Huh?

  “I think that you’ve got your fairy tales mixed up, Frank,” I said. “It was a big, bad wolf – not a bear.” Please, no bears.

  “Just checking, just checking,” Frank slyly said.

  Suddenly, we heard a very strange sound, just like a baking pin rolling down the hood of a car. What in this increasingly bizarre world was that?! / What a weird sound! That didn’t sound like an acorn. / What an odd noise that was. Almost sounded like my metal flashlight rolling on the roof of Mary’s car. Where is my flashlight? Did I leave it on the Valiant? No, it’s in my backpack. / Was something just on my car’s roof, hood or trunk? Gosh, I hope there is no damage.

  We froze behind the Kron House. We remained silent for ten seconds. Then Burke offered up the $64K question: “What should we do now?” Yes, what?

  “Let’s just stay right here for a few minutes, remaining silent,” Mary said. Sounds good to me.

  “But, if someone is coming up right now, they will see our blankets on the lawn and know we’re nearby,” Frank smartly remarked. “I am going to run over there and gather up everything and put it in the woods, way out of view. I will hide behind the big oak tree until the coast is clear
. I suggest that you guys go hide in the woods. Whoever it is will look back here. Go down the cemetery trail a hundred or so feet and observe the situation through the trees.” That’s actually a better plan. / Seems like the best thing to do, I guess. / His thinking sure is much sharper than mine. / Hope they don’t get lost in the woods.

  Frank then scurried away towards our blanketed encampment as the rest of us made our way to the Kron gravesite footpath. Hope this plan works. / Damn, I hope we don’t get detected. / Must try to stay smart, even though I’m seeing distractions everywhere. / Hope Tryke can stay quiet.

  Frank hid the blankets and drinks in the woods and settled behind the massive trunk of the mighty oak tree, occasionally peeking out at the top of the steps. No one yet. Maybe we get lucky.

  Burke, Mary and I quietly walked down the graveyard path about thirty yards, which was as far as we could go and still have a view of the back of the Kron House. We were silent. It was so quiet outside. So far, so good. / No one yet. / Crossing my mental fingers.

  Then, after maybe three or four minutes, we heard a crackling sound at ground level. To our relief, it was just a marmot wandering about and grousing (it seemed to me). Whew! / Thank God. / What a scare that rodent gave me.

  At the nine-minute mark, I whispered to Burke and Mary: “I think that the coast is now clear. Want to slowly start walking back?”

  “Ok,” Mary said. “But, let’s all be extra-quiet. No heavy feet on the twigs.” Sage advice. / I see twigs everywhere. This will be hard. / I sure hope that they can keep their shoe noise to a minimum.

  Thirteen minutes after the mysterious rolling-object sound, we were all back behind the Kron House. We all felt quite relieved, but were still unsure if we were totally in the clear.

  “Did you see anyone, Frank?” Mary asked.

  “No, no one,” Frank replied. “How about you guys?”

  “Nothing but a crawling critter,” Burke replied. A crawling critter? Or, a carpet crawler?

  “Well, what do you think that we should do now?” I asked.

  “Maybe we should spy the parking lot,” Mary suggested.

  “I will stealthily survey it,” Frank said. “You guys just wait back here. I’ll be back in three minutes, tops.”

  Frank then departed, heading for the steps that lead down to the parking lot. He remained quiet; we never heard his footsteps, or anything.

  He came sprinting back just four minutes later with a big shark grin on his face. He alighted about ten feet from us, huffing and puffing.

  “Dudes, we dodged a big bullet,” he said. “There’s no person, animal, or extraterrestrial alien down there. Your car looks fine, Mary. All of the doors are still shut and locked. And, the parking lot gate is still wide open.” Good, we didn’t get locked in. / Excellent report. / Ah, most-favorable news.

  “What a relief!” I exclaimed.

  “Let’s take that as an omen to leave and return to the campground,” Mary said. Yeah, maybe a harbinger of something untoward in the offing. / Yes, let’s go. That was our important portent. / So, this is it for here. What a night. Goodbye Kron clan.

  “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” Burke said. “I am starting to come down, anyway.”

  “I think that drama brought me down a few astral planes,” I added. Astral planes? / He’s still flying.

  We then got the blankets and drinks from behind the humongous oak tree and headed back for the veritable Valiant. I looked up at the tree for one last time. Another strange tale for the wise old oak tree to reminisce about some evening.

  We reloaded the car. Mary drove us back to the hushed campground without a discernible incident, except for passing an entering car halfway down the Kron House road. If they only knew … / Whew, that was a close call. / Perfect exit timing. / So sad: They’ll never know of our astounding ad hoc adventure.

  I saw a plethora of otherworldly images passing by in the dark woods. However, I just remained silent. I’m sure that the other three were seeing some bizarre things, too.

  When we reached our campsite it was – could you believe? – 11:11. And as soon as we disembarked from the car, a thin, middle-age, white-haired, 50-something, Caucasian man emerged from a pup tent in the campsite right next to ours. Not a nut-job. Not now. / I hope he’s not a psycho. / This guy looks like a wig. / Is this where we end up being a news story?

  He looked excited, and yet a little perturbed. He tilted up his Montréal Expos baseball cap, shined a flashlight on his face, (upward from below his chin) and queried us: “Kron by night?”

  45. Le Noir de Lenoir (October 2015)

  Then, there we (Monique, Kirk and I; Agents 32, 666 and 33, respectively) were, driving around Lenoir (NC) on a splendid Saturday fall afternoon, looking for an Asian grocery store that Monique said that she saw in a Google search. Is there really an Asian grocery store in this little town?

  I turned left onto Morganton Boulevard SW from Harper Avenue NW. I started to scan for the fair value store.

  “Well, guys, what side of the street do you think 2025 is on?” I asked.

  Monique, who was riding shotgun in our gray Kia Rio hatchback, gave me a blank-bot [sic] look.

  Kirk, who was seated behind her, quickly spoke up. “Are we going towards or away from downtown?” he asked.

  “We are headed towards downtown,” I replied.

  “Then 2025 will be on the right,” Kirk confidently announced.

  “How do you know that, Kirk?” Monique asked, somewhat surprised by his assured proclamation.

  “The OR-OR rule,” Kirk proudly stated. “On returning to the center of a town, the odd address numbers will be on the right. Get it? O for On, R for Returning, O for Odd, and R for Right. OR-OR.”

  “Ah, you remembered it, Kirk!” I exclaimed. “The corollary is the OL-OL rule, Agent 32. On Leaving, Odd Left.”

  “You have way too much time on your maps, Agents 33 and 666,” Monique blurted. Way too much time on your maps? That sure was a strange phrase. I’ll make sure that I use that when I write up this day. / I’m sure that he’s already switched that darn digital audio recorder on. I bet he has it hidden in his shirt pocket.

  Kirk soon spotted an odd-numbered address on the right side of the five-lane highway (NC 18 and US 64). “See there, look at that address number!”

  “Ah, I see,” Monique said. “Very smart, Kirk.”

  Soon, we were pulling into the grocery store’s parking lot. Once inside the store, Monique frantically searched for the Asian food section. But, it was to no avail.

  “I don’t see any Asian food aisles, 33.” I’ll call him by his agent number in here. He seems to like that in public places.

  “I don’t, either, 32.” She’s already hip to my recording. / Dad is in psecret psociety mode.

  “But, why did it come up in my Google search results?” Monique asked with a confused look on her face.

  “What keywords did you enter?” I asked as we stopped in the snack aisle.

  “Asian grocery stores Lenoir,” Agent 32 recited.

  “Because there are no Asian grocery stores in Lenoir, it probably just gave Asian a strikethrough and searched for grocery stores in Lenoir,” I theorized.

  She shook her head. Kirk and I gathered some chips.

  At the checkout register, there was a dark-skinned, black-haired, short in stature, middle-age Latino in front of us. He ended up with seven plastic bags full of assorted groceries, including canned goods.

  “Could you double-bag them, please?” he asked the bagger in a Central American accent.

  “Sure,” the blonde-haired, courteous, high-school-age, male worker replied.

  The dark Hispanic man then turned to us and plainly stated: “I have a long walk.” He smiled as he tied several of the bags together. Then he hoisted the chain of plastic bags over his right shoulder and marched out of the store. I wonder how far he has to go with that load. / Should we have offered him a ride? No, it’s too risky in America. This is
not the Philippines anymore. / Poor man. I don’t want to end up like that when I grow up.

  A few minutes later, we were back in our car. As we began to leave the parking lot, we spotted the walking man as he ambled diagonally across Morganton Boulevard SW at Fairview Drive SW. He continued walking through the parking lot of a newer cinema. Then he disappeared into the woods behind the freestanding theater building.

  “There he goes,” Monique said.

  “Yes, there goes Le Noir de Lenoir,” I added. Luh-nwar?

  “What does luh nwar mean, dad?” Kirk asked.

  “It’s French for the dark-skinned man,” I said.

  “A man of swarthy complexion or of dark appearance with bleak prospects,” Monique read from her smartphone. Swarthy? Bleak prospects? I wonder what website that is.

  “Also, it’s spelled just like Lenoir – just split it into two words,” I tacked on. “L-e, pronounced luh, means the in French. N-o-i-r, pronounced nwar, means dark or black.”

  “This town is named for a poor dark-skinned man?” Kirk asked. That seems very odd.

  “No, it’s named in honor of an Anglo Revolutionary War general – William Lenoir,” Monique said, reading from her cell phone. “He was a genuine Whig.” She sure is quick with the Wikipedia today.

  Kirk laughed. “A genuine wig? Now, that’s funny! Wig out!” Where did he learn that term? Probably from me, I guess.

  “W-h-i-g, Kirk – not w-i-g,” Monique stated, still looking down at her compact LG smartphone’s screen. “It was a major political party of those times.” Whigs in wigs.

  When we arrived at the corner of Boundary Street NW and West Avenue NW, I looked over to the right. Coming up to the old Center Theater marquee was no other than the walking man himself, still weighed down by 40 or so pounds of plastic-sacked groceries.

  “Look!” I exclaimed to my wife and son. “There’s our man, and he’s still walking.” Our man? / He’s walking himself right into a psecret psociety pshort pstory [sic] with each step that he takes.

  “Le Noir really is on a long walk,” Kirk said.

  “He certainly is,” Monique added.

  A luridly dressed, quite overweight, African American lady was exiting Piccolo’s Pizza. She momentarily arrested our eyes. She had three boxes of pizza in her hands. Her red scarf sailed behind her in the breeze as she began to walk towards Church Street.

  The traffic light turned green. I started to go straight across West Avenue. When I looked to the right for Le Noir, he was gone! Where in the world did he go? How did he just vanish like that?

  I slowed way down and looked in my rear-view mirror. No one was behind me. I then made a hard right turn onto West Avenue NW, ending up in the far left lane. Now, where did he slip away? / What is dad doing now?

  I slowly passed the World War II era, very dilapidated, boarded-up Center movie theater building. A nook between the Center and the smaller, not as old, stucco-and-brick building caught my eye. Did he disappear through one of those doors? Is he secretly squatting in a room in the Center Theater?

  “What are you looking at, dad?” Kirk asked.

  “Oh, just trying to figure out where that man carrying all those grocery bags disappeared to,” I said.

  “Maybe he went into that building [the adjacent, smaller, newer building] for substance abuse counseling,” Monique suggested as she read the words on the front window.

  “But, Agent 32, the sign on the door says CLOSED, and there are no lights on in there,” I said. “There’s no one in that building right now.” How can he be sure of that?

  “Maybe he has a key to the movie theater,” Kirk suggested.

  “Yeah, maybe so, Kirk,” I said as I noticed a trailing Lenoir police car. “Whoops! Time to move along.”

  I accelerated back up to 20 MPH (from 5). The police cruiser turned in at the Law Enforcement Center. Whew! Thought I had a light out. Thought I had a ticket coming.

  “Well, guys, it seems that Monsieur [Mister in French] Le Noir has given us the slip,” I announced as I turned right onto Willow Street NW.

  “I wonder if he is really living in that old theater,” Kirk said. “That would be a cool place to live.”

  “But, where would you take a shower in there, Kirk?” Monique asked.

  “Maybe he has rigged up something,” Kirk offered.

  “Well, if nothing else, Le Noir has made himself worthy of a short story.” I knew it. / What?

  “But, dad, will he ever know about it? Will he ever find it on the internet? Would he even search for it?”

  “You never know, son. You just never know who will read what, when and where.”

  “Dad, are you really going to make this little episode into another one of your short stories?”

  46. Raleigh by Railway (November 2015)

  Raleigh, the rapidly populating capital of North Carolina, was next on our list. Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33) would elect to go by rail, as the iconic, roughly round, downtown Holiday Inn was only a ten-minute walk from the Raleigh Amtrak station.

  We sat down at the end of a long wooden pew in the old Norfolk Southern freight office, the current Charlotte Amtrak station, about a mile and a half northeast of the center of uptown. Ten minutes later, at 11:30 AM, there was an announcement: “Train 74 to Raleigh has been delayed 74 minutes due to freight traffic and track work. We expect it in here at 1:11.” Seventy-four, seventy-four. Hope the recorder picked that up.

  “What track work?” Monique asked.

  “Oh, they’re in the process of double-tracking the whole stretch between Charlotte and Raleigh, Agent 32.” Agent 32. He’s already switched the recorder on.

  “Oh, I didn’t know it was a shared single track, 33.”

  “Well, most of it is. There are some sidings and existing double-track sections. They’re also eliminating the sharp curves for future high-speed trains.”

  The train finally arrived. We boarded and left Charlotte 80 minutes late at 1:20 PM on a warmer than normal Tuesday November afternoon. Our rail journey to Raleigh was further delayed by a speed reduction after Kannapolis due to a freight train in front of us.

  Once we crossed the Yadkin River and passed under Interstate 85, we were able to overtake the freight train in question at a large rail yard next to a swampy area of High Rock Lake. That must be Mosquitoville in the summer.

  The Triad cities of High Point, Greensboro and Burlington flew by with nary anything of psecret psociety note (though I was in a daze and could have missed something).

  When we stopped in Durham, I saw a Caucasian, 50-something, frail man walking past the bus station. He kind of looked like Mr. Malloy. (Mr. Malloy is a character who features in the novella Mysterieau of San Francisco and in the A Search for Sidle on N and Vermont Street short stories.) However, when the man turned to cross the street, it was apparent that he was someone else. That man probably has no idea who Mr. Malloy is. Nor, that I compared him with such a semi-fictional person.

  In the Triangle city of Cary, a horde of people got off The Piedmont, as this Amtrak route is named.

  “Wow, so many people are getting off here, Parkaar. [my ailing alias] Is Cary bigger than Raleigh?”

  “No, 32, but it is the fastest growing city in North Carolina, I believe. It’s a bedroom community of Raleigh.”

  Soon we were rolling into the Raleigh Amtrak station. I looked at my cell phone when the train came to a grinding halt. It was 4:44 PM. Ninety-three minutes late. Glad we have no appointments today.

  We threw on our backpacks, exited the train, and walked east on West Cabarrus Avenue. After crossing the railroad tracks, we turned left on South Dawson Street. After gallivanting five blocks northward, we were at the landmark Holiday Inn on Hillsborough Street. Wow, I remember seeing this being built as a kid. Must have been ’69, maybe ’70.

  “Well, we’re already here, Monique. That walk wasn’t too bad, was it?”

  “Piece o’ cake, Parkaar.”

  We entere
d the hotel lobby and made our way to the check-in counter. The older African American lady looked up from her computer screen. I gave her my last name and she gave us a room on the 14th floor. She then handed me the card keys. These two look like they are up to something.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “And here’s your parking pass,” she said. “Just keep it on your dashboard.”

  “Oh, we didn’t drive,” I said. “We came by train.”

  “Ah, Raleigh by railway.” By railway? How did she know?

  “By Amtrak 74,” Monique clarified.

  “Well, you two have a nice, carefree, car-free stay.” That was a nice turn of a phrase by her. Hope the recorder got that.

  We thanked her and then entered the central elevator. I suddenly noticed that there was no 13 button.

  “Look, Monique, superstitious architects.”

  “What do you mean, 33?”

  “No thirteenth floor in this hotel.”

  Monique studied the rows of floor buttons. “Oh, yes, I see. Why is that, Parkaar?”

  “Many people consider 13 to be the ultimate bad-luck number in America. Thus, if this hotel had a 13th floor, it would probably be consistently vacant, as many people would not want to stay on such a floor. Most of the rooms would go unbooked. The hotel would not make as much money per square foot.” Per square foot? He must have read something about how hotels work.

  “Unbooked? Not even if offered at a reduced rate?”

  “The hotel probably wants to avoid doing that.”

  “But, the 14th floor then is actually the 13th floor.” Wow, I didn’t think of that. Very perspicacious of her.

  “Great observation, Agent 32. But, I’m not a superstitious type. Well, not until I drop a thin-glassed vase on my shoeless left foot tonight.” Thin-glassed vase? Shoeless left foot? He’s just speaking for the recorder.

  “Or, fall through the window?” Monique added with an ostentatious smirk.

  “I think we covered falls from fatal heights in The Balcony, [a 2014 short story] Agent 32.”

  We both were chuckling as we exited the elevator. We curved to the left. Soon we were entering room 1406.

  We were travel-fatigued. We took a nap on the plush extra-king-size bed. I awoke at 6:26 PM, as announced by the LED alarm clock on the nightstand. Monique’s eyes opened three minutes later.

  “Hungry?” I asked Monique.

  “Famished,” she said while rubbing her brown pinay [a female from the Philippines] eyes.

  “What kind of food were you thinking?”

  “I’m open.”

  “This hotel has a nice restaurant on the top floor. I’m sure the view is superb.”

  “Wow! Yeah, let’s just do that.”

  We freshened up and then exited the room. I walked to the right and Monique followed. I wanted to see if anything unique was on the other arc of the circular corridor.

  I stopped at the stairway door and looked at Monique. “Want to walk up?”

  “How many floors?”

  “The brochure in the room said that the Skye Tower Restaurant was on the 20th floor. So, what is that? Six floors?”

  “Ok, sure. I need the exercise.”

  I opened the stairway door and quickly noticed a chain-link-fence-like partition between the four-foot gap between this door and the next door. There was an air shaft that ran the complete height of the hotel. It was very eerie. And, it was dead quiet. How in the world did this pass NC fire code? Oh, wait, it’s probably grandfathered in. How secure is this fence?

  We walked in and I gave the fence-screen a shake. It was secure. I then studied the shape of the air shaft.

  “This seems like a horrible waste of space, Monique. You could cut in some storage rooms and still have plenty of room for a utility chase. What were the architects thinking?”

  “Maybe there were considerations at the time that only they know about.” Probably so. This weird space is certainly worth mentioning when I write up our Raleigh adventure.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this in all of the fire-rated stairways that I have inspected.”

  “Well, let’s get moving. This place gives me the creeps!”

  “Just a second or seventeen, 32.” Or 17?

  I then removed a blank notecard and pen from my shirt pocket and wrote:

  “A penny for your thoughts.” – Ernie of psecret psociety

  I then pulled a penny out of my right pants pocket and neatly folded the notecard around it. Then I dropped note-wrapped penny through the fence-screen. I never heard it hit anything. Good, no one was down there.

  “Are you crazy?!” Monique cried out.

  “Now, you already know the answer to that question, 32.”

  “That could have hit a worker down there.”

  “Very unlikely. I made sure that the air shaft was free of all humans.”

  “How? You can’t see all the way to the bottom!”

  “But, one can hear all the way to the bottom.” Why did I even ask?

  We then marched up four flights of stairs. This is when Monique felt out-of-breath. We took the elevator up the last two floors.

  When the elevator doors opened, we were at the upscale restaurant. There were five young white dudes lazily watching sports news at the bar. Three older Caucasian diners were eating near the wrap-around window.

  The hostess quickly seated us at a booth with an eastern vista. It was twilight now. I quickly spotted the Capitol and pointed it out to Monique.

  Monique then spied the PNC Building. “What does PNC stand for, 33?”

  “Proper Noun Challenge,” I replied. Yep, he’s still recording.

  “I just had to ask!” she exclaimed.

  We both had a short laugh.

  A few minutes later a mixed-race waitress arrived. “Ready to order something to drink?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Two bottles of Hoppyum IPA. And, I think we already know what we’d like to eat.”

  “Ok, go ahead,” she said as she tried to get her ball-point pen to write.

  “The Asian bowl for the lady and a Margherita flatbreader [sic] for me.” Flatbreader?

  “Ok, got it,” she said. “And, where are you guys from?”

  “Charlotte, but I lived in Raleigh many moons ago,” I said. Many moons ago? He doesn’t look Native American at all.

  “We took the Amtrak up,” Monique added.

  “So, Raleigh by railway.” Wow! How strange. She’s the second person to say that exact phrase today.

  “Yep, I guess so,” I said. He guesses?

  The waitress disappeared. Monique and I just studied the mostly new to me – and certainly to her – Raleigh skyline.

  Two minutes later our India pale ales arrived. We sipped at them as the lights dimmed inside the torus rooftop restaurant. My mind got lost in Monique’s pretty brown eyes for a few moments. It was a sublime setting. What an exquisite scene. Superb.

  “Agent 32, can you believe that two people have said the phrase ‘Raleigh by railway’ in the short time that we’ve been here?” Does he think that I’m going deaf?

  “Maybe you should mention that in your next short story, Agent 33.” I certainly will.

  “Sage idea, 32.”

  “Rubbed or ground, 33? She smiled.

  We both had a chortle. When did we discuss that one?

  Our waitress soon returned with our entrees. My flatbread pizza was Fair Play, South Carolina to Midland, North Carolina. Monique’s Asian bowl was mantle-worthy.

  We ate and drank, paid up, and returned to our room. We tried to watch all of the local WRAL newscast, but only made it to the weather segment. The last words heard: “A low tomorrow morning of 59; high around 70 with a chance of intermittent drizzle.”

  I awoke at 6:38 AM as the city of oaks was overtaken by a battleship-gray dawn. I made some coffee while Monique slept. My mind began to wander as I stared out the window. I wonder how many people have stayed in this room. The exact nu
mber. 13,013? Were any of them early morning wonderers? Did any have bizarre personal stories? Were any fascinated or disturbed by that air shaft? Did any think of life in the 23rd century? Did any pause and think: I hope no freak earthquake occurs right now.

  At 7:17 we were on the sidewalk. As we walked east on Hillsborough Street, the first edifice that we came upon was Cathedral School. It was surrounded by a black wrought iron fence. There was a statue of Mary inset into the side of the stone building that caught Monique’s eye.

  “Take a picture of me here, 33,” she implored.

  “Ok, sure. I think that this is the school that my mom attended.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep, yep, yep.”

  “Ok, just take the pic and stop impersonating Mr. Malloy.”

  I obliged. Then we continued our mild morning walk towards the Capitol.

  After a coffee-with-muffin breakfast at Café Carolina on Fayetteville Street, we headed for the Moore Square Transit Station. There I bought two day passes for a total of $5. What a deal! Unlimited local rides for only $2.50 each. Wish Charlotte would go to this pricing scheme.

  After about five minutes of waiting, we boarded the route 6 bus. We rolled northward out of a downtown Raleigh that was starting another overcast workday.

  We disembarked at Glenwood Avenue and St. Mary’s Street and began walking down Anderson Drive. At Cooleemee Drive, we turned right.

  “How much farther?” Monique asked.

  “We’re almost there,” I assured her. “The next street is Kittrell Drive. Then it’s just two more blocks.”

  We made a left onto Kittrell Drive. I noticed that the old neighborhood had gentrified. Interspersed amongst the original two-bedroom, 900-square-foot houses were 5-bedroom, 3,500-square-foot McMansions. Never would have guessed that this would happen. It was such a sleepy, spartan, lower-to-middle-class neighborhood back then.

  We arrived at 281[ ]. I looked up at the palatial estate. Where once was … is no more.

  Monique looked at me. “Did you live in that house, Parkaar?”

  “No, not that house. But, this is the lot, 32. Our house was much, much smaller. Joe and I slept in the attic. We loved it.”

  I then looked across the street. Monique turned her gaze to the wooded park, too.

  “It looks about the same on this side of the street, Monique. We had some fun times down there. I remember playing on some stone ruins of a small structure. It made for a perfect fort. Even remember sledding down the hill and almost going into the creek that runs the length of this skinny park. Was it the winter of ’68?

  “Fond childhood memories?”

  “Absolutely.”

  We moseyed along and turned left onto Overbrook Drive. Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic School was now on our right.

  “Well, that’s where I attended kindergarten and 1st grade,” I said while pointing at a classroom on the end of the older building.

  “Were you a good student, Parkaar?”

  “Shy. Docile. Didn’t get into too much trouble.”

  We continued walking up to Anderson Drive and snapped some pics in front of the old church building. Then we walked down to the bridge over Crabtree Creek. I stopped on the sidewalk in the middle of the bridge and looked down at the brown, swollen stream.

  “I can remember going for a walk down to this creek with my dad and brother. It looked like it does right now – somewhat higher than normal. We were walking across the creek on a pipe when we saw a cat floating down the river, frantically trying to get out.”

  “Did it get out?”

  “Yeah, I remember seeing the cat clutch a tree branch after going under the pipe. It then cautiously crawled up the limb to the bank. Just one of those images that you don’t forget.” I wonder if he embellished that memory.

  “Perhaps that feline entered Raleigh by waterway.” Monique laughed at her little joke.

  I soon joined her chuckle. Such a long time ago.

  “Good one, 32. That’s a keeper. I’ll use that in the story.” I’m sure he will.

  We then continued our walk to Six Forks Road, where we made a right. At a Shell gas station we stopped in for some coffee. Monique had hit a blood-sugar low. We carbed up and took a ten-minute break.

  Before leaving the store, I asked the cashier if there was a bus stop ahead. He told us that we could catch a bus on Wake Forest Road, which was just a couple of blocks ahead on the other side of Creekside Crossing, a strip-mall shopping center. We followed his directions.

  Once on the downtown-bound route 2 bus, we were engaged in conversation by a gregarious baldheaded man of Mediterranean complexion with a large C-shaped crystal-studded earring on his left ear.

  “Would you guys know where an eye clinic is on this street?” he asked from a side seat at the front of the bus.

  “No, I sure don’t,” I answered from the first forward-facing seat. “I haven’t lived here in eons.”

  “Me, either,” he said. “I left about fifteen years ago, and it all looks so very different. And, my lousy eyesight isn’t helping things. By the way, where did you guys come in from?”

  “Charlotte,” I said. “We took the train.”

  “Ah, fellow Amtrakkers. [sic] I’ve taken that train before.” Good, he didn’t say ‘Raleigh by railway.’ If he would have, I would have thought we were living out a Rod Serling script.

  “So, where are you from?” I asked.

  “Queens, New York. Father was a crazy Italian; mother was a petite, yet quite fiery, Puerto Rican. Go figure how they met. Grew up in the shadow of Shea Stadium. Feel free to insert your best Mets-choke joke.”

  “Hey, they won the NL East for the first time in ages.”

  “That’s what I tell my pessimistic friends in Flushing. Baby steps. Must walk before you can run.”

  “Maybe they will win it next year. The Royals lost last year, you know.”

  “Yes, to my dad’s team: the Giants. He used to go see them play at the Polo Grounds. He hated the Yankees and the Dodgers with venomous passion.”

  “The Giants: That’s our team, too,” Monique chirped.

  “The even years have been good to us as of late,” I added.

  “Yes, they certainly have,” he concurred.

  “There’s an optometrist over there!” Monique blurted.

  The man from Queens looked over at the small, free-standing, off-white building and immediately pulled the stop-request cord. He was elated at what he saw.

  “That’s it! Thanks so much, lovely lady. Hope both of you have a wonderful time in Raleigh. Safe travels. Until next time – even if there isn’t a next time – up, up and away!”

  “Likewise, and take care,” I said as he got up to exit the bus.

  He shook our hands. Then he got his backpack properly positioned. He was really anxious to get new lenses.

  The bus stopped and he thanked the driver as he made his quick exit. We saw him scurry across an asphalt parking lot under a stratonimbus sky as the bus began to pull away. Then he disappeared into the eye doctor’s office. Wonder what becomes of him. I’m sure that he has plenty of stories to tell. Too bad he wasn’t on the bus longer. He’ll most likely never know that he’ll figure into a short story, and kept it going. What a character. Great positive, interesting personality. Might he be a writer himself? Could I be mentioned in his next tale? Ah, this strange life. / I bet he recorded that conversation. I know he did. He seems quite content with how that went down.

  Soon we were back in downtown Raleigh. We got off at a bus stop across from the Capitol on South Salisbury Street and began looking for a place to eat lunch.

  The air was misty and the sky remained overcast as we turned left onto Morgan Street. Two blocks later we were at South Wilmington Street. When I looked down that street, I spotted a Mexican restaurant on the right called Centro. It did the trick.

  Thirty-five minutes later, feeling completely satiated, we reemerged on the sidewalk.

  �
�Want to check out more of downtown before we head back to the hotel, 32?”

  “Sure, why not? It’s not raining.” Though it could start at any moment.

  We walked down South Wilmington Street to Hargett Street. When I looked to the east, I spotted a Union Jack and an England flag flying from the façade of an establishment on the right side of the street. I bet they show soccer/football matches in there. Liverpool has a Europa League game at 1:00. I wonder if they like or hate Liverpool.

  “Monique, want to check out that bar down there? They might show the Liverpool match.”

  “Yes! Absolutely.”

  We walked only about forty feet to arrive at The London Bridge Pub. I pulled the door open and immediately felt at home. There was a framed Gerrard jersey on the wall and a white guy (one of the owners) decked out in a red-and-black Liverpool FC jacket. He welcomed us in and told us that they would indeed be showing the Liverpool – Rubin Kazan match. It was 12:53 PM.

  We took a seat on a cushioned bench with a high backrest. It was comfortable. I ordered two seasonal micro-brews for us.

  Soon the Raleigh Reds – LFC (Liverpool Football Club) fans from Wake County – were filling the English-themed tavern. At 1:00 PM sharp, the Europa League match kicked off.

  Liverpool seemed to get the better of play in the first half. However, the score was nil-nil at the break. In the 52nd minute of the second half, Jordan Ibe put it in the back of the net, giving LFC a 1-0 lead. The bar erupted with cheers and familiar chants. The lead would hold up. We all sang YNWA (You’ll Never Walk Alone) after the referee’s triple-whistle to end the match. Tra-la-la. Wonder how deep the Mersey is at the mouth.

  Then a Raleigh Reds lad in a white LFC away jersey came up to our table and noticed our chair-occupying backpacks.

  “Are you guys on a cross-country journey?” he drolly asked.

  “We’re on a Liverpool bar tour of America,” I replied.

  “Really?” he asked, totally believing my fallacious statement.

  “No, just an intra-state excursion,” I replied.

  “We took the Amtrak from Charlotte,” Monique tacked on.

  “I see. Raleigh by railway.” Well, there’s strike three. We’re out. Time for us to start heading back to CLT. [Charlotte’s three-letter airport code]

  47. December Delirium (December 2015)

  It was a leisurely, albeit quite smoky, teenage drive with future Agent 107 (the late, great Frank N. Peck). We were in his 1975 burnt orange Ford Maverick, driving northwest into Charlotte from Matthews on US 74 in December of 1981. But, as he slowed down for a stoplight, we advanced thirty-four years in 3.4 seconds. Yes, it was suddenly December 2015, and Frank is now just a serene, ashen-faced ghost.

  “That department store was there, Frank. Yes, on that very corner. Buick Drive at Independence Boulevard. Or, was it Electra Lane? Oh well, you know; it’s not important now, I guess.”

  Frank just nodded. Then, the saddest smile took over his ethereal countenance.

  I continued with my east Charlotte geography update and recollections. “Notice the overpass they recently built. Conference Drive. Yeah, the retail outfit over there was called Service Merchandise. Such an odd combination of nouns. Yep, I remember it.”

  “Are you sure?” a holographic Frank asked in a whisper from the driver’s seat, sensing my flickering (and faltering?) memory. His neural circuits are going, but he doesn’t realize it. Not yet.

  “Yeah, yeah; that was where it was. Maybe it closed before you guys got down here in ’79, or shortly thereafter. I remember the LED watches in their one-inch-thick catalog. Remember those store catalogs? They mailed them out to the surrounding neighborhoods.” I chuckled for a second.

  Frank just murmured, “L-E-D.”

  “Yeah, Frank, LED watches were a relatively new thing then. And, they weren’t cheap. Some models were well over $100. One hundred 1981 dollars, that is, Frank. Oh, Pulsar was the daddy brand. We all wanted one. And, get this, all the LED watches were set to 11:49 in the catalog. Don’t ask me why I remembered this.” Were they set to 11:49 in the store, too?

  “AM or PM?” the Frank apparition quickly asked much more clearly. Why did he ask that?

  “Not sure on that, Frank. However, I often wondered if the 11:49 display time was to show off as many LED segments as possible. But, as I thought it out in my mind, that hunch would prove to be wrong, as the numbers 6 and 9 have six segments each. The number 5 has five, and the number 4 has four. I realized this after waking up at 6:54 one Saturday morning in June.” Yeah, I’m sure.

  “So, you think that 6:59 or 9:56 would display the most LED segments, is that right?” Frank asked with a lost-in-thought look.

  “Well, let’s see, Frank. There are seventeen LED segments in 6:59 and 9:56. There are only fourteen in 11:49. Thus, be careful. Your bane isn’t totally braked yet, Frank.” The bane of cold rain.

  “Bane braked? Now, listen to you. You have got to be the word murderer of the century. Pure linguistic poison, you spout. Yeah, my old friend, your brain is just toxic letter-shaped linguine.” Letter-shaped linguine? Where do you buy that pasta?

  “Maybe so, maybe sew. Hey, what about 12:59?”

  “What about it?” the phantom Frank quipped.

  “I count eighteen segments in that time. Looks like I win.”

  “Eighteen segments in that time. Sounds like the title to a novel, Mike van Tryke. [my nickname and later visual art name] Yeah, your addition is correct: Eighteen LED segmentations it is. Perhaps you got me this time.”

  “You can post 12:56 and we’ll call it a draw, Frank.”

  “Will you let me post 12:99 in overtime?”

  “Only if I can post 12:66,” I retorted. Still a draw.

  “Well, if we’re going that far off the conventional clock, I’ll post 99:99. That’s a total of twenty-four segments for that 24-karat gold medal.” Fool’s gold.

  “You haven’t taken the gold medal yet, Frank. 12:99 equates to 1:39.” Huh?

  “Equates to 1:39. What in the world!”

  “Yeah. Sure. 12:00 plus 99 minutes equals 1:39. AM or PM: It’s your choice. Therefore, my eternally stoned comrade, your LED segment total is only thirteen.”

  “Thirteen?”

  “Yep. That’s it. Number 1 has two segments; number 3 has five segments; number 9 has six segments. Two plus five plus six yields thirteen.” Yields?

  “And, what about your time?” My time while still alive?

  “My time of 12:66 equals 1:06. There are fourteen segments in that LED time.” LED, Life Externalizing Diversion.

  Frank was quiet for a few seconds, scratching his dark brown beard with his right hand. He was cranking through possible digits in his head. A THC-fueled numerical analysis was in progress. I wonder what his mind will stumble upon.

  “Ready to throw in the towel and buy me a frozen yoghurt to ameliorate my scorched throat?” I finally asked with glee. Tryke’s got a big surprise coming.

  “12:58,” he suddenly blurted. Damn, that might be the gold-medal winner.

  “Darn, how many segments are in that diode time?” I asked knowing that the answer was probably higher than eighteen.

  “Nineteen. You can’t get any more than that with a legal twelve-hour time. It’s the absolute max. Looks like you’ll be buying again, sport.” Darn, how did I overlook the seven-segment number 8? It’s the equivalent of the letter Q in Scrabble.

  “Maybe we can amend the rules to make it more interesting,” I ruefully suggested.

  “Take your loss gracefully, pal. Don’t dig a deeper grave.”

  “The hours are numbered 1 to 12, Frank, just like the months of the year. So …”

  “So, so, so. No, no, no. However you are trying to extend this match of wits – just forget it.”

  “Don’t you want to hear me out, meta-real one?”

  “The minutes go up to 59, whereas the days in a month only go up to 31 in the longest ones. No correlation. So, I don’t see
how you extend this, Tryke. Accept your certain defeat.”

  I brooded for a few minutes and took another drag on Frank’s chrome peace pipe. The hash was cross-hatching my neurons. I was clawing for a clever thought, and sliding further into insipidity. Finally, I thought about December dates. I realized that today was the 8th. Eureka!

  “That Moody Blues concert was a week ago tonight. So, what is today’s date, Frank?”

  “Uh, let me think … December 8th.”

  “And December 8th is commonly shortened to what series of numbers in America?”

  “12-08,” Frank said in a cautious, measured tone. I can tell that he senses a reversal of fortune. This is going to be sweet. So sweet.

  “At 12:08 PM tomorrow, you can buy me a mushroom and onion pizza at Godfather’s on Albemarle Road.” Damn, 12:08 has twenty freaking segments! Is that the most? Is that the absolute winning LED-segmented time? / I got him good.

  “Hold on,” Frank then muttered. “Let me have a few minutes to run some more numbers.” He’s doomed. He’s wallowing in neural quicksand. I’ll let him flounder in his inevitable loss for a while before declaring outright victory.

  “The clock has started. Start renumerating. [sic] You’ve got two minutes. And not a second more.” He sounds just like a referee.

  Frank was looking down. Then, after twenty-two seconds and one mighty drag on his Winston cigarette followed by a quick pipe inhalation, he looked up at his stereo’s display in the middle of the dashboard and pointed to it. The time was 10:08. Oh, dear. Trouble in red-clay city.

  “You see what time it is, Tryke?” Frank asked as he exhaled a huge plume of grayish smoke with a big championship-winning, ready-for-the-trophy grin on his face. Has he really found a time that tops 12:08? A time with more than twenty LED segments? No way.

  I looked at the time on the stereo’s faceplate. Damn. 10:08. Two plus six plus six plus seven. That’s twenty-one segments. I bet nothing tops that time for number of LED bars. Yep, that fawker [sic] got me!

  Twenty-one little light-emitting diodes, pal. Yes, it’s time for you to buy me twenty-one slices of pepperoni pizza. But, not all at once; I’ll take it on an installment plan. Three weeks of Italian pie courtesy of my friend who finished in second place in a contest of two.” Damn!

  “Very funny, Frank. Very, very funny. Hardy-har-har-har. Hey, it’s not over yet, Frank!”

  “Oh, it’s very much over, Tryke. In fact, we are driving to the pizza parlor right now.” Oh, jeez. How much money do I have on me? Where’s my wallet?!

  I then felt a nudge on my left shoulder.

  “Honey, who are you talking to?”

  Agent 107 circa 2010

  48. Boxing Day (December 2015)

  On an unusually balmy Saturday December 26th afternoon, Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33) took a short bicycle ride to the new QuikTrip convenience store at Central Avenue and North Sharon Amity Road in east Charlotte. We thought we’d just snag some pizza and a flavored iced tea and watch the traffic and count the sirens for a few minutes. Yeah, something like that.

  After crossing the old Eastland Mall entrance, we rode up to the bicycle rack on the left-front of the store and dismounted. There was a thirty-something white guy with short, fading blonde hair standing nearby, intensely smoking a cigarette. He was wearing khakis and a tuck-in work shirt with a sewn-on name above the pocket: Steve.

  As I finished locking up the bikes, Steve suddenly spoke.

  “Can you believe how warm it is for late December?” he asked as if he knew us from childhood. I wonder if he is high.

  “I know, it feels more like early May,” I replied.

  He grinned and took another drag as Monique and I went into the store. Four minutes later, we were headed out the door. As I looked for a table where we could sit down and eat our pizza wedges, I noticed that both were taken. However, Steve was the only one seated at the three-seater table near the bike rack; whereas, the other table was completely occupied.

  “Let’s just sit down next to that guy down there and eat,” I said to Monique as we started to head towards his table.

  “You think it will be ok?” Monique quietly asked.

  “Yeah, he seems like a regular guy.”

  Five seconds later we were at the table.

  “Steve, is it ok if we sit here with you?” I asked.

  “Oh, sure, have a seat. I’m just waiting for someone to pick me up. He should be here in a minute or two.”

  “Thanks,” I replied as I looked at his work shirt again and tried to guess his trade. Is he a plumber? Has he read ‘Water Hammer’? [a previous short story involving pipes and revenge] Maybe an electrician’s assistant?

  “Is the pizza any good?” Steve asked as we began to devour the contents of the triangular boxes.

  “It’s ok,” I said. “Want some?”

  “No, that’s ok. I just ate.”

  “So, what’s your line of work, Steve?” I asked.

  “Truck driver. I used to do long-haul, coast-to-coast runs, but not anymore. I rarely go out more than 150 miles of Charlotte now. Only a night or two a month away from home when I have to go to Tennessee. The wife likes it much better.”

  “Yeah, I bet she does,” Monique added.

  “It’s a shorter truck, too. Driving 53-foot trailers through downtowns is a nightmare.”

  “I’m sure it is,” I concurred. “I couldn’t imagine trying to get a semi into a loading dock in downtown Charlotte.”

  “Let me tell ya; it’s no fun – no fun at all,” Steve said.

  “Any crashes?” Monique asked.

  “Oh, yeah. A very nasty one last year, but not in downtown Charlotte. It was down near Pineville. A guy ran a red light, going at 70 miles per hour. He torpedoed my trailer and took out the rearmost axle. If he didn’t hit my rig, he would have killed a dozen kids on the other side of the road. That was when I decided I was done with big rigs.”

  “Was the guy drunk?” I asked, feeling that alcohol had to be the culprit.

  “No, not even a drop. It was kind of bizarre. The guy got stung by a wasp while working outside and had an allergic reaction. He thought that he could get to the hospital in time on Highway 51. However, he passed out just as he entered the Rea Road intersection. His foot slid down on the gas pedal. He’s still in the hospital and not doing so good.”

  “Oh, man, that’s freakishly horrific,” I exclaimed. “Who do you drive for?”

  “I drive for QCD. Quality Custom Distribution. We deliver Golden State Foods’ products. Ever heard of them?”

  “That rings a bell,” I said. “One second. Ding. McDonald’s, right?”

  “You got it. But, get this, we don’t just deliver to McDonald’s.”

  “What do ya mean?” I asked.

  “Golden State Foods makes the dipping sauces for most of the fast-food joints and casual dining restaurants, like Chipotle. You’ve heard of Chipotle?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve eaten at the one on Kings Drive a few times.”

  “I deliver to that one, too. Well, you’ve seen the news, right?”

  “The food poisoning deal?” I ventured.

  “The bacteria-virus outbreak?” Monique clarified.

  “Yeah, you guys got it. Now, get this: People are falsely claiming to have gotten sick at Chipotle restaurants all over the country, and then having their favorite lawyer file a multi-million-dollar lawsuit. It’s the new way for losers to get rich in America.”

  “I hear ya, man,” I said. “Too lazy to work? Can’t seem to win the lottery or a major scratch-off? Sue a nice, plump, juicy, money-laden corporation. I think it all started a while back with that too-hot-for-my-lap coffee spill in California.”

  “Too hot for my lap.” Steve chuckled. “Now, that’s funny, man. It’s so ridiculous, though, really. Guess who ends up paying for all of this nonsense?”

  “I know: you and me,” Monique quickly answered.

  “You got it. Well, I’m done with my
rant. Thanks for hearing me out, guys.”

  “No, go ahead, Steve,” I said. “Bang on, as they say in the UK on this Boxing Day.”

  “Boxing Day? Oh yes, I saw something about that on the morning news. A day of gift-giving after Christmas in England. And, it has absolutely nothing to do with the sport of boxing, right?”

  “Yep,” I chirped.

  “And, it has nothing to do with the Boxer Rebellion, either,” Monique supplemented. What a quick Wikipedia connection.

  “Boxer Rebellion? You lost me there. I think I was taking a nap during that World History class.”

  “China, 1900, and no gifts,” Monique chimed back in.

  “And no dipping sauces,” Steve added with a chuckle. Dipping sauces?

  I laughed. “That’s some story about how competitors buy dipping sauces from the preeminent McDonald’s supplier, Steve.”

  “Well, it’s just good business. It’s far cheaper for them to buy it from us. That way they don’t have to have a plant and endure all the headaches that go with it. Golden State Foods even has custom chefs that cater to their demands. If they want their sauce a little more tart or sweet, they’ll whip it up for them, and keep it exclusive to them only.”

  “Very interesting,” Monique said. “I bet 99% of the general public have no idea about this.” But, they soon will.

  “Probably so. But, if you dig around on the internet, it’s all there.”

  “Yeah, everything seems to be on the internet,” I tacked on.

  “Too much is on the internet, if you ask me,” Steve added.

  “Did you really kill her, Steve?” Monique sardonically asked. “Hey, I’m just kidding.” She was then engulfed in a chortle.

  He laughed for a few seconds with her. I joined in, too. Then there was a ringing cell phone. It was Steve’s. He had an earpiece on his left ear and flipped down a thin tube-style microphone.

  “Steve, here. Where the hell are you, man?”

  There was a four-second pause while the caller spoke. Monique and I couldn’t hear what the caller was saying to Steve.

  Then Steve clarified his whereabouts. “No, man, I’m at the QuikTrip on Central – not the one on Eastway!”

  Then another pause. Next, Steve flipped the microphone back up away from his face. It snapped into place behind his head.

  Steve then looked at us. “He went to the wrong freaking QuikTrip – the one on Eastway Drive. He should be here in five minutes. That dude is always getting lost.”

  “Ah, we’ve been to that one many times,” Monique said.

  “QuikTrippers, [sic] aye?” Steve asked.

  “Biweekly,” I answered.

  “They have really risen the bar for what a convenience store can be in this town,” Steve said. “They’re almost as good as Wawa in Florida. Now, that outfit is da bomb. People actually do take-out from those convenience stores. The sandwiches are that good.”

  “I hear ya, Steve,” I said. “I have a brother in the Tampa Bay area who has mentioned them to me. As for Charlotte, yeah, I think the other ones are now playing catch-up with their ketchup.” I just knew that he was recording. Well, that line certainly proves it. / Catch-up with their ketchup? What the hell did he just say?

  “Yeah,” Steve said as he cleared his throat. “Notice served to 7-Eleven and Circle K.”

  “Speaking of notice, guess what I noticed the other day while using my socket set to fix the old bike?” I asked, wondering what answer Steve might throw out. No telling with this guy.

  “An eleven millimeter socket will work on a seven sixteenths nut?” Steve offered. Is that true? Must remember to check that out later.

  “No, my bike’s rear axle nuts are size 15,” I stated. “What I realized, Steve, while looking at the SAE sockets, is that 3/8 equals .38 if you do the customary rounding up. I think that’s the only fraction with a single-digit numerator and a single-digit denominator where that occurs.” What did he just say?

  Steve rested his thin beard on his left knuckle and pondered what I had just said. After eleven seconds, he had a possible winning fraction to announce. “Ok, how about 1/6?”

  I looked at him, but before I could speak …

  “Oh, wait, that would round up to .17. Darn.”

  “A good guess, Steve,” I said. “That one is very close. However, I think that 3/8 is the only one that becomes its two-digit decimal equivalent.”

  “Maybe so,” Steve said while running more common fractions through his numerical processor. A ten-second pause. Then he repeated, “Maybe so.” Maybe sew? Probably not.

  Suddenly, we heard two toots from a car horn. Steve turned his head around and spied a maroon-colored vehicle that looked like a tricked-out Monte Carlo.

  “Well, guys, that’s my ride. It’s been nice talking with you two. Have a nice day. Stay safe on those two wheels. And never, never trust a car to stop.”

  “Likewise, Steve, and we will,” Monique replied.

  “Safe travels,” I added.

  Before leaving, Steve took a moment to muse on something. After about six or seven seconds, he unleashed his curious question.

  “Now, what really brought you two bicyclists out to this particular place on Boxing Day? Listen, I know it wasn’t the heat-lamped pizza. Spare me the humoring.”

  “Ah, well, you never know where a tale lies in wait,” I said as I moved my right hand in a writing motion.

  Monique then handed me an imaginary piece of paper to reinforce the mime act.

  Steve then got into the back seat of the sedan. Wonder if he suspects that he’ll be featured in a short story someday. / I wonder if he’ll mention us to his buddies. / These two are whacked.

  “Eight ninths,” Steve suddenly shouted as he shut the door and beamed an ear-to-ear grin. Hmmm … 8/9. How did I overlook that one? That’s .88888888 forever, which is .89 when held to two decimal places. It’s even closer than 3/8 is to its two-place decimal. Jeez, I’m getting old.

  Bonus: Gold, the short story (July 2011)

  > Note: This 3,000-word short story preceded the 80,000-word, erotically charged, suspense-filled, highly deceptive, thought-laden, found-treasure odyssey Gold, a summer story by about two years. Some of the characters, scenes, and plot in this quick-read beach tale were used in the e-novel. While not part of the psecret psociety pshort pstory pseries, [sic] I thought I would append this one to give you a taste of the longer saga.

  It was just another trip to the beach until …

  It all started with a weekend trip to Carolina Beach. Record-breaking heat. A late July weekend. The sun was completely mad in a torrid rage.

  Her soon-to-be-ex-husband, Mark, was, too. He trailed her. Susan never noticed the small sedan he rented. However, she almost lost him around Laurinburg, when she stopped for gas. Well, almost. While standing at the gas pump, he watched her as she wondered: Why did I not fill up the tank in Charlotte?

  Two hours later, and she’s finally there. Carolina Beach. Out of the car. Barefoot. But, the beach sand was oh-so-infernally hot. It almost blistered her soles. This sand is as hot as lava!

  She settles her 30-something, tanned, Native American body on a yellow-and-green beach towel in front of the Marriott. Almost immediately, bugs. An array of flying insects. Mosquitoes. Sand fleas. Horseflies. All biting. Then a gnat alights in her left eye. Totally miserable. Why did I pick such a hot-ass, insect-infested weekend to come down here?

  Susan goes back to her hotel room. Sweaty. She takes a shower. A cold shower. Ah, this feels much better. Screw that nasty beach. Scummer [sic] sucks. Why couldn’t it be October? I wonder where Mark is. Oh, who the hell cares!

  Mark waited under the bed. (He had slyly slipped into her room when the cleaning lady turned her back.)

  After eleven refreshing minutes, Susan exits the shower wrapped in a white bath towel. She sits down on the bed and begins brushing her raven hair. While looking in the mirror above the dresser, she sees Mark’s left shoe sticking out from u
nder the bed and almost screams. (Mark does not know that she has noticed him.)

  She recomposes herself and gets dressed. And then she runs. Outside. And slams the door. How the hell did he get in my room? That tricky bastard! That was way too close!

  She makes it safely to the hotel office and reports the intruder/estranged husband. The desk clerk calls the police. A CBPD (Carolina Beach Police Department) officer arrives three minutes later.

  The CBPD cop searches her room. Twice. However, her newly estranged hubby is nowhere to be found. Where the fuck did Mark go? (He actually jumped off the 3rd-floor balcony onto the sand and quickly hobbled to his car, only suffering a sprained ankle.)

  Mark, the brown-haired, thirty-something, Caucasian ex-husband-to-be, drives to a small motel on Canal Drive. He parks the car around back and checks in. Once situated in the two-star room, he begins to drink liquor. Vodka on the rocks. At seven o’clock, it’s Xanax for dessert. And a half-hour later, he swallows some hydrocodone pills. He starts feeling crazy at eight. Insane thoughts abound in his cranium. I’m going to find out what she’s doing down here, one way or another. Oh, yes; I’m going to win this time, sweetheart. When should I call my lovergirl? Later tonight. Yeah, later tonight.

  The fiery furnace called the sun finally sets. Mark gets in his car and decides that this is the night. Faster and faster. His rage causes him to depress the accelerator pedal to the floorboard.

  Back at the Marriott. “I’m glad that we have some time to be together.” They, an older Asian American couple, were both saying this. Him and her. Alternately. In the hotel room next to Susan’s as the gloaming glommed onto the piney horizon.

  The older Asian American couple, Ben and Bao, heard the afternoon door slam. However, they decided not to get involved, thinking it wasn’t their business.

  After the police cleared her room, Susan finally fell asleep at 7:07 PM. She was frazzled, but even more exhausted. Then a knock on her door at 8:08. She hesitated to get up, but finally did. Who is it now?

  She walked to the door and looked through the peephole. She saw a cheerful older Asian American couple in exotic (to her) garb. She opened the door.

  They said hello to each other. Susan noticed that Bao had a handbag just like hers. That’s mine! How did she get it? What a day!

  “I come to return your handbag, miss,” Bao said. “I saw it sitting in the parking lot.” What?!

  Susan accepted it. “Thank you so much.”

  “Are you alright?” Ben asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine. I just need to rest. It’s been a long day.”

  “Ok, goodnight,” they said in near-unison.

  She closed and double-locked the door. Susan even pushed the recliner against it. She suddenly remembered that it was their 15th anniversary. Please God, don’t let Mark come back here. Police, please find and arrest him.

  She went into the bathroom. She could hear a conversation in the room behind hers via the HVAC ductwork. Susan put her left ear next to the vent. Am I really hearing this?

  “Jesus H. Christ, Jane, I just wanted a quiet, relaxing weekend at the beach. Is that too much to ask at my ripe old age?”

  “You forgot the Viagra, didn’t you? What fun we will have now. Not!” He’d forget his dumb head if not for his neck.

  “I’m sorry. Damn, I hate this memory loss. But, I can’t help it.”

  “Ah, maybe I can get your old pecker hard. C’mon, get over here, big boy.”

 

  “Who are you on that bed?”

  [some female laughter]

  “It’s me, Charlie – your goddam wife for the last 48 years! Now, get over here and fuck me like a man.”

 

  “You won’t let go of that pouting mood just yet; now will you, Jane?”

  As entertaining as their conversation was, Susan decided to stop eavesdropping. She lay back down on the bed, listening to some Fleetwood Mac on the nightstand radio. She drifted into a twilight sleep and began hearing little audio tidbits in her quasi-dream.

  They are uneasy. | Like that lady next door. | What kind of mischief is she involved in? | He tells her not to worry about it. | Ah, the police will sort it out. | They always do. | Let’s enjoy us! | The need was great. | It had been a stressful three years. | The foreclosure. | The bankruptcy. | The lawyers. | The creeps. | That evil moon. | That eternally restless sea. | Madness nonstop. | An easy life is now gone.

  Then a knock on her door again. She looked at the LED alarm clock on the nightstand. It was 10:09 PM.

  Susan struggled to get out of bed. She slowly moseyed over to the door. But, before she could look through the peephole, she heard a deep male voice: “Carolina Beach Police. Anyone in there?”

  “Yes, one second, officer.”

  She unlocked and opened the door. “What is it officer? Did you catch him?”

  “We need to have a word with you, if you don’t mind, ma’am,” the burly, middle-age, white cop said. “Just a few questions down at the station.” Oh, my God! Why?

  “Oh my, what was happened, officer?”

  “We’ll discuss it at the station, ma’am.” Huh?

  She followed the officer to the CBPD station, just five minutes away. Once there, she took a seat in the tiny interrogation room.

  “What is this about?” Susan asked. “How long will I have to be here?” What a totally screwed-up vacation this has been. All thanks to my adorable a-hole husband.

  “We’ll start in just a moment, miss,” the rookie white officer said as he chomped down on a caramel. “It should only take ten minutes, tops.”

  Susan spied what he was eating. “Ah, caramels. C’mon, pass that bag over here, officer. Make this a little more bearable for me.”

  A shift of scene. The Carolina Beach McDonald’s the next morning. Tourists had already saturated the place by 8:30.

  Down from Michigan, four Caucasian college lads tried to undo their hangovers with strong coffee.

  “There are too many loud kids in here,” one of them (Rick) declared.

  The screams of finally-at-the-beach kids and cash register tills slamming shut cacophonically [sic] intermingled.

  “I agree, Rick. Too much noise and commotion. Guys, let’s get out of here. It’s making my hangover much worse.”

  One of the hungover foursome picks up a local newspaper and reads the headline to the other three: “Man drowns after car goes off bridge.”

  “That’s why the right lane was closed, man!”

  “I wonder what led up to that, Ed.”

  “Who knows?”

  The gang of four departs. Soon they are at the Marriott. They check in. In short order they are poolside. One of them sees a note in the sand and retrieves it.

  “What is it, Rick?”

  “It’s just a fortune from a cookie, Ed.” A fortune from a cookie?

  “Well, what does it say, dude?”

  “It says, ‘Summer lust is a bust’ … he-he … Can you believe that?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Well, want to throw some football on the beach?”

  “Dude, the beach is way too crowded now.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.”

  It is now mid-day by the outdoor hotel pool. The most studious Michigander continued to read the newspaper article. He wondered: Why did he jump off the bridge? No, he didn’t jump; he was in his car. Oh, it was a vehicle accident. He went off the bridge in his car. But, how? Why? There were no vehicles on the bridge at that time, it says.

  Then all four semi-discuss it, while checking out the bikini-clad girls by the surf.

  “Which ones do you think are single?”

  “Cool off, Rick.”

  “Do you think she is, Matt?”

  A 20-something Asian lady walks past the four with a parasol.

  “That girl … you think she’s Vietnamese?”

  “No, I think she’s Korean.”

  A 7th wave washes over a six-
year-old’s sand castle. He begins to cry. His mom consoles him.

  “Looks like there … is becoming here,” Ed announces.

  The 20-something Asian lady, Saatchi, turns around and walks up to them. She calmly asks, “Did any of you know him?”

  “Know whom?” Rick asks.

  “Ok, have a nice day, guys,” Saatchi says and walks away.

  The four lads were completely dumbfounded.

  “Do you know her, Rick?” Ed asked.

  “No, not yet.” He chuckles to himself.

  “You aint hitting that, dude. Only in your dreams.”

  “Did you ever see her before, Ed?”

  “No. Never.”

  “That strange music. Where is it coming from?”

  The four dudes look around, not sure of the sound source.

  Backtracking the story again. Saatchi was at that McDonalds’s, too, earlier in the morning. In fact, unobserved, right behind the four college lads. She overheard them talking about her new boyfriend. How could he do it? I bet he was trying to get with Susan, yet again? That weasel dick!

  Saatchi’s mind was a million missiles a minute. And they were all making contact. Striking. Exploding. A neural battlefield. What in the hell happened? My idiot loverboy is now dead. He went off the Snow’s Cut Bridge. But, why?! He never even called me.

  Saatchi took a deep breath as she started to walk back to her car. She was going to the police. She couldn’t suppress the urge to know more. Was he still screwing her?

  Saatchi’s mind got caught in a vicious loop. And then in leaning columns. Nothing was stacking satisfactorily. She could see his eyes. How many times did he lie? What was his facial expression when he was fucking her? Well, he’s dead now. I should just let it go. I was always going to be the hidden, tucked-away, secret mistress anyway. He was never going to divorce Susan. I know it.

  Suddenly, a tap on her shoulder just before she reached her car. She turned around. It was one of the four collegiate crew: a shirtless Rick.

  “Miss, I think you dropped this,” Rick said as he handed her his ‘business’ card.

  “Well, that’s some technique, young man.”

  “My first attempt. Well, what do you think, ma’am?”

  “Maybe if the times were different, Rick.” What?

  “Every day is different.”

  “Is that what they are saying these days on campus?”

  “No, just me.”

  “Listen, you seem like a sweet guy. Maybe I’ll give you a ring when my life settles down.”

  “Ok, but what’s your name?”

  “Saatchi.”

  Rick watched her get in a red Porsche and drive away. Man, I’d love to have some Cialis-enhanced sex with her.

  Back to the CBPD interrogation room. Four routine questions. Susan answered truthfully.

  “Did you see Mark after he broke into your hotel room?”

  “No, I never saw any part of his body after seeing his shoe protruding from under my hotel bed.”

  “Were you two still together?”

  “Yes, we still lived in the same house in Charlotte.”

  “Was Mark addicted to drugs or alcohol?”

  “No, not to my knowledge. He did smoke a little weed, though.”

 

  “Was anyone out to get him for any reason?”

  “No, not that I was aware of.”

 

  Then the shocker: “Did you know that your husband died in a car accident tonight?”

  “No way! Oh, no!” Holy cow! How? What a cursed vacation.

  The grim reality set in as Susan drove off the CBPD lot. Where should I go now? Mark is dead. He is really dead. Well, I won’t see him under my bed again. I grew to hate him, but I didn’t want him to die. Why did he drive off that bridge? None of his tires were blown out. The steering linkages were fine. So strange. And just like Mark.

  And everything kept moving along. A long, gritty, sea-salter [sic] of a day followed. Susan felt the grime on her neck as she walked along the beach beneath an indifferent rising sun. It had been a night of broken, torturous sleep.

  Susan then headed back to the hotel and ate a light continental breakfast. She was ready to head back to Charlotte, get Mark buried, and start over.

  When Mark’s car crashed and flew off the Snow’s Cut Bridge, it nearly hit Ned’s fishing boat, 55 feet below, just missing it by 20 feet to the aft. A thunderous splash was followed by a five-foot-high wake. It nearly capsized his skiff.

  The car windows were down. The Honda sank before anyone could get near it. The driver (Mark) was unconscious. Ned saw his lifeless face go underwater. He made the 911 call.

 

  A pair of emergency-rescue divers extricated Mark’s body from the sunken car. Then they placed a buoy where the car sank. It was now too dark to continue operations.

  The next day Mark’s car was floated to the surface and placed on a barge. Two weeks later it was in a junkyard off US 421. It sat there, untouched, for a month.

  Then one late August day, a guy named David, who needed a 2009 Honda Accord trunk walked in. He popped the trunk open to be greeted by 24 gold bars scattered about the interior. He looked around. Am I on camera?

  David stared at the golden fortune and wondered: How can I get this gold out of here without being detected? Obviously, no one knows what is in this trunk. Must act fast. Must be smart. He quietly shut the trunk.

  At the junkyard shack-office, he told the older man, Sam, that he would like to buy the totaled Honda for $5,000. He hoped that Sam would agree to his price, but was ready to go higher.

  Sam, a white-haired, Caucasian, 60-ish, one ear-missing junkyard owner, looked at him for a few seconds. He maintained his nonchalant expression as he studied David, a 28-year-old Amerasian techie from the Triangle area.

  “You need the whole car, mate?” Sam asked.

  “Yeah, it will be worth it to me for the parts over the next 10 years,” David said with minimal enthusiasm. “I drive these Hondas until they die.” Hope that sounded convincing.

  “Ok, deal,” the oblivious owner replied.

  David paid with a credit card for it to be brought to his home, 135 miles away. Sam then had his lone employee, Jed, put it on a flatbed-style wrecker. None of the junkyarders [sic] knew what was in the trunk, not even the guard dog.

  Over the next few weeks, David melted the gold down and had it recast into little ingots. No control numbers were on it now. He could slowly start to sell it, which he did.

  David found a jeweler in Wilmington that didn’t ask too many questions, and gave him $1,000/ounce. He sold this jeweler one five-pound bar every Monday morning. And like clockwork, he left each Monday at 9:30 AM with a check for $80,000.

  This lucrative routine went on for months. Then one Monday morning in late November, David noticed police cars parked in front of the jewelry store. Oh, crap!

  He never went back. He couldn’t risk it. And, the jeweler never called him.

  Three Mondays later on a gray mid-December afternoon, curiosity got the best of him. He called the jewelry store at 3:33 PM. No answer. All he got was a generic outgoing message. Is he in jail?

  He hung up the phone. Fearing that the police now had his cell phone number, David packed up the remaining gold bars and headed for Fort Fisher. His mind was loud. I’ll bury the gold just before sunrise. If the heat comes down on me, I won’t have any gold in my possession or on the premises. Whatever you do, David, don’t fuck up this once-in-a-lifetime fortune!

  At 4:44 AM, he threw the last shovel load of sand over his golden stash. He even transplanted some sea oats over the burial spot. Ah, perfecto! No one will ever find it. It looks untouched, and the gold bars are too deep for any metal detector to locate.

  David drove off on the high-tide-softening sand. He would just lie low for a while. He had plenty of loot on hand.

  Ah, but he never saw Saatchi smiling behind that tall sand dune.
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  About the Author

  Mike Bozart was born in the tidewater area of Virginia (USA) on a hot, hazy, humid afternoon in July of 1964. He attended a mix of public and Catholic grade schools. After graduating with an Earth Science degree from UNC-Charlotte in 1986, he started doing safety technical writing.

  Former residences in North Carolina include Raleigh, Greensboro, Wilmington, Carolina Beach, High Peak (Etowah) and Asheville. Charlotte is his current residence. He has also lived in downtown San Francisco (early ‘90s).

  Mike has now written over fifty quasi-real short stories under the psecret psociety heading. Gold, a summer story, his first novel – an erotic, suspenseful, noir odyssey – was e-published in 2013. Two novellas followed: To Morrow Tomorrow (2014) and Mysterieau of San Francisco (2015).

  The author is happily remarried with a son.

 

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