

Strange Awakening

## Edward Drobinski

Copyright © 2011 by Edward M. Drobinski

All rights reserved

### Chapter 1

"Damn. I've got to get blinds for that fucking window," I thought as the garish brilliance of the morning sun streamed bullets of punishment into my soft and tender brain. Without utilizing my free will I was now presumably awake and did not remember my identity or where I was and thanks to the impertinent fireball, was also in some degree of physical discomfort. It wasn't mentally disturbing as it appeared that I was in a safe place and I guessed that, most likely, I was probably past the point of no return drunk the previous evening. I guess I'm an optimist. So, I took the scientific approach and decided to get up and hunt for evidence of last night's possible revelry. I was under one thin, blue and white cloth cover, had a pillow and was on a yellow Chinese Chippendale couch. The white embroidered figures sewn into it were frayed and stood up like the first sparse blades of grass in spring, showing intense usage. Right in front of me sat a turned-on television, if that's not a cognitive oxymoron, which sat on some kind of early American table. It was tuned to an early morning quasi news/talk show, the "entertaining" type which blurs or chooses not to recognize the possible differences in the terms. The smiling, cheerful hostess informed me that it was July 12, 1990 and that the banking crisis was deepening. I was unaware of any personal reason for worry and managed to retain my upbeat outlook. The hostess and two men were discussing this, each with wrinkled brow and seemingly great concern. I could see that neither of the men had a convincing argument for their stated positions and though they used radically diverging rhetoric, each started out their new spiel by saying that they agreed with everything their esteemed colleague had just said. The hostess didn't choose to intervene in any way, contented herself to smile effacingly and at lulls ask pre-printed questions, which didn't bear any relationship to what was previously spoken, from the cards she openly held in her hands. So, I figured I'd do something of more significance; get my old ass moving and go looking for bottles.

Exiting that room, I passed by a few more pieces of early American styled furniture. I'll probably find more reason to investigate them later, but right now my curiosity led elsewhere. I didn't see any bottles on the floor, so I kept moving. I walked directly into another room which was tightly packed with more pre-1830 styled early American furniture with some classic paintings on the wall, kind of a living room I suspected, the conclusion drawn due to the lack of a TV. There were no bottles or glasses strewn about. I went through another door to a large kitchen, with the usual accoutrements and an attractive floor to ceiling cooking fireplace with a metal spit. There was still no sign of anything.

I bravely took a good look out one of the west-facing windows, hoping nothing belligerent and bright was waiting. I could see a 100 foot grassy area right in front of me and heavy woods beyond that. Looking a bit to the left, there was a mailbox painted dull green with a newspaper next to it. I checked my pocket for keys and found one that worked in the kitchen door and went out for the paper.

I walked down a small gravel path to the mailbox and when I picked up the paper I saw it was called the " _Hunterdon County Democrat"_ and that it was addressed to Edward and Diane Jensen. So, I impetuously concluded that I'm probably married and live in a very rural area, at the same time realizing that I could be Diane's lover or son. Guest was another possibility. Intruder. Burglar. Pitied bum. Or, maybe Ed and Diane's daughter. I put my hand in the appropriate area. Boy. For the sake of unscientific efficiency I decided to stick with my first rashly drawn conclusion. I will believe that I am Edward Jensen, until corrected. I looked down the road and saw no people, no cars, no nothing, just trees, trees, trees and trees. They were mostly willows and displayed their full green summer foliage, so I concluded that the TV lady, if not correct, was at least reasonably close on her estimation of the date. On second thought that depends on where I am. Never mind. This uncertainty is getting to be a huge pain in the ass. I'll stick with her date. I walked back to the front door slowly while gazing at what I might live in. I saw a simple country farmhouse covered in white clapboard with green shutters on the windows. The second floor was topped with a pitched black slate roof, through which three chimneys protruded. An irregular stone basement extended two feet out of the ground. I thought that I might be right where I belonged, as it suited my taste.

I put the paper down on the kitchen table and further noted that the mailing address was 818 Baptist Church Road, Clinton, NJ. Mercifully, the paper didn't talk about the serious banking crisis, which I unwittingly stepped into, but rather carried items of local farm interest and a retrospective page of news printed in the " _Hunterdon Democrat"_ 100 years ago and 200 years ago. There was a sheet of paper from a small notebook on the kitchen counter in front of a clock saying 10:00, presumably AM. It said Diane 206/570-6247.

I was beginning to think that I probably should be somewhere doing something, like a job. I considered it a possible jumpstart to my quest, so I called the number.

"Good morning, Diane Jensen speaking."

"Good morning Diane, it's me."

"I hope this is an emergency. I've got three other things to do right now."

Great, she recognized my voice. I said; "No emergency."

"Then call me Saturday." She hung up.

Damn, I hope this one is my sister, but I think not. The best thing I could infer was that she didn't live in this house with me, at least not now. On the other hand I liked the directness of her conversation and considered that this was a voice I could trust, in finding out things like; what am I supposed to be doing and do I have that severe a drinking problem?

It was past time to have breakfast, but I wanted something immediately, so I opened the refrigerator to disappointment. Whoever lives in this farmhouse must not eat breakfast. There was plenty of food available, but none of it looked particularly appetizing in that clear morning light. So, I settled for some coffee with a beer chaser. By the middle of the beer I decided I didn't want to wait until Saturday to call Diane, especially because I didn't know what day of the week it was anyway. So, how could I figure out when Saturday came? I called again.

"Good morning, Diane Jensen speaking."

"Hi, it's me again. I've got to have two minutes of your time right now." When she didn't object I continued; "I'm not lying about this. When I woke up this morning I didn't know who I was or where I am and I'd like to find out right now."

"You're making this up."

"No, I'm not lying. Maybe I'll snap out of it, but in the meantime I'd like some clues."

"Okay, I'll believe you, only because that's too stupid a story for anyone to have made up."

"I don't know what anybody has made up, but I'll bet there's even worse. It's easy, Diane, tell me something I don't know. I don't know anything."

She laughed, "All right, all right. But, I really can't now. You'll be all right. Don't go too far from the house until I talk to you Saturday. You have to take some medications daily. Go find them and make sure you take them every day. Call me again on Saturday."

I quickly inserted, "What day is today?"

"Friday," and she hung up.

I figured that was pretty good. I knew I was basically okay and that if I didn't snap out of it myself I had an information source. I finished the beer and decided to go for a walk, of course, not too far from the house.

I exited the front door, walked down the mailbox path and hit the street. Thousands of trees were all I could see, sitting there in perfect windless silence. I turned right and walked at a medium pace, looking around. Trees again dominated the view, making me think it was a nice place to live. I love trees. After walking about 1000 feet, I came to a clearing on my right, on which another old farmhouse was perched. I stopped to look at it, also hoping someone would just happen to come out. I was trying to compare it to mine, which was difficult because I didn't fully remember what mine looked like. This one, no doubt, had similarities, as it was a two story structure with a clapboard exterior painted a sickly peeling yellow. Shutters on each visible window were painted a deep green and also were in the process of shedding their unwanted covering. The roof was black slate and all the shades were drawn. Who are they trying to hide from? There's nothing here but trees and me. Oh and that intrusive, intense, headache producing orb. But the shades are also drawn on the west side. Planning ahead? I'd have to find that one out on another day, as after dawdling by the house for a minute or two, there was no sign of activity. There were two cars parked on the gravel driveway and I didn't want to linger, as I didn't want to risk being considered a nuisance. Perhaps we didn't even get along with each other very well.

I continued down the road, still not seeing much of anything except the willows. I suddenly became intensely aware of the dead silence. I expected to and considered it a reasonable expectation to hear a bird or two singing, but the total absence of any sign of life made me wonder what might possibly be around, scaring the birds away and worse, perhaps watching me.

It wasn't a terribly scary thought, though I'd have to admit a vague eerie feeling. I recalled Diane's warning about not going too far from the house and wondered what "too far" meant. People should be precise when giving instructions. I guess the instructed also has a responsibility to seek clarification. Anyway, I certainly didn't think that I was anywhere near any reasonable concept of "too far." So, I walked further and saw some driveways where no house was visible from the road, heard a few birds and forgot the whole thing. I probably walked a total of two miles to an intersection, still seeing no cars or people. On the corner was an old stone house I wouldn't have minded living in and catty corner from it was a 4000 sq. ft. red barn. Three horses came over to the wooden post and rail fence to see what all the commotion was about. I waited for them to get near me. I said; "Good morning, fellas," and, having made another presumption, I immediately looked in the proper area to see if they were indeed "fellas." They probably weren't, but I decided to call them fellas or guys, anyway. I said; "I've got some important questions to ask you this morning." Two of the horses put their heads over the fence and inspected my upper torso and hands, no doubt trying to find what I brought them to eat. They snorted at me indicating their level of interest in me sans food and turned away. I called out; "Hey, do any of you know me?" The answer was probably "Yes", as they continued on their path, without breaking stride and walked away. I decided I'd show them the identical level of interest and I too, turned around and headed back toward home on the other side of the road. The trip was a very pleasant, relaxing one, until I again got to the shuttered yellow farmhouse closest to mine, where that deadly silence again set in. It didn't bother me much this time, as I concluded that if it didn't kill me the first time through, it probably wouldn't the second either. I was building up a pretty good appetite by now and since it didn't look like the immediate outdoors was going to be a great source of information, I decided to look around the house and make a huge lunch. The only thing I learned was that whoever lives here, probably rather than possibly me, values their privacy highly and seems to disdain anything modern, as everything there, excepting the microwave, was a copy of something made in another era. I wondered how I knew this. My memory seemed to be selective and ignored the essential in deference to trivialities.

I opened the refrigerator and found seven somethings wrapped in aluminum foil. I opened one and found a hero sandwich with a soft roll, lunchmeat, cheese, onions, lettuce and tomatoes. It was home-made, so someone here must be at least partially skilled in the culinary arts, probably me. There was a pitcher of ice tea and I poured a glass. After a few bites, I took a stroll into one of the adjoining rooms. It was a weird one. It had a white washer and white dryer, suggesting a utility room, but also had a built in closet and a stereo system, which was perched on a large pie safe, with punched tin doors, done in a bird pattern. Records were kept in wooden boxes painted reddish brown, which sat on the floor at the base of the stereo. The fewer C/D's were on the perch with the receiver and the speakers. My taste, or maybe Diane's must be described as eclectic as the selections included the Beatles, John Coltrane, Blue Oyster Cult, the Church, Bob Dylan, Bob Marley, Cream, Jimi Hendrix, Patti Smith, Jefferson Airplane and a 10 C/D collection of classical tunes. There were collections of country songs from the 1930's, 1940's and 1950's, with names no one any more remembered, like Vassar Clements. I put the Beatle's " _Abbey Road"_ album on the turntable and continued my tour.

I went back to the kitchen and took a few more bites of my hero. I opened the kitchen cabinets one by one and saw the expected glasses, plates, cleansers and replacement light bulbs, but most significantly also found a pile of statements from mutual funds, a brokerage, banks and a mortgage company. I felt good when I saw that the $70,000 mortgage was current, only had seven years to maturity and the total of the other liquid assets exceeded the mortgage balance. I got a strange feeling when I started going through credit advices. One had my name on it and said "Disability Payment" of $2,000 for the month of June 1990. I'm disabled? No, I can't be. I don't feel disabled. Of course then I remembered that I didn't remember anything essential. The first side of the record ended and I put on the second, my favorite Beatles' side. How did I know that?

I thought about that for a few minutes as the record played and I finished off my sandwich. I couldn't think of a better answer than; "Because it isn't essential." I tentatively postulated a theorem. If I could convince myself that nothing mattered, then I would know everything.

The kitchen contained a very tightly twisted wooden spiral staircase, painted gray and white and was situated behind a door that gave the appearance of being a closet or pantry. It no doubt was treacherous enough to undo a few previous travelers. In the hallway on the other side of the kitchen was the main stairway leading to the second floor. The steps and bannister were stained a reddish brown, the spindles were white and the risers yellow. I climbed and got to a landing with doors to three other rooms. I entered the master bedroom which was rather cramped and had furniture including a Queen Anne canopied bed, a Queen Anne highboy and a darkly stained wardrobe of indeterminate style, but evocative of a pre-1830 origin. I opened its doors and found men's suits and shirts, so now I knew I was a desk jockey rather than a ditch digger. There were three white painted built in closets lining one wall. I opened the first door and found that it hid a staircase to the attic, on which was scratch-carved MVCCCXII, perhaps dating the house to 1812. I climbed the winding wooden stairs to see an empty attic, whose space was severely cut off on two sides by the sloping roof line. I went back down the stairs to open the two other closet doors to find more men's clothes, women's clothes and underwear, but nothing that looked like it would provide any more useful information, at least nothing I could fathom now.

I was getting tired of being in the house and went back downstairs to the kitchen, where I noticed that the home phone had a 908 prefix, but vaguely remembered that when I called Diane there was another three digit entree. I found the paper with the number and sure enough the prefix was 206. Why is she somewhere else? I'll probably find out tomorrow. There was a 1986 brown, two door Toyota parked outside. I didn't feel like walking again yet, so I went for a ride, no doubt violating Diane's dictate. I drove the way I initially walked and when I got to the closest house, there were two men standing on the porch. I looked toward them and waved, but they just stared at me. That was a strange feeling, but I considered that the two might be workers or visitors who didn't know me. I continued down the road and made a left immediately after the stone house.

I don't see any houses. On the left is a dense forest probably belonging to the owner of the corner stone beauty. On the right is a thinly wooded spot with water visible through the trees. Upon driving a little further, the hills to my left start to rise. Some houses are visible on the highest elevation. The right becomes a cleared area showing signs of having been recently mowed. Then I saw the sign saying "Spruce Run Reservoir." I took the right hand turn into the facility passing more tended lawn, only now with a fair smattering of mature trees, fifty feet tall and thirty-five wide. After one half of a mile I saw what looked like silver tollbooths ahead. No one was working in the booths, so I stopped the car, to try to locate a sign. When I found it, it told me that some times of the year admission was charged, but not now. I proceeded bearing right and came to a parking area with one other car in it. I could see that if I walked two of four possible directions from here I would have a full view of the light blue reservoir. I took the longer path toward it, passing through more light woods and in some places having the luxury of a concrete paved path. When I got close to the water I became aware of three two hundred foot jetties imposing themselves on the reservoir. They were only about ten feet wide with clearly worn paths through the middle of each.

The breeze seemed to pick up more the closer I got to the water. Though the sun was strong and reflected off the rippling tiny waves and the temperature was probably in the low sixties, I didn't feel warm in the wind and felt as if it were trick or treat season at the end of a jetty. As I was attempting to take a quick look around, I spotted the probable driver of the car I had seen. To my left was a two thousand foot, white sand beach and at the other end of it was the figure. It was not moving, so I concluded it must be a hardy soul. I walked off the jetty and rather than following the beach, directly to the figure, I took a higher paved road with a fifty foot downhill view of my fellow explorer. The closer I got, the motionless body started looking female. She had long curly black hair, covered with a small, man's hat that must have been pinned to survive the breeze. She wore a long black coat, probably suede, which met her black leather button up high heeled boots. I thought that the attire was very strange to wear hiking. When we were about two hundred feet from each other, she turned obviously toward me, just motionlessly staring. I didn't detect any weaponry, so I started to redirect my route closer to her. I went down a small steep grassy embankment, more overtly moving in her direction.

At a distance of seventy-five feet she called out, in an agitated voice; "What do you want?"

"I'm just walking around and thought I might say hi."

"Okay, hi back to you," and she turned away from me, again inspecting the reservoir. She started walking back in the direction where her car was probably parked. I would have liked to talk to her more, but it seemed obvious that she didn't want company, at least not mine. My instincts told me that it was extremely rude, to violate a person's privacy, so I changed my direction slightly to veer away from her, though I was still on the sand. I was getting uncomfortably cold in the breeze, but kept going on my general course to avoid the appearance of following her. I came to another lightly wooded area. I kept turning around to watch her progress and when she was fully out of sight, I turned around heading back to the car. The wind was really starting to gust now, so I picked up some speed and when I got about two hundred feet from the parking area, I could see that there were still two cars. As I proceeded I then saw that the female in the man's hat was sitting in the other car, a red Toyota hatchback. I heard her engine start. She backed up and started to pull out, veering a bit in my direction. She opened the driver's window, gave me a stern look and showed me her middle left finger, stepped on the gas and drove away.

I was surprised. I couldn't remember that ever happening before. On the other hand my memory had its lapses and maybe I was very accustomed to this type of treatment. Is this an essential type of event or mere detail? At any rate I was intrigued. I wondered if the appropriate protocol was to return the gesture, but by the time I reached that question, her car was well down the road and the answer was irrelevant. I dawdled a bit, to give her some getaway time and then returned to the car. Now, with only me visible in the area, the silence set in again. However, this time it wasn't an ominous feeling. I got the idea that I'd been here many times and that I'd had a number of happy events in the area. This was far from a revelation for this life as I lived close by. Déjà vu?

She now had enough time to put some distance between us, so I started the car and drove back the way I had come. When I saw a red Toyota hatchback parked in the driveway of the yellow house nearest mine, I was annoyed. If she wanted not to be noticed, why does she have to park herself right next to me, to accomplish that goal? I'll never know for sure, but it seems to me that flipping the bird at someone would seem more consistent with someone wanting attention, a calling card, if you will. Anyway, I was already in the driveway and was interested in going in and doing some more exploring.

My desire for knowledge got the better of me. I wondered if she was my neighbor or just a visitor choosing to export goodwill which emanated from somewhere else. Maybe she knew me and had her good reasons. I walked through the woods, which separated the two houses and sat behind a tree for a few minutes, but saw nothing except the forgotten house with the almost yellow peeling paint. I realized that I was giving her every good reason to treat me rudely, so I ended my curious quest and went back to my house, hoping that I wasn't seen.

### Chapter 2

I stopped in the kitchen to heat up hamburgers in the condescension to modernism, reflective black, chrome plated microwave with a door-opening button that requires pushing from the wrong side. This is getting to be fun I thought. I originally felt like I was in a morbid, frightening Stephen King book. But this had more excitement potential as I've made some kind of contact with a very weird chick. Maybe she lives right next door and wants her house stripped and re-painted. No night visits to the cemetery. My brain heard; "Quit fantasizing and try to do what is essential." That voice is right, but I still hate it. I wish it would go read a Stephen King book and leave me alone.

The hamburgers were ready and I put them on a plate. I carried them upstairs intending to investigate the two rooms I had not yet seen. I entered a library and put my food down next to the hurricane lamp on a Heppelwhite desk with a Windsor styled side chair. The rest of the room was comprised of full bookcases lining all walls. They were made simply, of no particular style or decoration and held a dark brown stain. The two windows in the room were not shedding any light this time of day as the sun had already passed over one and the other was blocked by dense trees. I put on the hurricane lamp to see that the collection had a few main sections; baseball, film, religion, rock and fiction classics. That seems pretty ordinary and doesn't tell me anything except that the occupants have little taste for non-fiction. I wanted to know about the residents. What would be the most revealing thing? Perhaps the smaller erotica section would give some hints. I took a look at one book containing erotic photography dating back to when photography was in its infancy. It covered a smorgasbord of coupling possibilities. Further painfully slow, detailed study indicated that the photos were more eclectic than the initial duets revealed and worked their way into trios, quadruplets and more, indoors and out. Pictures were taken in places like France, Mexico, Russia, China and Texas from the 1920's to 1940's. I was shocked. All this variety and coming from all over the globe? I always thought this type of activity was invented in the 1960's. Oddly, this time I remembered the important stuff. It was strange to look at the photos of these very alive people, while also realizing that by now, most of them are dead. I was beginning to look forward to meeting Diane, or barring that, the lady next door.

I stared out the window facing the trees lost in a daydream, long enough for my hamburgers to get cold. I decided to eat them that way, as I didn't want to break away from this interesting and potentially useful collection of information. Further study would be a requirement if I was to have any hope of getting more precisely defined in this all important area. Realizing that this could be rather time consuming, I decided to defer my academic pursuit and focus on things less complex. I fingered through the religious section and found books ranging from " _The Way of the Sufi"_ to " _The Tibetan Book of the Dead"_ to " _Ancient Esoteric Texts"_ to "The _Bible_." I didn't feel like getting bogged down in any of them, so I took a look at the baseball section. Titles ranged from " _Babe"_ to " _Josh and Satch"_ to " _Big Sticks_ ," but, rather than looking for knowledge through anecdotal evidence, I took out a baseball record book and flipped through it. Just the facts, ma'am, only the facts. When the dryness set in I finished my cold hamburgers and noted that in the rock section I had three different biographies of Bob Marley. Someone must have been looking for something significant to try that many.

I left the library to enter a bedroom with a smattering of Chippendale and country early American furniture. The bed was minimally of the latter variety and was covered with a predominately blue crazy quilt. The most eye catching thing, however was that the walls were lined with built in nondescript shelves and they were full of movies in VHS format. They didn't seem to be in any particular order, excepting some apparent consideration given to the size of the encasement. I perused all sections to see that there was a predilection for French, German, Swedish and Spanish titles. American films were the preponderance, probably around 50%, but the foreign weighting seemed disproportionate. I caught myself. That thought presupposes that I'm American. Maybe I'm not. For the time being I'll assume that I am. I'm also getting a bit worried, as, if my partial and hopefully temporary amnesia was being caused by too much drinking, it's lasting a long time. I hope I didn't do permanent damage. I started to think about what I'd be doing if I knew what it was I was supposed to be doing. Try that one. It could be some horrible job. What a thought. If I get straightened out too quickly, I might wind up spending my days making some numbers add up in a bank. If the bosses looked the other way while I smoked some weed outside, this could assuage things, but I'd still prefer to be here for at least a few more days unraveling the mysteries I was now surrounded by. I started to think about the lady next door with the working middle finger. She could be quite adept with it and was apparently quick on the trigger. And I was just trying to show her some country hospitality. I made a mental note to refer to somewhere around the middle of the erotic photo book to gain more enlightenment.

That thought provoked some staring out one of the two windows in the room. The sun had already passed over to the western side of the house. Deer were munching on some apple trees across a 200 foot open field. They had already taken all they could reach or shake down and were balancing on their hind legs trying to reach higher treats. I was amazed at how those skinny legs were able to support the well-fed bodies. Their light brown fur contained white markings and was still wet from their drink and dip in the rocky stream, 100 feet to their south. They were beautiful and I watched until something spooked them and they ran into the dense woods, again safe from predators. I wondered what their acutely tuned senses picked up that I couldn't. Hunters? People they thought might be hunters? What other kind were there? I wished that they were responding to a call from other deer, as I didn't want to think about possible dangerous trespassers.

It was starting to show the first inklings of twilight and I felt overwhelmingly tired. With eyes half shut I walked back to the kitchen, looking out every passing window for signs of unwanted activity. Sort of glad not to see any I ate part of a hero and drank ice tea. I hoped I could achieve that contentedly full feeling that I liked before going to sleep.

While I ate, I noticed for the first time that there was a radio in the room. I put it on to hear some right wing talk show host berate callers, who for the most part seemed liberal, unsure and wordy. If he didn't already have enough of an advantage by having airway experience, the host also had the ability to cut the caller off or talk right over him. It was like a professional heavyweight fighting a lot of nerdy fat kids. I switched channels to hear an interview with the owner of a local brake and lube operation. I surprised myself to see that I actually lasted three minutes of this conversation, before again changing the channel. "Take ten years off with Magic Youth Cream. MYC will cover all wrinkles like no other product in America today. Here we have the testimony of four happy customers....." I shut off the radio, realizing that it must be some instinctive old survival technique that made me avoid it in the first place. That is apparently entertainment. In the right mood, it could be found funny. I decided that rather than sleeping on the first floor, as this morning, I would go upstairs for protection. I visualized myself standing at the top of the central staircase beating back invaders. I then remembered the second smaller stairs and didn't know how I could cover both avenues of assault at once. Fuck it. I'll figure it out when I need to. I entered the bedroom with the simple Queen Anne canopy bed and highboy and lay down without removing any clothes, got under the covers and after the warmth started hitting me in waves, I fell right to sleep.

### Chapter 3

The next thing I knew it was light, the sun timidly making its first presence known in the smallest of three room windows, a distinct improvement over yesterday's belligerent assault. I still didn't remember a damn thing and that was no pleasant thought. On the other hand being able to not remember many past events can indeed be a blessing. The best thing that could happen to me was to get back only the good memories. Fat chance of that. I went to the bathroom and while there I took a good look at myself in the mirror. I noticed that the left side of my face seemed much more animated than the right. I was sadly perplexed and started making all sorts of stupid faces at the mirror to gauge the movement or lack thereof. To my dismay, it was obvious that the right side was almost frozen, further diminishing an already plain condition. But more importantly, I wondered if this was the result of some type of brain injury. To me, that's a very scary thought, because if the brain is not acting soundly, how can I be sure of the accuracy of any of my thoughts. Never mind, that's a no brainer. How could I be sure of the accuracy of anyone's stated thoughts, even those professing to have brains in excellent working condition? While I made coffee, I remembered, or thought that I remembered some of the pictures from yesterday's book of erotica. I decided to call Diane.

When I went to the phone I remembered that the house phone had a 908 prefix, while Diane's number carried 206. Where was she? I dialed the number. She picked up the phone.

"Diane Jensen."

"Hi, Diane Jensen, this is Edward Jensen, I think."

Laughing; "Yes, you're that miserable bastard."

"I have a million questions to ask you, so it's probably better if you do a soliloquy. Let me just ask one; You are my wife, right?"

"Right."

"I'm glad you're not my sister. Some people my age live with their mother or sister. I hoped I wasn't one of those."

"No, you're not. You are 40 year old. We've been married close to 20 years. I'm thirty-seven. You got to be a Vice President of some New York City bank. Then a little over a year ago, you had a seizure and were diagnosed as having a benign brain tumor."

"Shit," I interjected. "That's the worst possible thing and that occurred to me as a possibility, just before I called you. When I was a kid I heard that some old time baseball player got a brain tumor and it seemed like the scariest thing in the world."

"You handled it fine. After an initial fear lasting about a week, you settled into it. I think that when you started taking the anti-seizure medication and saw that it worked, that allayed your fears about driving a car, being near water and being near fire. They sent you home three days after they performed the operation and you were a mess. You remembered some things and were blank on others. You were told by the doctor to go back to work in a month. You weren't able to handle it and you got fired, filed for disability and got it. We were told that some semblance of amnesia was a possibility, but not a likely one. More likely, if amnesia occurred, it would most affect short term memory and to a lesser extent long term. Of course in the wisdom book of the doctors, short and long term, are not defined. The more we asked about it, the more we started to hear graying techniques, like; 'Of course, there may also be a selective process the patient goes through, choosing to remember short term stimuli, as defined and discussed elsewhere, or choosing to forget long term stimuli, as defined and discussed elsewhere, that will have measurable significance on the very general concept of memory itself.' We decided to stop asking questions at that point. I was afraid that the next answer would start with something like; 'Insofar as the cerebellum is believed to have modest impact upon.....' Brain stuff is weird."

"So, should I be taking some kind of medication?"

"Yeah, stupid. I told you that already. Make sure you do. I think the pills are in your bathroom middle drawer. You should also pay a visit to the neurologist and tell her what happened."

"My selective short term memory, no doubt biased, must have chosen not to remember that. Who is my neurologist?"

"I don't remember her name. It's probably on the medicine labels. She's in Bridgewater, about half an hour's ride."

"Sounds good. Who lives next door to us in the yellow house?"

"That belongs to the Mason family. They have three houses on the eighty acres to our right. The one closest to us is not occupied by them, but is often rented to hunters."

"Well, I guess there's some there now and they didn't seem to know me, which now makes sense. Do the Masons know me?"

"Very little. They keep to themselves. I know Joe a little. They say I'm the only person he likes in the world. That's because when we first moved here, I found the love of his life's dog, named Rocky, injured on the side of the road, probably hit by a car. I took him to the emergency vet and he was repairable. I then found out it was Joe's dog and he loves me. You've only met him cursorily once or twice."

"Now that I can reach you, it doesn't matter all that much. Hey, why aren't you here and why do you have a 206 area code?"

"When you got fired, so did I. So, I found a job in Seattle and moved there."

"Why didn't I come with you?"

"Somebody has to stay there until the house is sold. It's a shitty market."

"I've been walking around here. I didn't see any 'For Sale' sign."

"You didn't want one. It's for sale, for whatever that's worth."

"I've just got a few more questions........"

Diane cut me off: "You've got a lot to absorb already. Save the next questions for another time. You'll be fine. I've got to go, because I'm working, even though today is Saturday. Frankly, this job is a bit over my head and I need some training."

"You sound great. I think I love you."

"Sometimes, I think I love you too." She hung up.

That's a nice feeling. I noticed that it was sunny out and I decided to go for a walk. I considered walking in the other direction this time, but that yellow house and its occupants still intrigued me. Every instinct in me tells me that something is very strange there and that I should stay away. So, I walked toward it and saw no people, but two cars were again in the driveway, including one red Toyota hatchback. I slowed down a little, frankly being nosy. I wouldn't mind seeing that girl dressed in black again. Unfortunately, there was no activity, except that for a few seconds a bit of a wind kicked up and I felt a chill while passing the house. I picked up a bit of speed and the wind stopped when the house was no longer visible. I continued down the road not seeing anything different from yesterday. At the corner with the stone house and the horses I turned around and walked back. I couldn't help but think about the degree of stillness I must have liked; or maybe it was Diane's taste. I didn't currently dislike it. I was just now getting cognizant of it. No people and no cars, just the gentle sound of water flowing and birds singing. It was enjoyable, reminding me of a childhood dream, wherein the bombs were set off and I was the only one left. When I was a kid we were perennially advised by teachers and other authorities that the Russians, Cubans or both were going to get us and I participated at least weekly in air raid drills. The class would line up and the teacher would lead us down to the basement where we would stand facing a wall, with one hand across our foreheads and one behind our head. I suppose some expert on the subject said that this would be of some help against an atom bomb. I wondered if kids went through similar procedures today, as the Russians, at least; still have bombs, probably more. My pleasant reverie was interrupted when I again got within sight of the yellow house.

A naked young female, maybe fifteen, bolted out of the house. She was either hysterical or laughing, so it was not possible to tell if she was trying to escape or if she was just being playful. It was a nice summer day, but a little early in the morning and a little cold to enjoy being outside without a stitch. The woman dressed in black and a tall middle aged man following behind her, were trying to grab her and lead her back to the house. When each had one of the young girl's arms, they noticed me standing on the street gawking. The woman in black took full control of the young girl, who was now either laughing or crying. She gave no noticed resistance, however and sloppily walked twenty five feet back to the house and the two entered. The man remained outside, standing still and stared in my direction. I stupidly stared back, more in shock than trying to be intimidating. He started to walk in my direction with his head to the ground. I didn't know what to think and remained still. For some reason I didn't think this was a hunting party. As he got closer to me I could see that he was probably about six feet tall and weighed in the vicinity of 230 pounds. His clothes were suburban mall variety and not worth making any more note of. When he got twenty feet away he agitatedly said; "Are you looking for something?"

Trying to make the words sound like some sort of joke, I said; "No, but I did see something I didn't expect."

He didn't share my sense of humor and strongly said; "You didn't see anything jackass. And it's better for you if you don't."

Wanting to sound explanatory and somewhat deferential, I said; "Look, I live right next door. I take walks. When I see a naked girl run from a house it gets my attention. It's not something I see every day."

However, he was adamant, when he said; "You don't get the point, stupid. You didn't see anything that's any of your business."

I wasn't fond of the tone utilized when he said the word "stupid," but didn't address that because I was clearly sensing danger. "You may have a point there. I've recently had brain surgery and sometimes I have no idea of what's really happening."

He just blankly stared at me for a few seconds, probably still annoyed, but digesting what I had just said. He made some sound something like a snort and said; "You made a mistake. Don't worry about it. I have guns inside that are there to take care of any animals I run into. It would be unfortunate if you got in the middle." His agitation had changed to cold stillness and he stared right into my eyes.

I felt uncomfortable and broke the gaze. I didn't know what to say or do next. So, I started to walk back toward my house. He stood still watching me. After I had taken a few steps, he used a matter of fact, monotone to advise me; "Be careful where you walk. I hear there are a lot of hunting accidents around here."

Without looking back I continued the thousand feet to my house and was relieved to get there. I finally turned around to see that I had not been followed. I decided to quickly take another inventory of the house, this time to see if I had any guns. I frantically looked through everything big enough to hold a gun to no avail. What do I do if the guy comes to my door with a gun? I won't let him in and I'll call 911. An armed intruder should get their attention, but he could break in the door before I could get my message across. I didn't have any good solutions in mind, so I decided to call Diane again.

"Diane Jensen."

"Hi, it's brain damage again. I don't want to waste all your time, but I think I'm in serious trouble."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. I took a walk and saw a naked girl...."

Diane cut me off laughing; "You wish."

"No, that's not the troublesome part. She looked very young and was taken quickly back into the yellow house and then some guy walked over and was threatening me."

"What did he say? 'Find your own'?"

"No. He told me I didn't see what I saw and that I should be careful. There are a lot of hunting accidents around here."

"Maybe you didn't see what you thought."

"It's possible, but it was also so real. Why would this guy want to talk to me if everything was okay?"

"Good question. Maybe he was just trying to be friendly."

"He wasn't friendly; He was trying to be ominous."

"If you're really worried, make a police report."

"I like that idea. But won't they come out and investigate?"

"Maybe, so what?"

"So nothing, I think I'll do it. Thanks."

"Bye."

"Bye."

### Chapter 4

I made myself an early hamburger lunch and kept thinking about my situation. With brain damage I can never be 100% assured of anything. Maybe I didn't experience what I thought I did. If that's the case, I have nothing to worry about. If I was right in what I saw, telling the police would at least give them a suspect if I wound up dead. I ate and drank quickly and was ready to go to the police station, when I realized I didn't know where it was. Fortunately, I looked through the kitchen drawers again and found a local map, located the police station and made some notes.

After three or four turns I was elated to see the police station ahead. I was considering the possibility of being lost in the woods forever. I parked in the driveway and entered the place. I was greeted by a woman, approximately forty years of age, a bit overweight, with olive skin, medium length straight black hair and an amused disposition. She said; "May I help you?"

"Yes. I'd like to file a police report."

"About what?"

I didn't know what to answer. I paused for a few seconds, not knowing how to characterize my concerns concisely. I decided to just tell the truth, no matter how silly it would sound. "I saw a naked girl in town."

She couldn't hold back her laughter. After she was able to control herself, she said, "At your age, I hope this isn't the first time."

"It's the first time I saw one outside."

She again smirked; "So, you're complaining about public lewdness?"

"It wasn't lewd." Even I had to laugh. "It looked like she was in danger and so am I for witnessing the event."

"What makes you say danger?"

"A young girl, about fifteen, exited the house right next to me and was escorted back inside by an older female. Then some guy, who was also there, walked over to me and told me to mind my own business."

She just looked at me with the hint of a smile, probably thinking; "Maybe you should."

"Is there any officer here I can speak to?"

"No one's on duty for a few more hours. Would you like to come back later? An officer will be checking in at 3 PM."

"Can you take the report?"

"Yes. What kind of report do you want to fill out?"

"I don't know. How many kinds are there?"

"More than I can count. I've got an idea. How about we call this suspicious activity?"

"Sounds good to me. Will a reported 'suspicious activity' be investigated by a cop?"

"Probably. He might just ride around the area a bit, though, to see for himself."

Though I wasn't thrilled with the level of investigation mentioned, I decided that this was the best I could do, at least for the time being. "That sounds good. Let me tell you the story."

She put up her hand and started to type something into the computer. When she got the screen she wanted, she said; "Name?"

"I don't know their names."

"No, your name."

"Edward Jensen."

"Oh, you're the guy who got the brain tumor not long ago?"

Fully realizing that now the rest of what I say will be futile, I said; "Yes and it's been removed and I'm told that I'm fine by the doctors."

"I'm glad to hear that. Tell me what you saw."

I told her the story as I saw it, but not remembering the precise nuance to the conversation with the threatening guy, I realized that I wasn't making a good case for anything. She typed away as I spoke, showing no emotion and when I was through, she walked to the printer and retrieved a copy of the report for me to sign. When I asked her for a pen, she informed me that filing a false police report was a crime that could be prosecuted. I wondered if she said this to everyone. I signed the report, was given a copy, thanked her and left. I had the distinct impression that what I had just done would do me little good. Now, I would attempt something really difficult and try to back-track my directions to get home. I wished I had a pencil and paper. I patted myself on the back, when I got there without much difficulty, but a smattering of fret. I again called Diane.

"Diane Jensen."

"Hi again, Diane. Sorry to trouble you. I just filed a police report."

"Good."

"Well, I doubt if it's going to do any good. They know I'm the guy with the brain tumor and the whole thing doesn't make much sense anyway."

"They'll investigate, unless you said something really stupid."

I laughed; "I may have. I'm not sure of anything."

"Why don't you just watch a movie for a while and forget about the naked girl?"

"It's not the girl I'm primarily worried about. It's the fully clothed guy. Do we have any friends I can talk to around here?"

"Not really. We used to spend so much time working, that home became a place to collapse and the weekends were spent doing chores. We were pretty isolated, but that's what we wanted at the time."

"I guess I could use a buddy now. When are you coming back?"

"Oh, that's such a long story with a lot of ifs ands and buts it's better to save it for another time. The short answer is 'as soon as possible' though. I miss you."

"I think I miss you, too."

"Love you, Chubby."

I smiled at the word, for I wasn't the least bit chubby at five foot nine and 159 pounds and answered, "Love you, too, Chubby."

I went upstairs to peruse the movie collection. I certainly was in no mood for anything like " _The Night of the Living Dead"_ or any horror movie in general. Come to think of it, I didn't want to see anything with suspense, intrigue or crime. What was left? Love and animal stories came to mind. I decided to combine the two satisfactory formats and came up with " _Lady and the Tramp_ ," which I hadn't seen since I was a kid. I brought the cassette downstairs, figured out how the television and VCR worked and loaded it. When I saw it was properly working, I went back to the kitchen to fix some more hamburgers. When ready I brought them and a bottle of beer into the TV room, restarted the movie and lay down on the couch to watch. Through I felt tired, my mind kept racing and didn't allow me to doze. I enjoyed the sweet sentiment of the movie, but really wasn't paying full attention to it.

When it was over, it was still daylight and I was having trouble relaxing. So, I decided to take a short drive to the reservoir. It's seems like every time I leave the house something weird happens and it's un-nerving. So, I thought that if I could make one un-eventful trip, that might help me relax.

### Chapter 5

I drove the car past the yellow house and didn't see any interesting activity outside. No un-interesting activity, either. The same two cars were still there. It seemed that one of the drawn blinds was pulled open a bit, but it was just a quick look at a distance for me and it could have been the play of the sun. Still, I couldn't help but think that it would be very easy for someone there to watch my activities. Now, all of a sudden I didn't want to spend a lot of time at the reservoir because I was picturing someone or two or three going over to my house in my absence and setting some kind of trap for me, or maybe they'd be waiting for me inside with guns when I got back. The latter thought suggested that either I go right back home and watch for the invasion, or spend more time at the reservoir to delay the inevitable. I decided to continue my journey, as I didn't want my enemies to detect any fear. I'll do exactly as I please and let them do their worst.

The rest of the drive was pleasant enough and I almost forgot about my fears. When I drove into the reservoir grounds, I decided to go to the other end of the park, where 200-300 boats were stored on land near a very gradual slope to the water. No one seemed to be about and that gave the abandoned boats the feel of some kind of marine cemetery from a past war. I quickly realized that maybe there was a war going on right now. I'd have to remember to ask Diane that one.

I parked between the last line of boats and the water, got out and started walking toward the sun, away from the boats. I followed the shoreline, with either sand or rocks at my feet, very few trees or bushes and hence a long wide constant look at the still blue water reflecting the sun. For some reason it reminded me of some Swedish movie, which name I couldn't recall, but it involved some old guy living an isolated existence, who amuses himself with thoughts of suicide. Though I wasn't sure, it didn't sound like it would have been a thought anyone wants to hear, so this feeling was probably best kept to myself, as if I had a choice in the matter. I'll save it until I meet someone from Sweden.

I felt like I was getting into quicksand, not by my feet, but by my head. A quick analysis of the situation revealed that I no longer needed strange people and happenings around me to feel unsettled. I could now manage that all by myself. I wished a weird person would show up to give me some excuse for feeling strange. I turned on a dime and started walking back toward the parked boats. I veered inland so I could end my jaunt walking right by many of them. None of them seemed to exhibit any damage, so I concluded that there must be some unseen person or two around, otherwise kids would probably have vandalized some boats. Is that paranoid, cynical, logical, all of the above or none of the above? I haven't the slightest idea. Most likely it was some word I had not yet thought of; reality. A bit of a breeze kicked up, making some folded sails groan and rattle around. The restrained tied-up masts struggled for freedom and as a result, were capable of moving only a foot in each direction, hardly worthy of their auditory stimulus. My eyes darted around to make sure the noise I was hearing was not being made by a human, a monster or both. When I still couldn't detect any sign of life I briskly walked back to my car and drove home at 50 miles per hour, rather than the usual 30-35 rate. I had managed to unnerve myself so much that I almost forgot to eyeball the yellow house. A belated quick glance didn't reveal any outside activity, but that a number of cars were parked there. Hopefully, the owners were in the yellow house rather than mine. I opened the door slowly and timidly and gingerly stepped through all of the first floor rooms. Seeing no signs of an intruder and thereby with a slightly improved countenance, I climbed the steps to the second floor. I didn't note anything requiring immediate attention, on the steps, the landing or in the three rooms themselves. I slowly went back down in the ominous silence of a cemetery on Tuesday afternoon, my sneakers pounding against the stairs as an ambitious tongue in its bell. Something told me that I had forgotten to check the closets, the attic, under the beds and any other possible hiding place a marauder could utilize. "Fuck it," I said to myself; "This is getting ridiculous, even by my standards." No matter how many places I check, there are bound to be places I didn't. This could become a lifetime occupation. As I really wasn't in the market for a job, I pragmatically decided that if a killer wanted to get me, all he has to do is try, my angered mind stressing the word "try".

I again started to feel some kind of security, so I conducted a quick pop psychology analysis of my situation. I've got to stop worrying. It's becoming constant and results in the brilliant deduction that all roads leading to Rome, anyway. Instinctively I turned to my music collection. I needed something angry or defiant, Sex Pistols or Patti Smith. I liked her better. I put on the " _Easter"_ C/D, got a joint out of the refrigerator and again called Diane.

"Diane Jensen."

"Sorry to bother you again, but I've got to know the answer to one more short question."

She sighed, "Go ahead."

"Are we at war?"

Diane started laughing so hard, for a few moments she couldn't say words. After composing herself some she said; "I don't know what to say first." She started laughing again.

"It's a simple question."

"You think so, apparently. Sometimes you remind me of what I first liked about you. First of all, who do you mean by 'we'? Me and you or the country?"

"The country, of course."

"The country's always at war with someone. Some are out and out declared wars. Others are called police actions, assistance to the forces of freedom, CIA covert actions and loads of other bullshit terms they're probably in the process of coining right now."

"I really wasn't looking for you to get into every possible nuance. Let me put it this way; are we bombing anyone?"

"Yes."

"Are they bombing back?"

"No, not really. I could say something else, but that would only be confusing to you now. Why do you ask anyway?"

"I was walking down by the reservoir and I saw a boat cemetery and I wondered if they were war casualties. Not exactly that. I just got an unsettled feeling and reacted that way. It's more the logic of a dream than any tangible calculable reason."

"You have always been out there. It wasn't caused by the brain tumor. What kind of evil are you seeing this time?"

I gathered that I had made a huge step toward being my natural self and felt flattered or something like that. "Well, I told you, it started with weird feelings and sightings at Mason's house. I'm probably still freaked, as now the stillness of the boatyard struck me as ominous."

"You need a cuddle."

"For sure. When are you going to get here?"

"I'm not exactly sure. But, I think I'll be visiting sometime within a month."

"I can't wait to meet you. I like what I hear."

"Soon, chubby." She hung up, before I could ask her what to do in the meantime.

I felt better after talking to her and looked forward to our meeting. I still didn't fully understand whether we were at war or not. The word loses its meaning when it's a constant state of affairs and peace is logically stricken from human thought, graduating to existence only in Plato's world of forms. It might be one of those difficult questions that the grown-ups don't speak honestly with the kids about. I took some solace in the fact that I was not in danger of getting hit by a bomb. On second thought Diane did not make a black and white answer, adding "not really" to no.

I smoked my joint, listened to my music, started to move around the room, in the best imitation of a dance I could provide. After I started to feel the warmth generated by the smoke, my security level was very high and by the time I finished it, I was ready to handle whatever came my way, even if they had bombs. It was either that or maybe I just didn't give a flying fuck. Of course this lasted about thirty perfect minutes and then the bag started to close around my head and I contentedly drifted off to sleep with the " _Easter"_ C/D playing over and over.

### Chapter 6

I woke up in the dark, shut off the C/D player and looked at the clock. It was 4 o'clock, presumably AM, but I wasn't 100% sure. That was irrelevant anyway, because I was in the mood for breakfast, AM or PM. I found a microwavable package of frozen scrambled eggs and sausage. I could hardly wait the three minutes for the process to be complete. I rolled another joint in the meantime, hoping to duplicate yesterday's heroic feeling with a full stomach and wide awake. The eggs were so good I heated up another package. After finishing the delight, I decided to start establishing some sort of routine around here and the first step in that direction was to find and take the medications Diane said were probably in my bathroom drawer.

I could read the instructions and titles of the four plastic bottles found but suffice to say that the main one was Dilantin, an anti-seizure medication. The other three are seemingly minor ones that I really don't know much about and simply trusted that Diane told me to take them.

I went back for some more eggs. I was feeling pretty good in what was now known to me to be the morning, as I saw light starting to peek over the hill a mile away. This is always the encouraging part of the day for me, maybe suggesting something brand new with limitless possibilities. Today, in particular, I could use some new possibilities, because of the situation next door, for which I didn't have any standard answers. I decided not to take my usual morning walk as I really didn't want to chance ruining this day meeting any unpleasant people by the yellow house. When I got to it I'd drive to a remote part of the reservoir and soak up as much sunshine as possible.

I delayed going out mainly because I wanted to let the sun do its work for about half an hour. So, I made some more eggs, hoping not to overdose and idly looked through kitchen drawers and closets to see if anything revealing would jump out at me. I found some kind of tool to open wine bottles, but up until now I had not found any wine bottles, not even empty ones. One drawer held three broken dog collars. I stared at them a bit, not remembering any dog. I turned to stare out the window at the trees, hoping to get some kind of image in my head, but none came. I'd have to remember to ask Diane about that one. One of the two built in closets adjacent to the walk-in cooking fireplace, contained piles of financial papers; tax returns, bank statements, mutual fund statements and annual reports of various public companies. I'd probably have to get familiar with them in time, but didn't want to risk sullying a yet unstained day.

I went to the car and drove it slowly down the 100 foot gravel driveway. Just as the front end got to Baptist Church Road, a car came screeching around the curve, 500 feet away from me. He must have been doing about 90 and I could hear the brakes howl, while the car itself swerved from one side of the road to the other. I considered backing up, but there was no time and I froze watching the out of control car, not having a clue as to which way it would go next.

Mercifully, it passed in front of me and then veered back to my side of the road, knocking my mailbox about 100 feet down Baptist Church Road and coming to a stop in a shallow ditch parallel to it. I got out and walked over to the car to see him sitting seemingly calm and contented at the wheel. When he saw me the bearded male driver with long greasy dark hair looked right at me and said; "I had it," putting his hands firmly on the wheel.

His communique did not register. Now that I was safe from the immobile car, I was annoyed that I'd have to spend time fixing my mailbox. In an incredulous and testy voice, I said; "Had what?"

He showed me the bicep of one modestly muscled arm, put it back on the wheel and repeated, "I had it good."

I realized that he was equating his arm strength with the ability to steer a careening auto. I was glad he pointed that out, because I might have concluded that it was pure luck that made him miss me. I also realized that I was off to a reasonable facsimile of one of my recent days; in fact this time was even worse, because I didn't even get ten feet out of my driveway before somebody tried to kill me. I was grateful for having smoked the reefer, because I was now considering the whole thing amusing. Perhaps due to my momentary lull, he again spoke; "I never saw anybody come out of that driveway before."

I first thought that he was trying to make me complicit in the incident and I said; "You can't tell me this is my fault."

"Oh, no, no, I'm not. I'm just trying to make some excuse for being a fuck up."

I had to laugh and said; "You really didn't fuck up too bad. My mailbox is the only one with any cause for complaint and he's been quiet. On second thought, maybe he's dead."

He got out of the car, stumbling as he did. "Don't worry, I'll come back later and fix it for you." As he rocked from one foot to the other, he extended his hand and said, "I'm Butch Walker. I live just a little past the bend in the road with my folks."

We were looking right into each other's eyes when we exchanged firm handshakes for three seconds. I said; "Ed Jensen." He stumbled again, laughed, righted himself and said; "I think I had one too many today."

I said; "I've had a little something already, too."

"I tell you, man, if I counted them, I think I'd at least be up to a six-pack by now. Do you mind if I go take a piss in your woods. I don't think I can hold it anymore."

"Of course not."

He walked something like a duck about 20 feet into the woods and let fly. In about fifteen seconds, he fixed his pants, turned around and walked back to me and his car.

I said; "By the way I live here, but I don't know for how long."

"You sound worse than me. I know I've been living with my folks for the last five years."

I figured him to be about 35 and quite possibly an interesting person, so I told him the truth. "I woke up with memory loss two days ago. Wait a minute, I think it was three days ago. Oh, fucking whatever." I laughed and so did he. I continued, "I'm really not sure, but it's recent, very recent." He surprised me when he lurched forward, put his arms around my neck, hugged me and said; "Brother."

I think I knew what he meant and didn't elect to tell him that my problem was probably due to a brain tumor rather than an extended blackout. So I said; "Yeah, brother. Hey, I hope your wife doesn't kick your ass for fucking up the car.?"

"You can probably see what I'm married to. I'm divorced. When that happened is when I moved back here."

"Did you grow up here?"

"Oh yeah. The happiest days of my life were spent walking in these woods."

"It's all private property."

"Yeah, but it's not all fenced and I know my way around." He pointed back toward the woods to the rear of my property. "I saw a fox walking there just a few days ago."

He had again surprised me, by just openly stating that he had been trespassing. Butch probably detected exactly what I was thinking, by my temporary silence and he laughed, slapping me on the shoulder. He said; "Don't worry. I don't do any damage. I've been doing it since I was five." He again rocked on his feet and said; "Listen, I better get the hell out of here, before a cop comes and gives me another DUI. I'll come back and fix the mailbox this afternoon."

He got back in his car and turned on the engine. I gave him a slap on the shoulder and said, "Come back any time you want. Just try not to hit the house when you do."

He didn't see the humor and neither did I. I was looking for something other than a standard closing line and managed a stupid one. He grimaced, shook his head up and down slowly, rolled his eyes, turned around and drove the car back in the direction from whence he came. I watched him for the 500 feet that was visible to me. Something was hanging from the car and made clunks and cries as he proceeded at about 15 miles per hour, successfully making the trip.

I wondered if he'd really come back and my instincts told me yes. I got back into my car and drove to the reservoir. I went in the direction of the desolate boatyard, but turned off on a small dead ended paved road. When I got to the end I saw her standing five feet away from her red Toyota hatchback. I said to the windshield; "Oh, shit." I considered making a U-turn, but figured I had already done the damage anyway and I was also in a funny mood after just having met Butch. Besides, the perfect day was already fucked. I parked my car twenty feet from hers. When I got out, she was facing me and again was waving hello with one finger. I tried to remember some line I had heard somewhere and probably misstated it; "Is that your best friend or your IQ?"

"Following me around isn't the brightest thing to do, so consider your own IQ."

"I think it's more than one and I'm not following you around. I keep going places I expect to be alone and instead have been graced with your presence." I graciously bowed and made a George Patton smile, lips together.

She paused and blinked her eyes as she looked at me. It could have been wishful thinking, but I thought her gaze had softened. I walked toward her and said, "Let's take advantage of the fortuitous circumstances and go for a walk. I need the company."

She didn't say yes or no. But when I got close to her she slowly turned as if she might head in the direction I was going. I got my closest look at her. She was probably wearing the same or similar clothes as the previous day; black. She had a nice face, pale but with good bone structure, black long curly hair, probably straightened somewhat, no makeup, no detectable perfume and eyes that said, "I've felt every sorrow." As silly as it sounds, I may have purposely imagined this, as I always manage to fall in love with broken hearted girls. Perhaps I have the audacity to think that I can fix them and consequently they'll return the favor.

She was kind of walking with me, though, very slowly and not looking at me or saying anything. I slowed down to her pace, attempting to walk side by side with her and brushed against her for a second. She was looking at the ground, when I said; "That's not exactly the right outfit for a walk in the woods," especially considering her high heeled boots.

She just continued to look at the ground and walk slowly. I continued; "That's a really nice outfit. I like it. It's just strange for here."

"Nice outfit? I'm trying to look like a witch."

"That works. However, you don't look like the Wicked Witch of the West. You look more like the good one."

"I don't know about that. Do you consider yourself one who has good judgment? So far I'm not overly impressed."

"I really don't know. I have memory lapses and all I remember are the last two days." I paused, then added; "I think the last two days or so. Anyway, whatever the exact number, I'm close to it. Maybe I'm relying on instincts."

"That's one of the strangest answers I've ever heard. Am I on ' _Candid Camera'_?"

"Maybe we both are. I've been having two of the weirdest days of my life." I paused and she looked at me questioningly. I realized what she thought and what I should have thought. "It's true that these have been two of the weirdest days of my life. It might be a meaningless statement, however, insofar as any statement has real meaning."

She seemed to appreciate the clarification somewhat. "Do you drop a lot of acid?"

I felt a combination of insulted and complimented. However, I answered honestly and said; "I haven't done that in more than ten years."

"Do you live around here?"

"Yes. I'm in the white farm house about 1000 feet from the yellow one where I've seen your car on occasion. Do you live near-by?"

She was surprised at the answer and was visibly uncomfortable with our proximity. "You know, you should be just a little discreet with strangers. You never know what you're getting into."

"I've always depended on the kindness of strangers."

"You're again starting to annoy me. I don't dislike you. But, you have to know that it is not a good idea to be friendly with me."

"How can I know anything? I'm two days old. Give me a chance."

"You're trying to joke......."

I interrupted her; "I'm only half joking."

"Whatever the precise percentage. You're trying to joke and you don't even know what you're joking about." She continued in a very stern voice; "It's better for both of us to know as little about each other as possible." She turned and walked back toward our cars, picking up some speed.

I was disappointed at the turn of events. For two seconds I fancied her getting friendly. Again, I attempted a non-standard closing and called out; "I'll have to trust your judgment. I am a child in these hills."

She continued walking briskly with her back to me. She opened the door to the driver's seat, sat down, turned to me and said, "It's better if we don't meet again." She shut the door and drove off. I sat on the trunk of my car for a few minutes; both giving her time to get away and giving me time to think. I had a problem; however, I didn't know what to think about. After a few minutes I decided that I was on a hot streak, because the day was at least two hours old and no one had yet threatened to do me any damage, at least not overtly and she didn't again show me her digital best friend.

### Chapter 7

When I drove back home, I noticed three cars, including the woman in black's parked in the yellow house's driveway. I didn't see anyone outside. I parked, went in the house and looked for some food and drink. Though they were of short duration, my recent trips have left me tired and famished. I wolfed down a sandwich, drank a beer and put on the television. This experience proved to be very, very interesting. The sixty year old, short, blond male host had a casual silly acceptance in his voice as he greeted and questioned the guests. The idea man for the show had to be somewhat brilliant. Instead of having expensive celebrities behaving stupidly, he had cheap regular people doing the same and even outdoing their famous counterparts in some respects. There was some type of family argument continuing on the show that seemed to have seeds somewhere in remote posterity. Though difficult to be certain the dispute apparently involved some guy's wife and her sister. Ostensibly, in an effort to settle the dispute, both ladies disrobed and danced around rubbing various body pats. After some consternation and conversation hubby seemed to be closer to his wife's exposed situation, when her bleach blond brother walked in and kissed hubby's lips. I decided to turn off the show before someone's mother came out to do her routine. I fell asleep.

After an infinitesimal nap, I wanted to get some fresh air and went walking in my usual direction. The sun was setting behind the hills in front of me and the temperature started to drop under the cloudless sky. I continued on until the yellow house was in view. Something had been done to it. It was standing at odd angles, as if someone had plowed a bulldozer into it or was designed by an artsy architect testing his limits.

Since no people or cars were visible, I again gawked at it pondering the intended statement. "Who cares?" was the best idea I could come up with. The shutters were now of deep brown peeling paint and the open front door was now pink and in it was standing a naked 250 pound black woman. This was too good to be true. I couldn't tell her age, but she was unquestionably old enough. I also couldn't remember the last time I had any female attention. With her I could make up for a lot of lost time, as she counted for five. She turned her back to me, flipping her long, straight, cranial black hair, taking away the view of her other curly black haired area. It wasn't as long as the cranial version, but it looked like a large pie with a four inch long fringe. She bent over a bit and I saw the evening's first moon and was it ever full. Ruining my sky watching, about one thousand bats came pouring out of the attic window. As they dispersed the quiet was interrupted by the furious flapping of their eighteen inch long leathery wings. Some came in my direction hugging the ground. I put my left hand up to my head meaning to shield myself from the onslaught. With my forearm over my forehead I started to turn in circles attempting to view all directions of possible attack. Some flew within a foot of me making me temporarily forget about the night sky. One landed on my head making me start jumping around animatedly. He screeched and while I was using my right hand to try to dislodge him, I saw there were ten more within five feet of me, their eyes shining and the flapping of their wings increasing in intensity and sound level. Since I was concentrating on the danger, I didn't notice that the black beauty left the house, walked over to me and said; "Don't be afraid of a couple of bats, baby. They won't hurt you." My gaze went upward from her bare feet, to her knees, her thighs and then to the magnificent hairy spot. I instinctively dropped down to get a closer look, at the three chocolate tootsie rolls, two hirsute, when ten bats started to hover between the brown candy and me. I felt a bite, then two, then three, then four, ......

My torso was saved when I was awakened by the horn of Butch's 1972 bright purple mustang, as he pulled into my driveway. I looked at the clock and saw it was one o'clock. By the time I went out the side door, Butch was pulling some tools out of his trunk.

I called out; "Hey, Butch, you're late."

"Yeah, I know. It took a while to recuperate from this morning. I've got some more beer in here. Want one?"

"Yeah, thanks. I can use something. I've met the weirdest chick and I'm having dreams of another."

"You, too." We both laughed.

I said; "Are we talking about the same ones?"

"Probably not. They're all weird when you really get to know them."

"One walks around the reservoir dressed in black with high heels."

"No, I don't know that one, but it sounds like I might want to. I really dig the way the best areas pop out in heels."

Attempting to be absurd, I said; "Me too. How about the naked 250 pound one next door?"

"Black long hair?" he said.

I thought; "Dreams do come true," surprised at the shared experience, but merely said; "Yeah."

"She's back in town? I haven't seen her for a good year."

He carried some tools over to where the mailbox used to be and then walked into the woods, retrieving the mangled remains. He silently did a pretty reasonable job of fixing it, considering the terminal condition of the mailbox.

When he was apparently through doing the best he could, leaving me with a serviceable unit, he started to carry his tools back to the car. I didn't really want him to leave yet, so I just blurted out; "Did you ever notice strange things going on at the yellow house?"

"Yes, sir." Butch paused a second, then added; "I've seen some strange things walking around over the years, but the worst have been right there."

"Naked women running around."

"Not that good. Naked little kids."

"Me, too. She looked all of fifteen."

"You were out for the geriatric set. Try ten to twelve."

"Shit. Maybe this one was ten to twelve also. I only saw her for a few seconds from about two hundred feet. Have you told anyone?"

"Yeah," he exclaimed, then lowered his voice; "For all the good it did. I told the cops and they just kind of smiled at me."

"Didn't believe you either?"

"No. Look at me. Would you? On top of that, do you know who owns the house?"

"Yeah, Joe Mason."

"Yeah, Joe Mason. Don't you know who he is?"

I was interested in why my neighbor was a person of note and said; "Not really."

"He used to be the mayor of this town and now he sits on the Planning Board. He also owns the only liquor store in town. People used to say that he ran this town along with his good buddy, Frank Melton."

"Maybe that's why they didn't pay any attention to me either."

"That's not the only reason. Look at you. Everybody knows that you have permanent brain damage."

"Thanks. I didn't know how famous I was. I still know what I've seen."

"Me, too. But we don't exactly have decent credentials."

We were silent for a few seconds. I then asked, "Do the Mason's know you filed the police report?"

"Maybe, I don't know."

"Yeah, I don't know, either, but my guess is yes."

"This kind of shit makes me puke more than two six-packs."

We both laughed. "Me too. I'm not sure yet, but I think I'm really a wine drinker."

"You got any?"

"No, I just looked all over the place and I just found a couple of beers."

"Say no more, amigo. We have got to go and stock up."

He walked to his Mustang and put his tools in the trunk. I followed and went right to the front passenger seat. Butch flopped into the driver's side and started to drive down my usual walking path. When we passed the yellow house I saw her again. She was putting something into or getting something out of her car and headed back to the house without looking our way. I said, "There she is."

"There who is?"

"The lady in black I was talking about before. Did you see her?"

"No, man. I'm having enough trouble watching the road. Deer sometimes run across around here."

Instead of turning at the corner he drove straight down Baptist Church Road. One or two newer colonial style houses were visible on this part of the road, but the general appearance was that of a heavily wooded stretch. For the first time I noticed that there were no street lights. When we got about two miles from the last visible house we hit another intersection, where he made a left. This road was a long straight shot with some businesses or the remnants of some businesses on the left side. A one floor yellow stuccoed restaurant was the first. It looked like it had been abandoned for some time as windows were broken, as was the glass covered street sign naming the place "Pa**'s P*z*l*" It must have been a slingshot or BB gun target. There were some non-descript storage facilities, with no current visitors and a vet's place, which seemed vibrant and undamaged, though it too had no signs of current visitors. The three or four remaining structures were hard to characterize further than saying they looked like flimsily made wooden structures, now so devastatingly damaged, it was anybody's guess as to their original use. My best guess was that they were once part of a now non-existent farm.

After a few miles we made a left into a residential area, comprised of various styled houses, but they looked as if the land attendant to each was less than half an acre. Butch said; "We're in town."

I noticed people trimming bushes and doing some gardening work. I asked him; "Do any of these people know us?"

"I doubt it. Where we live is kind of its own little island. People just don't get there by chance and most all the people who live there keep to themselves."

"Vampires," I said laughing.

Butch gave me a funny look; "I don't know about vampires, but I could pick out more than a few bloodsuckers."

"Like Mason?"

"Like Mason."

He made one more turn, or maybe it was a veer and we entered an area of active businesses of all sorts, with cars and people coming and going. He pulled into a large paved parking lot in front of a food place. We walked into the busy store. He took a shopping cart and headed straight to the liquor aisle. He put about six six-packs into the cart and said; "Enough?"

"No, I want some wine," and picked out the two largest bottles of red.

Butch said; "I usually don't take wine cause it takes me forever to get the cork out."

"You mean you just don't screw the top off?"

"No, man. They got a goddamn cork in there for some reason and some of them stick it in good enough to last a hundred years."

I was considering switching my choice because I could just picture him finishing his sixth beer while I still was screwing with the cork. While I was still debating the merits with myself, a very attractive full figured woman wheeled her cart into our aisle. Butch pushed the cart near hers, bowed his head with one hand across his stomach and said, "Excuse me. Do you know where they keep the pickles, the big ones?"

She looked at him for a second and then said; "No, I don't," and continued pushing her cart away from him. When she got near where I was still debating the wine, she stopped to peruse the section. I asked her; "Do you have any trouble getting the cork out?"

She wasn't amused. She derisively said, "You must be with him," pointing her right thumb behind her. She quickly made her choice, put it in her cart, made some kind of twisted face at me and walked briskly in the opposite direction from the two of us.

I said in a low voice, possibly imperceptible to her; "Yeah, I'm with him." Butch and I stood motionless and watched her ample backside, covered in tight white cotton, swing and sway to the end of the aisle and then she turned out of our view. He rushed over to me, having some difficulty controlling his laughter, stumbled right into me, apparently keeping his balance by locking one arm around my neck. He said; "Hey, hey, hey, bro, that was fun."

I was glad he liked it. I didn't think it was that good myself and appreciated the compliment. I looked at him and laughed, too. I said; "I'm going to go with the wine, no matter how long it takes me to get the cork out." He was hysterical at this point and brushed against some bottles on the shelf. He quickly put his hands to the appropriate spots and prevented anything from falling on the floor. "Shit, that was almost a disaster."

"No disaster," I replied.

"Sure, it's a disaster when you have to pay for booze and not get to drink it."

I said; "Like on a date?"

He laughed again; "I've forgotten. I haven't had a date in about fifty years."

"I don't know if it's fifty years, but I think Taft was in office during my last one. It was a memorable event."

"Got laid?"

"Most likely. Why else would I remember it?"

We stood silently for a few seconds, each of us wrapped up in their own thoughts. I broke the silence; "Are we ready?"

"No, man, we've got to get some hamburgers or something. To stay healthy you can't drink on an empty stomach."

We went to the frozen food section where, he picked out a few items and put them in the cart.

I said; "Is that for me too?"

"No, get your own."

I took a few of the same things he had chosen, when big ass turned again into our aisle. She hesitated a second when she saw us, probably considered going the other way, but continued on her path. We stared at her lower half, as she walked by and said; "If you bother me again, I'm getting the manager."

I said; "Go ahead. I'll tell him you've been following us around, trying to strike up odd conversations."

She just continued walking, exiting the aisle, without stopping to put anything in her cart. We looked at each other and nodded. I said; "I sincerely hope that we didn't disturb her day too much."

"Disturb, hell. She should be happy. Now, she has some reason to differentiate today from all the others."

He wheeled the cart to the check-out line and I said; "How are we going to split this?" He put his hands in his pants pockets, then shirt pocket and then jacket pockets and said; "Shit, man, I must have left my wallet home or lost it. Can you....?"

I looked at him knowing he was full of shit and he looked at me like he too knew he was full of shit. I said, "I'll take care of it, but you're going to pay me back."

He very seriously said, "No sweat, man," and kept a straight face.

I paid and we drove back the way we came. He pulled into my driveway and started to carry the stuff toward one of the doors. I said; "We're going to drink here?"

"Yeah, why not."

"No reason, really. I guess I was just looking for a change of scenery, like going to your house."

"My mother's home and she'll start up if I bring all this in."

"Your mother? It looks like you've been old enough to be drinking for a few decades already."

"Your mother is always your mother."

I stood there silently, considering the thought and trying to remember mine.

We carried the stuff inside and put each item somewhere in the refrigerator. He put two hamburgers in the microwave, set the timer, grabbed a beer, opened it and sat down at the kitchen table. I tried to get the cork out of a wine bottle. I thought; "This is going to be as hard as I expected."

### Chapter 8

We sat at the kitchen table, drinking, eating and telling shit stories. I should correct that and say, for the most part, one of us was telling shit stories and the other didn't remember any that he had not already said. Butch talked mostly about the area where we lived. Its known history began before Revolutionary times. Originally the stone house on the corner was an inn, where various pre-revolutionary meetings took place. Its mere "documentation" qualified the area to be a state historical district. I'm not making very light of that, as I think the area should be considered an "historical" area. It's certainly old enough. The most significant event Butch knew of, that happened there, was some meeting held containing local dignitaries, wherein it was decided to oppose the Stamp Act. When the rider delivered the message to authorities in Philadelphia, it was learned that the Revolutionary government had already decided to oppose the Stamp Act two weeks prior. Other stories were of even less historical significance, but I got a strong overview that the area had always been somewhat prosperous and a very nice place to be and was home to a number of interesting characters, most no longer here. I couldn't help but juxtapose this with the weird, isolated and treacherous feeling that I'd been having here the last few days.

When he momentarily ran out of stories to tell, Butch looked up at the clock and said; "I'd better get home while I can still walk well." He got up from his chair and immediately demonstrated that he probably waited a trifle too long. "Whoo," he said, putting his hands on the chair back. "I hate the crooked floors in these old houses."

I stood up, was a little shaky, but thought I was in better shape than Butch. I offered to drive him home, out of apparent necessity as well as a curiosity to see exactly where he lived. He refused the offer, seeming somewhat indignant that I may have implied that he was not capable of taking care of himself.

In an effort to assuage him, I said; "Well, what are we going to do about the kiddie porn going on next door?"

"Same thing we've done about it for the last year, I suppose."

"No, really. That stuff makes me sick and it also is dangerous to me, now that they think I'm watching."

"The cops don't want to know anything about it. They don't want to mess with Mason and neither should you."

"Well, the way I see it, Mason and his representatives started messing with me first."

Butch laughed; "Tell me what you think we should be doing about it."

"Maybe we can get some kind of evidence, like photos."

"Photos of what, the lady in black?"

"I don't know, maybe. How about photos of the naked girls?"

"That's what they do."

"Come on. Be serious for five minutes. My property is L-shaped and goes behind Mason's house. Maybe we could hide out there and get something on camera."

"Sounds like a long shot and a possible pain in the ass to me."

"It probably is, but what the hell; we can bring some food, beer and wine and sit out there all day. It's better than being cooped up in here."

"Not if we're seen."

"You told me you know these woods. You must know spots where we won't be seen."

"Okay, I can handle that, but I don't own a camera good enough to shoot that distance. Do you?"

"I don't know. I'll look around here some. If I can't find one, I'll drive to town again and get one there."

"Okay, I'll be back here at 10 AM tomorrow. I really don't know why I'm doing this."

"Two reasons. You don't have anything else to do, what's going on is evil and I'm liable to wind up dead somewhere. I could tell that you were one of the good guys."

He just looked back at me for a few seconds, then repeated; "10 AM tomorrow." He let himself out and drove his car back home, up the part of the road I had not yet seen. I cleaned up the kitchen a bit and then went looking around for a camera.

If I had one, where would I keep it? Probably a closet I concluded. I investigated the two kitchen closets to no avail, seeing some other items I might like to see, but the camera is priority now. There were no closets in two of the downstairs rooms, so I checked the other one which seemed to be a catch all for things that don't fit elsewhere. Not finding anything, now I had to make the climb upstairs to glance at the closets in the three upstairs ersatz bedrooms. I'd have preferred to use the time to play through the different scenarios Butch and I might encounter tomorrow. I really didn't want to drive into town to buy a camera and stand through some sales pitch when I really didn't know exactly what I wanted. I first checked the small green doored closet in the bedroom/library. The only thing in there was more books of varying genres. I guessed that this was the last refuge of the ones that I couldn't classify or didn't like. I hit pay dirt in the large, sliding doored closet in the subsidiary bedroom. I found some kind of Nikon with a zoom lens and some film. Now, all I had to do was figure out how to use it. I hoped for an instruction booklet, which for some reason I knew was the type of thing Diane periodically purged from the house.

My mission of the day taken care of I went back to the kitchen to eat some hamburgers and drink a little more wine. I started feeling really good, for the first time in a while, so I decided to face my biggest fear, walking by the yellow house. I also would not have minded continuing my relationship with my big female acquaintance, which will conquer fear every time. In the quiet I could also plan for tomorrow. I was competent to maintain my glow until I saw three cars parked on the yellow house's driveway, including a red Toyota hatchback. The eerie feeling started when I noticed that a few of the trees were beginning to brown out at the edges. Pure evil emanating in all directions. Maybe. Some smaller branches were entirely dead. To make matters worse the lady in black and my portly old friend came out a side door, apparently having some heated conversation, which the sight of me interrupted. She looked my way and then turned her back, watching her compatriot go back inside to quickly reappear with a rifle in tow.

I figured he was either going to shoot me or he wasn't. I didn't seem to have any control over that matter, so I acted nonchalant and yelled out; "How's hunting today?"

He replied; "Didn't start yet, asshole."

I appreciated the humor of his commentary and perhaps due to the wine, was unafraid of his posture. I concluded that he was a talker and said, "What are you waiting for, asshole, it'll be dark in half an hour and the deer will be hiding by then." I had no idea regarding the accuracy of that statement, but I figured that since I lived in the country people would think that I knew something about it.

He started walking in my direction, replaying our last consultation. "You know, you really shouldn't make light of what I've told you."

"What was that? I have memory problems."

The man with the rifle lifted it across his chest, ostensibly in the hope that I'll have a better shot at noticing it now. He matter-of-factly said; "Your existence is getting to be a menace to the rural tranquility."

"My apologies to the rural tranquility."

He picked up speed, walked right over to me and grabbed me by my shirt collar. "No more playful conversation, funnyman. You are never going to get George Carlin's job." I considered telling him that I certainly have not applied for George Carlin's job and didn't want it, but under the circumstances decided to remain silent. "I'm going to tell you one last time that you are close to being the victim of a hunting accident."

"I thought you said you weren't hunting."

He looked at me with a mixture of disgust and disbelief and said; "You know what I'm saying. If you feel like taking your chances, come back here again." He released my collar and turned back to the house. I was proud of myself. If you have to have an enemy, it never hurts to have that enemy think you're a little crazy.

When he got back near the lady in black he said, inaudibly to me; "I never thought that I'd be getting involved in murder, but that pest has got to be out of the picture one way or another." She flatly replied, "Don't tell me you are having moral considerations." He could have answered that in a number of ways, but decided to hold his tongue. He had already engaged in sufficient pointless badinage for one day and was getting bored.

Despite having been successful at appearing amused in the face of danger, my shortly lost feeling of isolation and fragility returned. Rather than attempting to continue my journey, I walked right back home intending to shut myself in for the night and was looking forward to my partner's reappearance tomorrow morning.

### Chapter 9

It was still too early to sleep, so I turned the television on to some news program, not paying any attention to it, but appreciating the sound of company. While I prepared food, I thought it was about time to eliminate the wine and settle for coffee. I had to think as straightly as my brain could manage. While I looked forward to seeing Butch tomorrow, I also realized that this project was not exactly his idea and even if that was not a problem, he probably would show up drunk and he just might do something that would result in both of us being killed. While the news announcer showed concern he reiterated the day's account of wars, murders and fires, my mind wandered. The odds of a team succeeding is probably very low, when that team is 50% brain damaged and the other 50% is inebriated. Half plus half equals one; Team is at least two. On second thought, I decided that the opposing teams were similarly comprised and that Butch and I had some advantage, if only because we knew it. I also knew that this could be my last evening on earth, though that was not a high likelihood and decided to call Diane though I really didn't know what I wanted to say to her. I certainly didn't want to tell her tomorrow's plans because she'd disapprove, possibly worry and definitely harangue me about it. I dialed her number.

"Diane Jensen speaking."

"Hi, Edward Jensen here."

"Is this important? I'm really swamped."

"No." I paused, but before she could cut the conversation, I blurted out, "Only that I think I love you."

She laughed warmly, "Why are you saying that?"

"I really don't know. I really don't know you, either. But, it dawned on me that the little I know of you I like a lot and I just want you to know that."

"Why now? What's wrong?"

"Nothing." I realized I must have made this sound too urgent, suggesting some possible finality. "When are you going to visit here?"

"I hadn't planned to for at least a month. I'd like to step that up a bit and pawn off some of this crap to co-workers, but that's not really a good idea. I'd like to be with you now. It must be difficult with some degree of memory problem."

"Thanks for the thought. But, I'm doing pretty well. Maybe this world doesn't require anyone to be super sharp to get by. AND, I think I made a friend down the road, who....."

She cut me off; "I'm glad you made a friend, but I've really got to get moving here. Love you, Chubby."

She hung up before I could make any reply and I settled into watching and listening to the daily disaster report and was soon asleep.

The television was telling me that it was 8 PM when I woke up to a commercial between segments of a game show. I didn't have anything else to do, so I watched the show in the dark, sitting up on the couch. It felt safe there. But, eventually I had to go to the bathroom and once I was up I decided to satisfy my hunger. I went into the kitchen and heated up some more hamburgers. The kitchen windows faced the yellow house, but are separated by about 100 feet of dense woods and shrubs. In the dark I could see lights, probably car headlights, coming into or out of its driveway. After I finished eating, it seemed to me that some surveillance was necessary. At the very least maybe I could find out how many people were possible enemies. I didn't know if that information would be of any use, but concluded it couldn't hurt. I wondered if I wasn't acting like Miss Marple. I've read a few of Agatha Christie's books and have seen some TV adaptations. I can't remember any specifics, but wasn't Miss Marple always nosing around where she shouldn't be? I recall a local cop trying to get her not to be meddlesome. And look how long she lived. No sweat.

Not turning on any more lights than the kitchen chandelier, which was already on, I exited another door as quietly as possible. My eyes soon acclimated to the dark, using the warm night's half-moon. There was a gentle breeze, rustling around leaves, so, hopefully no small noise I inadvertently made would command any attention. I walked through the woods which separated the yellow house from mine, taking a seat on the ground approximately ten feet from the property line, hopefully covered by the trees and the darkness. The goddamn bats came back. I could see 40 of them flying low in the open areas around the house. I wondered if I was dreaming again and if so, how could I wake myself up before another bat gets on my head. I know, in reality, that they are hunting insects, but if this was some alternative reality, they might be hunting me. When they seemed to consistently stay in the open area, shunning the woods I felt better.

I couldn't see any activity. There were four cars in the driveway, including the red Toyota hatchback. The shades and blinds were all pulled down, but revealed that lights were on in every visible room window. I soon changed my mind and decided that it was a very stupid idea for me to be here under the circumstances. I thought that the best thing to do was to go back to my house quietly. When I started to get up, one of the doors opened and two men came outside. One was the guy who had already given me two warnings and he was talking heatedly to another guy, sizeable, but a bit smaller. I didn't see any guns and sat still. Their voices carried very well in the night's quiet. The first guy, my acquaintance spoke first; "I'm not giving you any money. Things are just not working."

The second guy waved his arm across his lower body and said; "I was told that my job was just to deliver them. Anything else is your problem."

"Not exactly. Yeah, your job is to deliver them, but they're supposed to be cooperative. I can't get these two to do anything."

"They were cooperative until they met you. It's your problem and I want my money."

"The bottom line is that I'm not paying you a god damn thing until they perform as required."

"This is getting to be a real pain in the ass. I delivered them, you fucked it up and I get screwed out of my money? Bull-fucking-shit." The second guy moved forward and re-installed his face one foot from number one's and looked directly into his eyes, intending nothing amorous.

The lady in black came out of one of the doors and the two silently watched her walk over to them. She said; "While you two jackasses were out here arguing, I got some cooperation going. They've gotten their clothes off and are being filmed. Is everybody happy?"

The first guy said; "Yeah."

The second guy had a slightly different take and said; "Yeah, as soon as fat boy gives me my money."

The first guy showed some annoyance, pointed a finger toward number two's face and said; "You always have to push, don't you? You'll get it as soon as the film is fucking completed."

The lady in black said in a bored tone; "End of conversation. Everyone gets what they want. In the meantime, I don't want either of you two loudmouths scaring the kids again. So stay out of the filming room until I come get you." She quickly walked alone back to the house and went in. The other two held back silently for a while.

The first guy had to keep talking; "It sounds like you will be getting your money, but I want to get one thing straight with you for next time."

The second guy grimaced disparagingly and answered; "What makes you think there is going to be a next time?"

The first guy affected the same look and said; "Cause scumbags like you always come back for the easy money."

The second guy showed that he was no slouch in the finger department and said; "Fuck you, fat ass. You're not the only producer in the state."

The first guy, feigning disgust, said; "Whatever. I just want to make this clear for you. If you decide to chauffer kids here again, you're not getting a nickel until the movie is finished. If you bring over willing kids who get unwilling when they're here, it's your tough shit." Not seeing any reason to continue the conversation, he turned away and went back to the house, entering a back door not used by the lady in black and avoiding the filming room. After about fifteen seconds, the second guy went the same route as the first.

I was relieved that I was again alone outside and headed back to my house. As I walked I realized that I was again disturbed. To listen to two adult males, without any physical signs of sickness talk about willing and unwilling kids, films and payments was just too low to me. Don't people engaging in these kinds of activities develop some physical sign of it, like drooling at the mouth; hands stuck in their pants or hunched backs. When they look like anyone else you can meet at a suburban mall, where can you go? I made it back to the house, apparently unnoticed, made something to eat, sat in front of the television and eventually fell asleep on the couch. I really didn't see what was on the TV in the least, my mind not able to extricate itself from what had been heard, confirming my previous thoughts of serious trouble.

I had an unusual dream, in that I knew that I was dreaming while I was in it. I was walking by the yellow house and the lady in black was alone in front of it. She gave me what was getting to be our customary greeting. I made an exaggerated kiss in her direction while turning the same way. Her demeanor changed a bit and she said; "Want to make a movie?"

"Sure, if you're the co-star."

"I'm a producer, not an actress."

"You are too an actress, perhaps not yet on film."

"And never will be."

I said; "All right, let's leave the camera off."

She smiled at me and said; "What kind of roles do you specialize in?" pulling open her long suede coat to reveal that her only other adornment was her high heeled boots.

Goddammit, just when the conversation was starting to get interesting the line between dream and reality returned and I could no longer see the interesting lady. In place of her was a very uninteresting television set, so I closed my eyes to again sleep, thinking about the dexterous one and hoping to see her friend who carried Tootsie Rolls.

### Chapter 10

I woke the next morning to an already risen sun doing its best to peek out from sky covering dark clouds, nothing to get excited about, but a distinct improvement over the previous night's half mooned queasy darkness. The news anchor was in a particularly jovial mood as he wryly told of the record turnout at the previous night's NASCAR event in Indianapolis. Apparently the crowd got so excited, when in the first drag event; a local racer set a new track record that they left the stands and milled about on the racing area. They wanted to personally congratulate their local hero so much, that they put an end to the night's events, refusing to return to their seats.

I went to the kitchen to get some sausage and eggs, thinking about what kind of mood Butch would be in today. I'm the one who's in danger. He isn't yet, unless he manages to get that way because of me. It's really asking a lot of him to get involved in my problems. What if the situation were reversed? Would I put myself in danger to help some new acquaintance? I really didn't know and without the memory of past some experiences, I had no idea of what I'd previously done in any similar situation, if anything. This does seem unusual, though and most likely I've never before been involved in this kind of crap. Since no one had elected to shoot at me yet, perhaps I could get out of the whole mess, merely by not walking past the yellow house anymore. I could walk the other way and hope that I don't run into anything criminal there, I guess. I could also go out of my way to avoid the lady in black, if I ever come near her at the reservoir again.

A deep blue 1975 Camaro pulled into my driveway. I hope they don't have weapons. What can I do if they're armed? They'll probably try to enter the backdoor. Maybe I can get out of the front door and get to the woods. They might not be able to find me there. I might also be able to get to someone's house. Then I saw Butch get out of the car.

I went out the backdoor to greet him and said; "You asshole, you scared the shit out of me."

Butch said; "That's a nice way of saying good morning."

"You know I'm freaked out about the people next door and you show up in a strange car. I thought people with guns were coming."

Laughing, Butch said; "I didn't bring my gun today."

I couldn't help laughing, too and said; "You should have."

"Why, I'm not doing any kind of hunting."

"Come on in for a while. Where did you get the new car?" I led him to the kitchen table and we both sat.

"That's really my brother's. He left it when he moved out. My other car got a little fucked up in the ditch in front of your house."

"What happened to it?"

"I don't know, but it makes a rattling sound in the front. Sounds like some piece of metal got loose."

"Fine. Fine. You're forgiven for taking ten years off my life. So, what are we going to do about the creeps next door?"

"I don't know what you're going to do. I don't plan on doing a whole lot myself."

"Oh, come on. You know yourself that there's something evil over there. You said you would yesterday."

"I'm not sure exactly what I said yesterday and neither are you. I think I only promised to be here at 10AM. I do know that the Masons own the property and I don't want to get into any shit with Joe."

"Joe may not be involved. He may just think that he's rented the house to hunters from another part of the state, as usual."

"Maybe, maybe not."

"When you got out of your car, I noticed a flag decal of the good old US of A. They shouldn't be doing that kind of shit here. Keep it in Thailand, or wherever else it comes from."

"You don't pay attention very well. I told you that is my brother's car. I don't have a flag decal on mine."

"Well, forget that then. How about just because it's the right thing to do?"

"Hey, Ed, Ed. Relax man. Let's take a drive to the food store and stock up."

"How can I relax when my ass is about to be grass?"

Butch didn't reply, got up from the table and headed to the back door. I followed him to his brother's car and got in the passenger seat.

It was an overcast humid day, threatening to drizzle at any time. We started driving and when we passed the yellow house, I noticed two cars in the driveway. Some guy I didn't recognize was standing next to one of them and I could see him look our way.

"I think you just got in trouble, man. Now, they know you're with me."

"You keep forgetting that this is not my car. He didn't get a good look at me. If they come looking for my brother, they'll have a hell of a time finding him. He's stationed in Saudi Arabia now."

"Army?"

"Yeah, career."

We continued on. Everything looked dismal in the gray morning. We were quiet for a while and when we got to town, I noticed something that got my curiosity going. In the midst of a lot of lesser houses stood a new brick Georgian colonial done impeccably. It must have been 6,000 square feet while the others ranged from 2,000 to 3,500. It just seemed out of place. It should have been born someplace else. I wondered what the neighbors thought. Did they appreciate its beauty, or did they consider it ostentatious and begrudge it, secretly proud that someone considered their neighborhood good enough for something so fine and big. I decided that the neighbors probably would honestly answer yes to all of the aforementioned, depending on the day of the week and recent bowel movements.

I said; "Did you ever notice that brick house?"

"No, where?"

"Ah, we just passed it."

"I'm going to go a different way today."

Instead of continuing through the houses, he went down a side road, exiting on a road with nothing, but a park-like area with benches, parallel to the river. He drove slowly, as ducks would cross the road at times, often in a silly procession, acting as if they owned the place. We saw a few people sitting and a few walking around and looking at the old maintained outbuildings. It seemed very pleasant and then I saw it. At the bend in the river stood a four level old red mill with its turning wheel in the water, slightly upriver from a 20 foot waterfall.

Butch must have noted my expression of awe and said; "This mill has been on the cover of many magazines about New Jersey. It's a standard feature in all the calendars. It might be the prettiest spot in the state."

He pulled into a gravel parking area near the mill and stopped the car. He silently got out and I did the same. We walked to the mill entrance. The first level was actually made of stone, something like a foundation, but at least ten feet high. No one else was inside though there was a closed admission area and a closed gift shop. We looked around at the ancient farm tools and huge wooden wheels of all sorts. We went up stairs to the second and third floors, seeing more of the same, though the walls changed from first level's stone to the opposing side of red wooden clapboard. The roof had a severely sloping uneven line, culminating in a 200 square foot room on the fourth and top level, which had nothing in it, albeit a few windows.

I said; "I wonder what they did up here."

"I used to wonder that too. But, I think I figured it out. They came here to hide."

We were silent for a few minutes, looking at the views upriver and down. Butch then said; "I used to come here regularly as a kid. It's so great. I don't think I realized it then, but I used to think that everything would be like this forever."

I noted the sadness in the comment and considered saying nothing, but stupidly asked; "What happened?

Butch made a snorting type of laugh and said; "I got married."

I laughed too.

He continued; "Everybody I know tells me the same story. It's no big deal. What's with you and your wife?"

"I don't know. She sounds fine on the phone. But, things could not have been that great if she's in Seattle and I'm here."

Butch didn't reply, so in a few seconds I continued; "I should have found a photo album. Then at least I'd know what she looks like."

"That doesn't matter much."

"You're probably right."

"That witch I was married to was pretty typical. Like many, she initially said she wanted to live in rural beauty, escaping from some suburban misery she no longer wanted. After about a week she started to try to change her new home to what she left behind. It's stupid and she's far from unique. Probably, pretty common."

I realized that I didn't know where I stood on that one, as I didn't even know if I was born here or moved here from elsewhere. However, I didn't have any inclination to change anything other than my neighbor. Maybe, I'll change my mind in a week. Before allowing the conversation to become too maudlin or questioning, I said; "What we need to do is continue on our mission. It's pretty late in the morning not to have yet tasted any happy water. We might be withdrawing. Let's get good and drunk. You can complain about your former wife and I can complain about my lost life and dangerous neighbors."

"Sounds good."

We walked downstairs and when we got outside we noticed about five fishermen in hip boots. They were standing in a shallow part of the river near shore, casting fishing lines further out.

I said; "They're after trout, aren't they?"

"Probably. One thing for sure though, is that they are going to have a great day."

"We can do the same thing if we want to."

"I guess so."

We got to the Camaro and headed to the food/liquor store. As we walked in I said; "Maybe we'll get lucky and meet some adventurous wine guzzling females."

"As long as it's not my wife, it's okay with me." He paused a few seconds; then said; "But, you're married, right?"

I made a face at him and said in a pejorative way; "Yeah, yeah."

We instinctively headed to the appropriate aisle with Butch pushing the cart. No one else was in it when we got there.

Butch said; "The word's out."

"I don't understand."

"Probably, by now, the whole town knows about our inappropriate behavior and comments from the last time we were here."

"That was no big deal."

"You don't know small towns, buddy. You watch. As long as we stay in this aisle, no one else will come in, until the manager finds some reason to help us."

"That's all just weird to me. I didn't think any place was that bored."

Butch laughed; "Why are you thinking so much? You have to ration it and save up for something important. Take my word on this one."

I mumbled; "Like what? Some body trying to kill me?" I took a look at the wine section and made a few choices. Butch kept to his customary beer specialty. I said; "I'm surprised you don't get fat drinking all that beer."

"Fat doesn't run in my family."

"Yeah, but lots of people have beer bellies."

"That's what they call them. There are a lot of fat people and they all have excuses for it. You can just pick whichever one you're most comfortable with; beer, diabetes, fat mother, blah, blah, blah."

That made a lot of sense to me, so I made no reply. We filled up the cart with our preferences and headed for the check-out line. I saw two people quickly enter the liquor aisle.

Butch volunteered to pay this time. He informed me that his parents went to gamble in Atlantic City, so he wanted to go back to his house today. He had some things he wanted to show me there. That was fine with me and we quietly drove back. When we got near the yellow house, we noticed that a large tree limb was down on the road right in front of it, blocking the way.

I said; "This is getting ridiculous now. I really don't want to see these fucking assholes. If they'd keep their goddamn property clear, we wouldn't have to get stuck stopping." Worse, two cars were in the driveway including the red Toyota hatchback.

We drove up to the log and stopped. I got out and tried to move it, but needed help. Butch got out and grabbed the other end and we carried it off the road placing it in the two foot ditch on the border of the yellow house property. We started back to the idling car when both the lady in black and the 230 pound guy came out of the back door about 200 feet from us. He had his now customary rifle. I got pissed at again having gotten stuck with the creeps. I live here and would occasionally like to take an unmolested walk or drive down a public road.

I yelled out; "Bring that mother fucking gun near me again and it's going to get stuck up your fat fucking ass." They both stopped near the house, said nothing, but stared at us. Butch gave me a questioning look.

I continued; "Nobody has any interest in you or whatever the fuck you're doing inside. So quit being fucking stupid and advertising your worries. I don't give a flying fuck about how many little boys you give blow jobs to, faggot."

With that we went back into the car and drove away. The two occupants of the house had a need for discussion. The lady in black said; "Well, it looks like he has your number."

"This is no joke. He knows what we're doing in here."

"Correction, what you're doing."

"Oh, right, you have no part. Whatever. If people find out what's going on here, you'll be arrested, just like me. So, what do you think we should do, especially now that there are two of them?"

The lady calmly replied; "I checked with Joe. Neither of them have any credibility. One's a hopeless drunk and the other has brain damage. They both have already filed police reports, but the cops know them and Joe. If they wind up dead, the public record has a strong suggestion of the primary suspect. Let's take him at his word, for now and say that he really doesn't want to be bothered. It's the easiest and least dangerous way. I'll start looking for another rental elsewhere to continue business."

"That's a pain in the ass and it's hard to find a place with this much privacy."

"We're making enough money to afford a short break and I'll find one, if not in Jersey, then Pennsylvania. What better idea do you have? You don't even know how to shoot that fucking gun straight, anyway?"

He was having a bad day, being insulted from all directions, but he saw the logic of what she said. This profession was quick becoming nowhere as easy as he originally thought. He tried to focus on the money rolling in. He went back in the house, silently. She stared down the road at nothing for a few seconds and then followed him back in.

### Chapter 11

Butch and I continued our drive down Baptist Church Road. Butch was having a mixed reaction to the prior events. He said; "I'm glad you're not scared of the grave anymore, but now they've gotten a good look at me."

"Sorry, I just lost it. I've had enough problems in life, to put up with any bullshit from perverts who don't even live here."

"Would it be okay if the perverts did live here? Didn't you ever learn to leave bad enough alone?"

I laughed and didn't have any bright answer. Butch made a left onto a gravel driveway no more than a mile from my house. We bumped down a long tree lined road with grass growing out of the gravel in many spots.

In a bit of a clearing I first saw the house and an unattached garage. He parked the car in the garage. We got out and he closed the garage door behind us. He said; "I don't need anybody seeing that car now."

"I guess you usually leave it outside?"

"Yeah."

While walking down the brick path from the garage to the house, I got my first view of it. It was a single story structure covered by old aluminum siding made to look like clapboard. It would have to be described as greenish, because the years had faded some parts much more than others. Windows were of a graying white vinyl material and many were open. The gambrel roof was covered with new gray shingles. He led me to the heavy wooden front door stained a reddish brown, opened it with no key and we went in. In general the furniture looked like something from Sears, somewhat colonial and somewhat contemporary, the wooden portions stained anywhere from light brown to clear. We walked into a red carpeted family room and I sat down on the plaid couch.

Butch said; "Oh, shit. You've got me thinking about your neighbors so much, I forgot the alcohol in the car."

I started to get up. "Stay there," he said; "I'll get it myself." He went back out the way he entered. While he was gone I eyeballed the room. The wall pictures were actually some knitted material and consequently had a woven texture and exhibited natural scenes, ranging from a huge red barn to a boat docking at a pier. The other most significant features were free standing lightly stained wooden shelves, which held things like records, C/D's, the television, turntable and speakers. There was a noticeable lack of books. The few present were travel or other picture books. One we had in common was a picture book about Africa, titled " _The Tree Where Man Was Born_."

I heard Butch come back in the house, stopping in the kitchen to put away the contents of the shopping bags. I joined him, opening one of my wine bottles and pouring a glass. He was content with his bottled beer and wanted to have an early lunch. Noting that he may have considered me a bit silly and pretentious for having the audacity to require a glass, I facetiously said; "A glass infers dignity and commands respect."

He said; "The last command I got was from my wife and you might note that she is conspicuous, only in her absence. I got some pre-made hero sandwiches in the kitchen. Want one?"

"Sure," my recent outburst probably increasing my appetite.

I followed him back into the kitchen.

"I'm not going to bring this up again," he said; "But, Ed, you must not have grown up around here. You would have learned early on that you never argue with a man with a gun unless you have one too."

"What can I say? I'm sorry. I can't help it though and it will probably happen again. When somebody pisses me off enough, I just see red and don't give a shit what happens next. It's like "You're going to have to shoot me, mother fucker," and I'm still here, so I guess nobody's had the balls to shoot me yet. I must be bulletproof"

"You're lucky you haven't met some of the people I know."

"If they didn't give me any bullshit, we'd have no problem."

We took our drinks and heroes back to the family room. I took the couch and he a light blue upholstered chair. After ten silent seconds I added; "You should know by now that I'm not going to flip out on you, even when you scare the shit out of me. So, what was it you wanted to show me here anyway?"

"First, I've got a new video game that a cantankerous son of a bitch like you ought to love. It's something like a shooting gallery with moving objects. The winner gets the most hits in a minute."

He showed me how to play the game and operate the plastic handgun. He won all the games, though a few were close. I tried to watch what he was doing. Some large slow targets had a low point value, while small quick ones had a higher value. He seemed to shoot at whatever came on the screen, regardless of size, as I copied. He was just better at it.

We played for about 45 minutes, finishing our heroes, me on my fourth wine glass and he finishing off his fifth bottle of beer.

I said; "Have you got anything else to show me?"

"Sure, but I don't feel like moving."

We laughed.

He moved minimally to take out a record album and put it on softly. It was the Eagles " _Desperado"_ album which I knew well and liked.

He said; "I was going to show you some pictures of my bitch ass former wife and where we used to live. It's near here. But, now it seems stupid. It's impossible to tell our story adequately. It started. It ended. I'm here. She's there. Fuck it and fuck her."

"At least show me a couple of pictures. You don't have to add sound."

He got out a nearby photo album, sat on the couch next to me and started flipping through the pages. When I saw pictures of the smiling pretty young girl and Butch, I couldn't help wondering what happened to that happiness, but knew better than to ask. It must have happened quickly too, because he's 35 and has been drunk, living with his parent for five years. I saw pictures of him and his brother as kids and his parents at different ages. I asked some questions like "Who is that?" or "Where was that?" which he answered. Butch wanted to keep looking at the album, but also didn't want to be reminded and didn't want to look and sound like a sorry story, so he closed the book before getting to the end. The alcohol must have been doing its work. Butch's face was becoming more emotional by the second. He said; "Well, now you know that I wasn't always this fuck up that you see now."

"Who said you're a fuck up?"

"I did. Everyone does. You, too."

"No. You fucked up my mailbox, but that's kind of minor."

He laughed; "I fixed it, though."

"Yeah, pretty well."

He got up and went to the television and said; "Do you want to play the video game some more?"

"No, not now." I got up and started toward the door. "I'm going to walk home and enjoy the quiet. Then, I want to talk to Diane and see what else I can learn about her and me."

"Which way are you going to walk?"

"Right down Baptist Church Road."

"I know a better walk. You can go through the woods following deer paths."

"I don't know what a deer path looks like."

"It's easy. Many people miss them, but wherever you see grass flattened out, that was done by deer. Sometimes it's not obvious to the uninitiated."

"If I get on this path, how do I know it will lead me home?"

"Because the reservoir is east of here and that's where the deer really live. During hunting season, the hunters go to the reservoir, which is public land. As soon as they show up, the deer herds head west, passing through your property and mine."

"Pretty smart, huh?"

"Yeah."

"All right. If they can do it, I'll give it a try."

He got up and we walked out to his backyard. He led me to the woods and pointed out the first deer path he saw and said; "Try this one. If you get confused about direction, just remember that at this time of day the sun should be behind you."

I started down the path and said; "See you tomorrow."

Butch went in the empty house and immediately started thinking about some of the pictures he saw in the photo album. He started to cry. He was glad Ed and his parents were gone. He had gone over it millions of times before. He remembered how he met her when they were both in high school. He remembered how he soared with the wonderful feeling that this would go on forever. Exactly what happened gets cloudy and nonsensical. The present was clear and obvious. She was there. He was here. And there is no chance for any kind of reconciliation. After the split, he spoke to her on a few occasions, but the conversations were impossible as so many words were now loaded. He remembered that when things were going well, she'd sometimes let something upset her and he would go over to her. He'd hold her hands and look into her eyes. He wanted to stop these thoughts and go to sleep, hoping that he wouldn't dream.

### Chapter 12

As Butch had said, the path wasn't hard to follow. It was useful because I was able to avoid all the un-passable areas. Some wild rose bushes grew in the area, which have thorns like small razors. Wise hunters used heavily lined pants. I was enjoying the walk when I saw another person 200 feet ahead. When I got closer I saw it was a guy of about 55, about 5'7" and 140 pounds.

He said; "Do you know this is private property?"

"I'm sorry. I really didn't think about it."

When we got ten feet apart he said; "For Christ's sake. You're Ed Jensen. I never saw you here before."

"I'm glad you know me. I don't know if I've been here before. I woke up with some memory loss a few days ago."

He looked at me like I was a strange bug for a few seconds. He then said; "Are you lost?"

"Not in the sense you mean." When he didn't laugh, I added; "Not right now, no. I'm walking from Butch's house to mine, which should be fairly near here."

"It is. I have my cows on one of your borders."

"Oh, good. Again, my apologies, I won't do this again."

"Don't worry about it. Butch comes through here regularly. He thinks I don't see him."

I laughed. Then he did. He added; "Well, if you really have memory problems, you probably don't remember that I owe you a favor. Anyway, a few years ago my cows got out onto your property. I wasn't home. So my wife went over to your house and you got the cows back where they belong."

"It's hard to believe I did that one."

"Well, you didn't do it the conventional way." He paused, then added; "My wife told me at first you said you didn't know anything about cows. When she told you she didn't know what to do and her husband wasn't home, you said you'd try something. She said you ran right at the cows yelling and they took off running and jumped the fence back to where they belonged." He laughed, "I wish I'd have seen it."

"It sounds like I had a really lucky day. That's nice to know. Right now, boy oh boy."

"Butch can be a pain in the ass, but he's really a good guy."

"Oh no, I didn't mean that. Something's going on at the Mason house and I've had a few interludes with gun carrying, threatening people."

He looked at me coldly for a few seconds, then said; "It was probably hunters."

My instincts told me the best thing to say was; "Yeah, probably. This memory shit is probably upsetting me more than anything else."

"I can't imagine what that would be like."

"It's weird. I didn't know things like my name, where I lived, what job I used to do, or anything important. But, I also have some kind of instincts that probably make sense to no one else."

"Well, if you feel like walking here again, I hope I'm here to say hi. I've got to get going on some chores."

He turned and walked back toward his house. I said "Bye."

I continued on home, thinking that this guy didn't want to hear anything bad about the Masons or their property. Butch must be right that they're hot shit around here. I passed by the cows, getting a full appreciation of their size and my bravery when I charged them. I saw my house and veered left, off the deer path, crossed the bridge over the stream and went inside.

I went to the kitchen and took some hamburgers out of the freezer and put them in the microwave. While they were heating up, I looked around for photo albums. I found two in one of the kitchen closets buried under some house related papers. I put them on the kitchen table and stared out the window into space as the microwave did its work. I was thinking of how Butch seemed to react to his old photos and hoped I wouldn't fall in the same category, but was just about sure that I would. What could have led to my current situation? Maybe things were always something like this, for all I knew. I decided that the pictures wouldn't tell me much, as they are usually taken at happy events and don't generally convey what anyone was feeling or expecting at the time. I'd have to infer many things that might not be true. The microwave buzzer went off and I took the burgers to the table and poured a glass of ice tea to keep them company. I sat down and bravely opened the books. This was more difficult than yelling at the bum next door. The beginning of the book had a disproportionate number of pictures of my current residence. There were no people, just the house. It must have been a major milestone in our lives. Further on there were lots of pictures of different cats taken here and some other house. I guess they're all gone, but I'll later ask Diane that one. Maybe she has them. I started seeing photos of some woman, presumably Diane, as some were taken in unfamiliar locations, but some at this house. I wasn't in any of them. One in particular intrigued me. She was sitting on a log by the stream, staring wistfully at something away from the camera. It was not enough of a close up to tell her age, but I'd have to guess around 30. She had long curly brown hair, which appeared blond where the sun directly hit it. She wore a tight white blouse and blue shorts, her long white legs in full view. There were no leaves on the bushes or trees, so it must have been a warm late winter sunny day. I'd like to have climbed into the picture. I finished the burgers quickly, then brought the phone to the table and called her.

"Diane Jensen, speaking."

"Hi. You know you're a great looking girl."

"And I had to go and marry you."

"Do you remember a picture of you sitting by the stream?"

"There are probably a few. We took a lot of pictures like that when we first moved to this house."

"When was that?"

"1983, I think. It was a happy time."

"I hope you still look and dress like that."

"What was I wearing?"

"A tight white blouse and blue shorts."

"Oh, I only dress like that around you and family. I wear other things out here."

"Too bad you're not around me now. I also saw a lot of cat pictures. Are they still around somewhere?"

"No. We got them when we lived in the first house. They lived about 16 years and all died around the same time. It was horrible. We said we'd never get another group of the same age."

"I guess that answers my questions for the day. I'm in a weird mood. I haven't been thinking about anything practical. I'd like to remember other times. I'm also wondering what the hell happened to us."

"Don't waste your time on that one. The answer is very simple. That goddamn brain tumor of yours was like an explosion and at the same time all the financial considerations turned sour. It was one hell of a two year period. So, with that, I'm going to hang up because I'm at work and have to stay focused on that. Love you, chubby." She hung up.

I again wondered where this chubby stuff came from. Neither of us seemed to fit the bill. The full stomach, the wine consumed and my dreamy mindset led me to the couch, where I laid down and slept for a while, dozing off staring at the forest through the window.

When I woke up it was still daylight and I wanted to be outside. I didn't want to walk by the yellow house again, so I drove the car, intending to go to the reservoir. When I passed the yellow house, there were no cars in the driveway, so I considered the possibility of the lady in black also being at the reservoir. I changed my plans and drove to the town desiring to get to the red mill area again.

I was successful and parked the car on the road adjacent to the property, leaving me with a 2000 foot walk to the mill itself. There weren't any people in the immediate vicinity, so I walked along the river enjoying the view in all directions, when, it was beginning to seem inevitably, my day was ruined. At a distance of 500 feet, I could see her walking toward me. I was sure who it was because of the unchanging outfit. We continued on our set courses and when we got close, I said; "Can I go anywhere without having to see you?"

She answered; "I could say the same thing."

I got pissed. "You tell me to mind my own business and to leave you alone and then you constantly park your ass right next to me."

"I come here because I didn't want to run into you at the reservoir."

I sighed, recalling that I did precisely the same thing.

She continued; "You know, I'm really starting to get freaked out. We're giving your nosy ass every chance to remain healthy and you keep pushing your luck."

I didn't like the threat, but rather than confront it directly, I said; "Perhaps I'm hopelessly attracted to your deviate outfit. Do you ever change it?"

We crisscrossed and continued to move. She said; "I do believe you like my deviate outfit. A lot of old farts do. But, I'm going to tell you, one last time, that you are putting your health in serious jeopardy. I'm not kidding." She stopped and reversed direction, probably heading back to where her car was parked. She walked fast, brushing by me. I considered tripping her, but decided against it. I didn't know what to do, so I stood still watching her walk. When she was 30 feet away my annoyance said; "I guess I should be grateful that on this walk I didn't have fifty bats chasing me around. Only one."

Though I don't think she understood the real meaning of the statement, I was sure that she would incorrectly insert her own insulting one and I could see her bristle, but she said nothing. It looked as if she started to and then stopped. I turned around to get back to my car and since I was in a bad situation, I decided to see how much help the police could be counted on for. To tell them about a weird lady in black would only further their negative opinion of me, so I thought I'd follow up on any progress made on my previous report.

I drove to the station and got to see Sergeant Mobley, who was given my earlier report. I was led to his office, went in and took a seat. He entered a few minutes later saying; "Mr. Jensen pleased to meet you."

"Pleased to meet you, Sergeant Mobley."

"I guess you're here about that report you filed the other day."

"Yes."

"Well you don't have anything to worry about. I drove by a few times and did not see anything unusual. When someone was outside, I stopped to talk to him. He's a hunter, who has rented that house off and on for years. I confirmed that with Joe Mason."

"Did you go inside?"

"I had no warrant."

"Isn't threatening someone with a gun some sort of crime?"

Mobley got very firm; "The only evidence of any threat is your say so and quite frankly, your say so doesn't carry a whole lot of weight around here. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. What you need to do is find something to do other than spying on your neighbors."

He got up from his seat and left the room. I considered telling him that if I needed to do anything at all, that he would be the last one to figure out what it was. But, this commentary would probably turn a slightly poor situation into a contentious one. I had completed the purpose of my visit. I was now sure that the police would be absolutely no help.

I drove back home. It was more ominous than usual in the dark. But, my anger kicked in and I said to myself; "Fine, I'll handle this alone. Any helpers would only fuck up the plan anyway."

I didn't want to talk to Diane about my dangerous situation, because, out of concern she would probably give me a lot of advice, which if followed, would result in my doing nothing. But, I wanted to talk to her somehow gently conveying the idea that I'd really like to meet her, but maybe this will be goodbye. I called the appropriate number and got the usual reply;

"Diane Jensen, speaking."

"Hi Diane Jensen, this is your 3000 mile away husband. Can I have five minutes of your time?"

"Now is a good time. What do you want to know?"

"Nothing in particular. Why don't you just tell me about yourself for a while?"

"I'm a fantastic person, who is working hard to make the best of things in a difficult situation."

"That's what everybody thinks of themselves. Tell me things unique to you."

"That's a difficult story to tell in five minutes or less."

"All right, I'll be more specific. How do we get along?"

"We've been married for 19 years. We've gotten along and not gotten along all kinds of ways in that time. Sometimes, I want to kill you. Look at that pen and ink drawing in the main bedroom. I drew it. That's me wearing that hooded cloak. Under it I have a knife and I'm on my way to kill you."

"What made you change your mind?"

"Nothing, really. I was never seriously going to do it, but at certain times the thought crossed my mind. Didn't you ever think about killing me?"

"No, but I don't have 19 years of experience with you."

"I can be stubborn and willful when I feel like it. At times I just make up my mind what's right for me and the hell with everybody else, including you."

I liked the answer. It showed honesty and it also sounds a lot like the way I'm feeling now. I didn't want to say that, however, as the conversation could lead to my current situation. I said; "Maybe I'm a little like that too."

"You are. But not as often as me. That's when I think about killing you."

"What kind of things did we do when we first met?"

"We spent a lot of our free time in the Village, going to poetry readings, plays and bookstores. We also spent a lot of time at a restaurant in Jersey City, where we lived, called "The Griddle." It was really funky and we managed to get thrown out of it once."

"What did we do?"

"We weren't yet together very long and we couldn't keep our hands off each other."

"Ooh, sounds interesting."

"I found it funny. The Griddle was such a slobby place; I thought we were the only people who were ever asked to leave it. They didn't even ask us to pay for the dinners we were served."

"We must have been really bad."

"I don't think so. The manager, just like many people, probably had hang ups."

"You sound great. We have to have a person to person date soon."

"I think we're going to be limited to the phone for a little while."

"Like phone sex?"

"No. I didn't mean that. What kind of sex can you have on the phone anyway?"

"I don't know, but I've seen ads for it in the papers."

Diane laughed, saying; "Believe me; you're not interested in any of the services."

"Maybe with you."

"You're being very stupid."

"I knew it. I was just trying to make you laugh."

"I think your five minutes is up. Please give me your credit card number. You will be charged 69 dollars."

"Love you, chubby. Don't stay away forever.

"Love you, chubby." She hung up.

I got myself some more ice tea and hamburgers, sat in front of the television and jealously watched the happy contestants jump up and down, scream and clap their hands upon winning their weeklong vacation in Florida. I really wished that I could get enthused by things like that and within half an hour fell asleep, dreaming of being someone else. I was a promising young pitcher, entering a major league ballpark for the first time. What was overwhelmingly obvious was how well it was maintained compared to local parks. There were two decks near the infield and behind home plate. It seated so many, who, one day would come out and watch _me_ show my stuff.

### Chapter 13

I woke up the next morning before sunrise and I was again completely confused about everything. The dark was still ominous and I realized that anyone could sneak up to my house on foot and shoot me right through the screened window. The morning's silence is eerie when you're alone, isolated and in trouble. I took some solace from the thought that since nothing happened yet; it was probably not going to be my final exit today. That thought prompted some brave independent feelings in me. My confusion ended. I had one immediate problem, the people in the house next door and probably Joe Mason. I couldn't count on the police or Butch, so fuck them both. I take better care of things myself anyway. Other people just ask a lot of stupid questions and then proceed to fuck up the job.

I got some coffee, sausage and eggs and then returned to sit in front of the television. I really didn't even notice what was on, as I thought about what I could accomplish alone in the dark. No immediate answer came, but with the slow grudging rise of the sun, various options appeared in the brighter and brighter sky. There was one thing I knew for sure; that I had to remove the tenants from next door, or try to live with perennial fear, which was out of the question. I already had my quota of troubles with memory, being disabled, not being taken seriously, an absentee wife, a lack of money, isolation and possibly a drinking problem. So no more problems can be tolerated. I had my quota.

I decided to perform surveillance. My property is L shaped and cuts behind the yellow house and I thought it was safer to try from that position. It's heavily wooded and I can probably sit out there unnoticed. I made breakfast first. I didn't want to sit out there all day on an empty stomach.

I put on a light green jacket, crossed the bridge over the stream and would soon find a good seat in the woods behind Mason's house. No cars were yet in the driveway. It was probably around 8AM. I sat there for an hour not seeing any activity. Then my old friend's red Toyota hatchback pulled into the gravel driveway. She was with a girl of about 13 and they were talking animatedly, though inaudible to me. They weren't arguing. There was something said that made them both laugh and then they went inside.

About 5 minutes later another car appeared. The big guy with a rifle exited accompanied by a boy of about 13. They didn't speak and also went directly in the house.

"I'm about as sure as one can be about what's going on," I thought to myself. "All we need now is the cameraman." My prediction became accurate in about 30 seconds. "I ought to try predicting things a few years in the future. It would be more of a challenge." I didn't realize it, but I was stupidly starting to feel cocky. As I watched the scraggly looking guy carry his camera to the house, I must have thought that he was walking too slow or something, because I stood up rustling some small broken branches lying on the ground, before he quite got to the door. In the morning silence, he heard the noise, turned his head back in my direction and saw me standing there like a jerk.

He quickly went in and I instinctively started to move, but I had no particular destination in mind. I couldn't go back to my house. I'll go to Butch's through the woods.

My favorite marksman soon came out and apparently saw me about 300 feet away. He took the rifle to his shoulder and fired two shots. I was always amazed hearing gunshots. Most sound so innocuous, like the closing of a hard covered book. I quickly remembered that it was more important to think about the bullets. Fortunately, I didn't feel any pain and I had no idea where the bullets went. Maybe he was shooting blanks. I found my way to one of the deer trails and with the sun in my face I hightailed it in Butch's direction. I didn't imagine fat boy doing too well in the woods. I also hoped not to run into the guy I saw last time out here. I didn't have time for a chat right now. I was lucky on all counts, zigzagging through various paths following the sun.

In about half an hour I got to Butch's house. I knocked on the front door and Butch answered it quickly.

He said; "What can I do for you today, pal?" He didn't look like he was in great shape, holding onto the door for support.

"Can I come in?"

"Sure, come on." As he moved away from the door I could see him stagger and laugh at himself for it. "Watch out for that hole in the ground, it's dangerous."

"I'll tell you what's dangerous. That guy next door to me just took two shots at me."

"No shit," he said half surprised and half concerned. We went into the kitchen and sat at the table.

"I can't go back to my house. I need a place to stay."

"He didn't follow you here?"

"No, I went through the woods."

"You sure?"

"Yes!"

"Fine. You can stay here. I'll just have to think of something to tell my folks other than you're here to stay out of gunfire. What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to accompany you back there and you're going to shoot him, most likely."

"You've got to be out of your mind. If you haven't noticed I'm in no condition to accurately hit a barn."

"I didn't mean right now."

Butch laughed and said; "I'm never in condition anymore. And besides, that's a lot to ask of a new acquaintance."

"You're saying you won't."

"I'm saying I won't."

"Fine, but I can stay here a while."

"I already said sure."

"Thanks. Then just teach me how to use your gun. I'll take it and get him myself."

"This isn't 1870 Dodge City, man. This is work for the cops. Didn't you call them?"

"I spoke to them yesterday and I have no credibility whatsoever. I'm not going back with this story."

"There's a lot to learn about shooting a gun. It will take more than 5 minutes to make sure you don't get killed yourself."

"We have plenty of time. I'm not going back until tomorrow."

"Your brain must be in worse shape than mine."

"So, you tell me, what am I supposed to do? Sit in my house unarmed."

Butch didn't have an answer to that one, so there was a few seconds of silence. He finally said; "Okay, I'll go with you, but I can't shoot him, just like that."

"Fine! Show me how!"

"That's not possible. And I don't want a murder weapon traced to me. Look, I'll go with you tomorrow, but we'll be looking for evidence to bring to the cops, not a dead body."

"What kind of evidence?"

"You say they're doing kiddie porn. Maybe there are some pictures around."

"That sounds like the best idea I've heard all day. You'll bring your gun, just in case, right."

"Damn right. I'll be fine in the morning and we can head out before we start any drinking."

We could hear Butch's parents enter the front door. Loretta and Sam Walker walked in carrying grocery bags. They were in their late fifties and looked to be in good shape. She was wearing baggy blue jeans, a purple blouse and a blue windbreaker. He had tighter jeans, a button up green shirt and an armless brown jacket.

Loretta: "Butch, introduce me to your new friend."

Butch: "Oh sorry, this is Ed." He pondered what he should say next for a few seconds. "He's in town to do some hunting."

Sam: "I've been seeing a lot of deer recently. You came at the right time. I'm Sam and this is Loretta."

Ed: "Glad to meet you both."

Butch: "Is it all right if Ed stays here one or two nights?"

Loretta: "I'm surprised that you even had to ask that. Of course he can."

Sam: "Just let us put away all this stuff and Loretta will fix us all some lunch."

Loretta and Sam went back to the kitchen. I was again alone with Butch.

Ed: "Does your father hunt?"

Butch: "Yes."

Ed: "I never have. If he asks me anything about hunting, I'll blow it."

Butch: "Ah, it really doesn't matter. If the conversation gets too specific, I'll say you're really here to be taught hunting."

Ed: "Why don't I have any luggage?"

Butch: "That's a good one. I don't know. Got it. You already put it in my room."

Ed: "They might look there."

Butch: "No, that would be very unusual. Don't worry about it."

Ed: "All right, let's go get something to eat."

We walked into the kitchen and took seats at the table. Loretta had already put some ham sandwiches on paper plates and served them.

Ed: "Perfect. I could eat a hundred of them."

Sam: smiled; "We'll start charging you when you pass ten."

Loretta: "So, Ed, where did you meet my baby boy?"

Butch: interjected: "He was hunting at the reservoir last year."

Ed: "Yes, your baby boy has quite a presence. I couldn't miss him if I wanted to."

Sam: "How was the hunting last year?"

Ed: "Well, I didn't get anything, but I didn't care. I use the gun as an excuse to be out in the beautiful country."

Sam: "I know a number of people who live in the hills over the reservoir who do the same thing. Loretta, you know Sean and Dennis. I've seen them walking back home with their guns and dogs for years and I've never seen them with any carcasses."

Loretta: "Good for them. And Sam, I can't remember the last time you brought anything back, either."

Sam: "What do you shoot, Ed?"

Butch: "He's going to use one of my guns. We haven't decided which yet."

Ed: "I am very much a novice and Butch shows me a lot of things."

Loretta: "What part of the state are you from?"

Ed: remembering his prior house: "Lakewood, do you know where that is?"

Sam: "That's by the shore, isn't it?"

Ed: "Yes. The first few years we were there my wife and I went to the beach every day we could."

Loretta: "That must be nice."

Ed: "It is or maybe I should say it was. I think I'd rather live out here."

I had finished three sandwiches and had my fill. I finished off the tea given me and everyone else seemed to be doing the same. Sam got up from the table and extended his hand to me saying, "Nice meeting you, Ed. Don't let Butch teach you anything about the right beverages to bring with you."

I shook his hand and smiled as Butch said; "You know, you don't always have to bring up that subject."

Loretta: "Your father was trying to make a joke. Sometimes he's not funny."

Butch: "All right. Sorry."

Sam: "Your mother and I are going to go about our usual routine, so you two have a good time." Everyone got up and went their ways. I followed Butch back to the family room.

Butch said; "Let's play the video game again. When they get out of the kitchen I'll get something good for us to drink." I think he was quite happy to keep winning and when the coast was clear he brought back some beer and wine.

We killed the day like that, not conversing much. When it started to get dark, he showed me his brother's old room and said I could stay there. He said he'd be up very early in the morning and that so should I, so that we could get to Mason's house before sunrise. I went to my room and lay down on the bed. Presumably, Butch did the same thing. I stared at the ceiling as the darkness deepened. Despite being a potential murder victim, for the moment the warmth of the wine and the blankets soothed me and I didn't worry about anything.

### Chapter 14

I was in New York City. I had no car with me. I was walking to Port Authority to get a bus ride home. I didn't know exactly where it was, so I followed the crowd thinking that they were most likely headed that way. Then I somehow lost the crowd and didn't know which way to go. I passed through an Oriental district and got my bearings. I proceeded in the right direction, but surprising me, I saw that I would have to pass through two blocks of ominous looking characters to get to Port Authority. After I was somehow able to deflect some crazy guy holding a knife, I was relieved to enter the bus terminal. I looked up at the clock which said 7 o'clock, probably PM, as it was getting dark. As I walked through the terminal trying to locate where I could buy a ticket, I noticed that the clock was not moving. When I found the right ticket area it was closed. Through there were no directions there informing me, I somehow knew to go to the lower level to find a subsidiary ticket booth. The lower level was poorly lit and contained a number of people aimlessly milling about and some looked like they lived there on the floor. When I found the right place I was told that the last bus had just left a minute ago and that there wouldn't be another until 5 o'clock tomorrow afternoon. I didn't want to spend the night there, so I found another window selling tickets to somewhere reasonably near Clinton, my destination. I'd rather spend the night sleeping somewhere in Flemington than here. I could walk home from there in an hour or two, if I couldn't get a ride. I was glad to see a bus, full of people, displaying the Flemington sign, right behind the ticket window. As it looked as if it was getting ready to depart, I tried to rush the clerk selling tickets, who informed me that all tickets had already been sold and that the bus was full. "When's the next one?" I asked. He said, "Tomorrow." I said, "I can stand. I don't need a seat." He said, "That is not allowed on rides exceeding one hour." The bus started to move. I didn't know what to do or say but wanted to argue with someone, when I felt Butch's hand on my chest, shaking me. He said; "Who are you fighting with. Come on, it's time to get up and start moving."

"Can I get some coffee first?"

"Sure, but don't dawdle. I want to be sure we get to Mason's before sunrise.

I looked at the window and he could sense that I felt it was still pretty dark and there was no rush necessary. So, he said; "If you didn't know it, we're walking."

We made coffee and drank it quickly. Butch was talking at me, giving me instructions, but I really wasn't paying much attention as I couldn't get the dream out of my mind. It was pretty obvious to me that it had to do with not being able to get home. People basically told me I'd have to wait until tomorrow, but I wondered if the stopped clock meant tomorrow would never come. That was about as far as I could take it and then I heard Butch telling me to pay attention.

I said; "All right, all right. It takes a while for the coffee to wake me up. I'm awake now. Tell me what I need to know."

"I'm bringing a gun just in case. You're not going to have one as you'll probably shoot yourself with it."

I widened my eyes and said; "Fine."

"We're looking for pictures, right? Any pictures won't be blowing around in the woods, you know."

"I can't tell you how. This was your bright idea anyway."

"I don't know whose idea this whole stupidity was. Looking for pictures is better than a gun battle."

"Trust me. I'll know how when I see it."

"Like?"

"I don't know. Maybe fucking breaking and entry. I'm not sure yet."

"Let's get going. Just follow me. I can get through these woods with no light."

I followed him out the door and saw that it was overcast. That didn't bother Butch as he led me over the dear trails, at a good pace. I followed pretty well, occasionally tripping over some things in the path while watching for bats. We got behind Mason's yellow house in a half hour without too much trouble. We sat about 200 feet from the house behind some bushes. There were no cars in the driveway for a change, but lights were on in the house.

"I said; do you think anyone is there?"

"I have no idea. Somebody could have been left there overnight."

We sat there for half an hour, listening for sounds of possible cars coming and watching the lit windows for movement inside. We saw and heard nothing human, but I was occasionally distracted by the fifty bats flying low in the area near the house. When one came within fifty feet of us I'd flinch at their wing span and the quick flapping sound. The sun just started peeking out from the hills behind us, when I said; "Let's go look in the windows." I wanted to show Butch that the bats didn't deter me.

He said; "There are still some bats out there."

"Fuck 'em. They're after insects, not us."

Butch said; "I don't know if that's the greatest idea in the world."

"Do you have a better one?"

"Yeah, let's go home, get drunk and play some video games."

"Come on. We didn't make this trip just to turn back. I'm going to try to get a look in the windows whether you come with me or not."

I got up and started to walk through the little bit of forest remaining, when Butch decided to follow me saying; "You must have a knack for getting into trouble."

I didn't answer and crossed the shallow part of the stream and continued on to the house with Butch beside me. He checked his gun, I guess anticipating the possibility of having to fire a quick shot.

I said; "Are you any good with that thing?"

He answered me sarcastically, saying; "No. I've just been carrying one of these things around all my life, looking for a fucking flag to hang on it."

When we looked in one open screened window we both simultaneously said; "Shit." There were photos of kids doing things we didn't think anyone would want to see, pinned to the walls and lying on some furniture in the room. We heard a car's engine in the still morning and instinctively ran back to our bushy hiding place.

A car entered the driveway. It turned out to be the cameraman alone. Before going into the house he stared in our direction a few seconds, probably because we were in the same spot he had seen me yesterday. When he disappeared into the house, Butch said; "Let's get out of here."

I said; "Wait a minute. That's good evidence in there. We have to get it out."

"The guy is in there now, asshole."

"I don't mean right this minute."

"I'm not coming back to do a breaking and entry. Besides, I just thought of something else. If we bring the pictures to the cops they might say they were ours and charge us with something."

"I was thinking the same thing. But what if we could get photos of the photos? It would tie the pictures to the house."

"Can you get a picture through a window?"

"I don't think so, but I might be able to get some through the screen. Let's just stop at my house for a second and I'll pick up my camera."

"I've got one at my house."

"I want to stop there anyway, just to take a look."

After we circled around the woods a bit, we got behind my house and crossed the open area, which is not visible from the yellow house.

After I entered by key it was obvious to me that someone had been there. Some things had been moved and some papers formerly in drawers were lying on tables.

I said; "They must have come here to get me yesterday."

"There are no signs of forced entry."

"I know things have been moved."

"That doesn't make for a strong police report. And are you sure that you're right?"

I said; "Yes, god damn it. But that's irrelevant. I'm not even thinking of going to the cops for this. It would just be useless and it could make some kind of complication."

I found the camera quickly and led Butch back out of the house. We got back on the deer paths and headed back to Butch's.

I said; "We can come back even earlier tomorrow and get some shots."

"I hope you mean photos."

I laughed; "Yeah, photos."

We made the trip quietly, efficiently and most importantly, un-followed. When we got back to Butch's house his parents were having breakfast in the kitchen.

Loretta: "You two back already?"

Butch: "Yeah, you know I like to hunt in the early mornings."

Sam: "Sure. I also see that you're bringing back the usual thing," referring to the lack of dead animals.

I gathered that this was a running joke between father and son and said; "Maybe I'm going to have to get a new teacher."

Butch got indignant; "You know, Dad, all I can do is get up in a perch somewhere near the stream. If the deer don't come by, what am I supposed to do?"

Everyone except Butch laughed.

Loretta: "Nobody here is a venison aficionado anyway. And I'm not interested in cutting anything up." She paused a few seconds, while the others were silent. "And Sam, I can't remember the last time you brought anything back, either."

Everyone, including Butch and Sam, laughed.

Loretta: "Now, everyone, shut up, eat your eggs and drink your coffee."

Butch and I sat at the table and did as we were told and were glad that we did. Loretta put on the radio and we all intently listened to three experts speak vaguely and similarly on the current banking crisis and the "rolling" real estate depression. I might have felt better about being so informed, if at least one expert had a concrete solution.

Ed: "Sam, what do you make of all that?"

Sam: "I was a kid during the 1930's Depression and I've lived through a number of crises. The one thing I'm sure of is that if you know how to do something very well, you'll be all right." He paused a few silent seconds and added; "Like, Butch here won't make a living by hunting, no matter how good or bad the economy is." He smiled broadly at his own joke, while everyone else looked at their plates or the clock on the wall. We shortly finished eating and conversation again began.

Butch: "We've got to get going. I've got a lot to teach Ed, if he's going to have a shot at surviving the new depression."

Sam and Loretta smiled and nodded at us when Butch and I got up from our chairs. I followed him back to the family room. Seeing the byplay of mother, father and son reminded me of something. Do I have any parents? I'd like to know who they are and what they know about me. That's for another time, though. Right now, it was more important to try to remain healthy. I said; "Let's get our plan down. We'll head out the same time tomorrow....."

Butch cut me off saying; "No, we'll head out earlier. We cut it close today."

"Good idea. What I want to do is test how this camera photographs through a screen. Is there some room here that we can light artificially and I'll take some shots of it from the outside?"

"Sure, whenever you're ready."

He led me to a room that fit the bill and had a number of un-glassed landscape paintings on the wall. I took twelve photos through the screen of an open window.

Butch drove me to town to get the pictures developed taking a longer roundabout route to avoid passing by the yellow house. We didn't converse much. He occasionally pointed out something of local interest, but to me it all looked like more woods, with some houses visible from the road. We went to a camera store in a small strip mall, advertising thirty minute film development.

He parked and I went inside, took care of business and confirmed the thirty minute promise with the clerk. When I got back to the car Butch said; "Now that we have some time to kill, let's go to the bowling alley."

"I don't feel like bowling now."

"No. Me either. I just want to stop by and see if any of my friends are there."

"Fine with me. But, I'm just going to sit in the car. I'm dead tired and need to think some."

He drove there, parked and went in. I closed my eyes and was soon asleep. The next thing I knew some girl practically had her tits in my face through the open window. After a few seconds, I looked at her face to see that she must have been all of ten years old. She said; "I know something a lot more interesting than bowling." She reached down and put her hand on my crotch, squeezed a bit and said; "My folks have thrown me out and I really need some money." I wanted to jump away, but the automatic shift in the middle presented a problem. I was doing my best to navigate the hurdle, when I felt someone shaking me. It was Butch. "Man, what are you doing, having some kind of seizure?"

"No, at least I don't think so. I was having another asshole dream. I really hope I never have another one."

"What was it about?"

"I don't even want to talk about it. Can we go get the pictures yet?"

"Yeah."

We drove back to the camera shop and I couldn't wait to see the results. I opened the package as soon as the clerk handed it to me and was discouraged to see that eight of the twelve pictures were totally indecipherable. I paid, went back to the car and showed Butch the results.

He said; "On most of them, you can't see shit."

"Right, but all we need are a few good ones."

"I don't see any GOOD ones."

"A few are almost clear. With a little imagination you can get the general idea. I'm not trying to win any photography awards."

"Those fucking cops are going to look at something like this and say 'What's this?' and 'What's that?'"

"All we can do is try, man. You got any better suggestions?"

"Yeah, let's move to California."

"You move to California. I'm not going to be chased out of my house by some super perverts."

"Okay, okay. I'm just trying to bust your balls, anyway, stupid. But, the pictures are pitiful."

"Sorry, I sounded mad. You're right. I'm overanxious to get this whole thing resolved. Lately I can't make up my mind whether I'm scared to death or if I want to kill somebody."

"Well, I hope to hell it ain't me."

"Of course not." I paused a few seconds, smiled and added; "But, watch yourself."

He started driving home, the long back way we had come. I glanced around at the scenery and sky. Some clouds had rolled in and seemed to be in a weird pattern. The largest one was white at the edges and got darker and darker toward the middle. This didn't strike me as unusual, but the shape was that of an imperfect oblong carpet, right over our heads. For some reason I was compelled to throw the crummy photos out the window, as if they were more of a hazard than a help.

Butch said; "Hey, man. You're giving up on your artwork? I didn't mean to sound that discouraging."

"No, you were right. That was shit. Fuck it. I'll try again sometime."

After driving a while more, Butch said; "I ran into an old girlfriend at the alleys. She's divorced too."

"Oooh. Sounds interesting."

"I think so, too. She was surprised I wasn't drunk and said something about liking to see me that way again."

"So, when are you going to see her again?"

"I don't know."

"You didn't make a date?"

"No, smarty. I haven't had a date in so long; I don't remember how to make one. I didn't know what to say, so I started asking her about her stupid job. What would you have said?"

I laughed; "I don't know either. Probably would have asked her about her stupid job. As far as I know, I've never had a date, so don't ask me."

He laughed saying; "If we manage to live through all this, I'll find some excuse to go back to the bowling alley. She works full time there."

Butch put the car back in the garage, shut the door and we went back into the family room. He wanted to play the video games again, but I felt very drained and just wanted to sit still. I probably needed more sleep and sincerely hoped that I wouldn't have another dream.

When I woke up, Butch was watching television. According to someone the banking crisis was alleviating and he had various suggestions about how one could profit. The logic he strongly suggested was that many of the larger banks technically had more liabilities than assets and a short term bleak outlook. He added that we as a country could not allow large scale bank failures, so one might be allowed to fail as an example to the rest. He further said that the market had all the large bank stocks priced for impending failure. So, if you could avoid the three worst, which he did not name, the others should make substantial gains, when the market realizes that they're going to survive and prices them accordingly. At the end of the show, the credits included the facts that the broker he worked for owned a lot of bank stocks, as did he personally. A phone number was displayed on screen, where one could get "Further Investment Advice."

Butch said; "Sounds like a good idea."

"I like it, too. Maybe I'll do some more thinking about it if we survive the next week or so. How much money do you have?"

"Almost nothing. How about you?"

"I'm really not sure. It can't be much, though, if Diane had to go to Seattle to get a new job."

"Maybe we can borrow the money."

"Maybe we can. Right now, though, I'm just going to think about what we might run into tomorrow." I went to the kitchen to get some coffee and when I brought it back to the family room, Butch was still watching the television. I sat in front of it, too, but stared out the window, rather than indulging. It was a breezy day and the birds seemed to be flying furiously. Some gray clouds rolled in, pretty much covering the sky. I didn't take this as a portent of things to come, as this was a common summer occurrence. I watched the clouds move briskly through giving the appearance of a dark stream in the shade.

I said; "Hey, Butch. When was the last time it rained here?"

"Last week sometime. Why?"

"It looks like it could again."

We idly passed the afternoon, not conversing much, at least not anything of importance. No doubt, we each had our own thoughts about tomorrow, a day that could affect the rest of our lives, or the lack thereof. I was thinking about the possibility of getting a good shot through a screen, how we could tie it to Mason's house, whether or not the cops would do anything about it and that I was grateful for the help. We cooked up some hamburgers and had dinner at 6:30PM and decided to go to bed at 7:00, so we could be well rested for the morning's early departure.

### Chapter 15

The next thing I knew Butch was in his brother's old bedroom, grabbing my left foot and pulling it off the bed. He said; "Time to go, partner."

"All right. All right. What time is it anyway?"

"It's already after four."

"For Christ's sake, nobody else in the country is up yet."

"That's the point, genius. Let's get some coffee and get moving."

I didn't have any good reason for feeling so tired. I'd been getting plenty of sleep lately. Maybe it was some survival instinct. I got more alert as we drank the coffee and remembered that I had not taken my medications for two days.

I said; "We have to first stop at my house and pick up my meds."

"Fine. If we get moving, we should have plenty of time."

I finished my cup as quickly as I could and then followed Butch out the back door. He brought his rifle and I brought my camera. Despite the darkness, we didn't have any trouble getting through the deer trails. Clouds were still prevalent in the sky as I saw no stars. The wind was gusting between 10 and 20 miles per hour. When we got to my house I picked up my meds and saw that the phone had two messages on it. Both were from Diane, yesterday and last night, expressing concern about my whereabouts. It was 2 AM Seattle time and Diane was no doubt asleep. I called her work number and left message. I said; "Thanks for the concern. My new friend, Butch and I went to the bowling alley yesterday and by the time I got home, I was so tired, I went right to sleep. I'm taking my medications. Love you, Chubby."

In assuring her, I reminded myself to take the meds and did. Butch said; "Chubby," grinning at me.

I said; "Yeah, chubby."

"Is she fat?"

"I don't know."

Butch had follow up questions; he chose to keep to himself, at least for now. We went back out re-crossing the bridge over the stream and went to our usual hiding spot in the bushes, 200 feet behind the yellow house. Like our prior early morning call, the house had all its lights on, but there were no cars in the driveway. We sat quietly there for half an hour watching and listening for any sign of life other than the resident black winged hunters. A drizzle started. I said; "It looks good. Let's go get the pictures. I don't feel like getting soaked." It started to rain harder. We crossed the stream and proceeded to the house. Again, like yesterday, some windows were open leaving only a screen between us and the "evidence." I took all of my twelve allotted shots through the screen into the well lit room. It looked like the same photos were on the walls and tables. Butch said; "Now that we have those pictures, which I don't really think will come out all that great, let's try to get in and get a few originals."

I questioningly said; "Okay. But, I wish you would have told me that you were up for breaking and entering earlier. I could have gotten these shots without having to go through a screen."

He took out his keychain and wedged one of them into the space between the screen and the window's wood frame. Without much difficulty, in a few tries, he was able to pop the screen. He pulled it out and put it on the ground. He opened the window as far as it would go, put his gun on the inside floor and went in head first. I followed the same way. Our eyes became riveted to the pictures of young actors and actresses on the wall. He said; "I want to take at least three. Which ones, do you think, are the most vile?"

"I really can't decide. Take any three."

"Maybe, I'll take all of them."

As he started to reach for one, we heard a car come in the gravel driveway through the open window, which was now advertising a popped screen to whoever was in the car.

I said; "Oh, shit."

He forgot about the pictures and said; "We've got to find a back door." He left the room and entered a small hallway. We saw the door we needed and moved quickly to it.

The car in the driveway stopped. The driver was my portly old nemesis, carrying his companion rifle. He saw the screen leaning against the house and knew someone had been here or was still here. He sat in the car a few seconds to see if the visitor or visitors would do something stupid. Through the partially open driver's side window he heard the back door open and quickly saw two figures running toward the stream in the rain. He got out of the car, took a few quick steps along the side of the house and saw us halfway to the stream. He put the rifle to his shoulder and fired three quick shots.

I didn't feel anything, so I didn't think I was hit and when I saw Butch not breaking stride thought that he was all right too. We got to the stream almost simultaneously. It was about three feet below ground level and was a temporary good cover. When Butch hit the water, which was running quickly because Of the rain, he stopped, crouched down and turned around. When I got in, a combination of the swiftly rushing stream and its slippery rocky bed made me fall over in it, my head temporarily going under. When I got up I saw my camera already ten feet away from me and quickly moving downstream. The fat guy was running as best he could, toward us and when he must have thought he saw something fired another shot in our general direction from about 75 feet. Butch elevated from his crouch, with his rifle to his shoulder, fired one shot and our corpulent friend dropped in a heap, not moving. The carcass was soon host to five bats, perhaps detecting a prized huge cockroach.

Butch said; "Let's get out of here," and climbed out of the stream to the wooded land with the deer trails behind it. He was on his belly looking at an immobile and confused me. He said; loudly: "C'mon."

"I lost the fucking camera. Let's go back and get the photos."

"Are you going to get moving or not? The fat guy might be faking and there might be someone else in the car." He started to crawl toward an area better covered by trees and I just imitated him. After we went about 30 feet in the mud he stopped and got up on his knees. He looked back and said; "It doesn't look like anyone is following us. Let's move it."

We half walked, half ran, soggy terrain permitting. I could feel that the rain was hard enough to start washing most of the mud off me. We got back to Butch's house about 6 AM, just as what passes for a sunrise on a cloudy, rainy day commenced.

We went to the back door, after passing through the 200 foot clearing behind his house, being swooped by only one bat. His parents were not yet up, so we had the house to ourselves for a while. He said; "The first thing I'm doing is changing these clothes."

"Lucky you, I didn't bring a change with me."

"I'll give you some of mine."

I thought we were similarly sized, he was 10-20 pounds heavier, but it's close enough to get out of these absolutely soaked duds.

"Thanks, yeah, that's good," I said.

He got something out of drawers in his bedroom and I took them to his absent brother's room.

I put on the stuff he gave me. The blue jeans were all right, but this has to be the weirdest and loudest shirt I ever had on. I looked at myself in the mirror on top of a large chest of drawers, focusing on the shirt. It was a simple button up with a collar, but the colors were a sight. The general maroon background, was interrupted by swirls of purple, jagged, geometric Art Deco red lines, a sandy bed with two green leaved palm trees growing out of it and the words "Welcome to La La Land" inscribed in a purple deeper than that of the swirls, near the bottom.

Butch opened the door and said; "What the hell are you doing? Admiring your ugly old ass? We've got serious things to go over. I'm in big trouble. Not you, fucking me. So let's go out back where my folks won't hear."

I considered commenting on his taste in clothes, but refrained, initially, not wanting to hurt his feelings, but ultimately I decided that this shirt was so bad it had to be good, even though it was also two sizes too big for me. I was taking one last glance in the mirror when Butch said; "Come on already."

"I'm right there. Damn, ten seconds isn't going to make any difference."

I followed him out to the backyard and saw the first light of the day, which must have sent the bat back home. A moderate rain continued, so we stayed under the overhang.

He agitatedly said; "This is murder, goddammit and we left the scene of the crime."

"Yeah, right, so?"

"So? You get serious jail time in this country for that kind of shit. So what do we do about it? You know you're an accessory, too."

"I'm not so sure about that. I could say that I went walking with my nutty friend and that he shot my neighbor. And my fat friend is gone. I'm in better shape than I have been in recent memory."

"What?"

"Only kidding. Poor attempt at humor. I think this shirt is making me act crazy. Forget I said it. Maybe we should go report this to the cops right now and just tell them the truth."

"You know what they think of us, don't you?"

"Yes, but what other option do we have?"

When Butch didn't have any answer, I continued; "We could do nothing, sit in my house a few days and watch what happens. But, somebody else is going to show up there and find the body. They could go to the cops or come looking for us, neither of which is any good for us."

"We could go back there and bury it."

"You want to do all that digging in rocky, clay soil. I don't. Fuck that."

"I don't either. It's almost impossible to do with shovels. And if we get caught doing that we're dead, one way or another."

"So, back to the beginning. Is there any good possible action? Maybe, when you kill somebody, there aren't any. The best thing would be to cover our asses as best we can and that means going to the cops."

"Maybe I didn't kill him."

I was quiet a few moments, pondering that one. I said; "Then we're liable to have a crew after us. If the guys there don't have the balls to come after us, that woman who dresses like a witch or a dominatrix does."

"A witch or what?"

"A witch in black leather."

"How do you know she has the balls?"

'I met her a few times."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I did. It didn't seem important enough to go on forever about it. Besides, I bet you don't tell me about all your girlfriends."

Butch was again silent for a few seconds, but was stomping around a bit, kind of annoyed. He finally said; "Some of the things you say are just horse shit, so I'm going to ignore that part of it. What do you know about her?"

"We just had two or three two minute conversations when we accidentally met out walking. She basically told me that 'If I know what's good for me, I'll stay away from her'. She flipped me off once or twice, too."

"I'll bet that's not the first time that happened."

I really didn't recall any, but said; "No, it's definitely not, but the other times it was for other reasons."

Butch said; "Fuck it. Let's say they're coming after us. What do we do then?"

"Either try to take them all out, not knowing how big the organization is or we try going to the cops."

"And if we get in another shootout nothing good can come out of it."

"Exactly, my like thinking friend, so we have to go to the cops no matter how you slice it."

Butch, sat for the first time, on a white plastic outdoor chair. He had his hands folded and he looked at the ground, then the sky, then the ground, then the sky and finally said; "We're in deep shit, you know."

"I won't argue about that."

"Let's go to the fucking cops right now." He got up and walked to the garage. I followed. He started up the 1972 bright purple Mustang and backed it into the driveway. I got into the passenger's seat. He apparently was again going to take the long way around into town. I said; "You got it working again?"

"What does it look like, Holmes? We're just going to tell them the truth, right."

"Yeah, it's the best and simplest way."

The incessant rain started coming down in buckets. If I were driving I'd have pulled off the road to sit this one out, but Butch kept going. I didn't say anything because I thought he was a good enough driver to handle it and that was fine with me. Recent memory must have failed me for that one. Besides a car accident would be a small problem compared to what already existed. Nonetheless we successfully got to the police station and went in. The same girl I saw last time was sitting on a modern office seat in front of a computer. We were separated by glass with two holes, one for conversation, the lower for exchanging papers. When she saw me she said; "Don't tell me. You want to file another police report."

I said; "You're certainly on your game today. One small correction, this time it's WE that want to file a police report."

She gave us a bored look and said; "Okay, I'll take it in a minute." She made some entries into the computer and without looking up said; "Ready. Name please."

Butch and I both answered at the same time with raised voices aimed at the talk hole in the window. We looked at each other and Butch nodded at me, saying; "Sounds like you're famous here. You go first."

I said; "Edward Jensen." She took my address, phone number and date of birth.

She then asked if this would be a joint report and I said "Yes."

When she asked his name, my friend correctly said "Butch Walker."

She asked; "Is Butch your real name?"

Butch paused a while, then said a very weak "Yes."

She said; "Is that the name on your birth certificate?"

He paused again, then said; "No."

She said; "Well, what name is there?"

Butch looked at me momentarily and then softly said "Leslie."

I couldn't help smiling, looked at Butch and wiped my nose. Then the lady behind the computer said; "What, I don't think I heard you right."

Butch looked around the area, presumably to see if anyone else was around and then loudly said; "Leslie." Then he turned to me and said; "And if you tell anybody, I'll......."

I laughingly said; "It goes to the grave with me."

Butch said; "This is one hell of a time to be talking about graves."

She interrupted us saying; "Can I get the rest of the information?" Butch gave her his address, phone number and date of birth.

She looked at me and said; "Okay. What do you want to report this time?"

Butch said; "We want to report a dead body."

She didn't type anything, looked up and said; "Why didn't you just call 911?"

Butch said; "I don't know. Everything is happening so fast. Because, we're the murderers."

I interrupted him to say; "He's the murderer. I'm only an accessory."

Butch shot me a look. My old friend Sergeant Mobley entered the small room and said; "Are you two bothering my girl, here? Don't you have anything to do today?"

Butch and I silently stared at the floor. I thought of saying that we've already done a lot today, but decided against it. Sergeant Mobley said; "Come into my office. I could use a good laugh while I drink my coffee." He opened the door separating us, continued through another door and down a short hallway to his office. He entered, sat down in his chair, simultaneously gesturing toward the two seats on the opposite side, with his left hand. After we sat, he grabbed his full coffee mug with his right hand and again gestured with his left saying; "You've got a captive audience. Tell me what you want to report."

Without any interruption Butch and I recounted the events of the morning, receiving a few sarcastic smiles.

Sgt. Mobley: laughed and said; "Butch, you have zero credibility around here. And you, Ed, have very little and the little you had is severely compromised by that shirt."

I considered saying that it was Butch's, but instead said, with a straight face; "It's a special shirt. I wear it only on very festive occasions, like when I get involved in murder."

Sgt. Mobley grimaced and said; "What the hell every made you buy it?"

I shrugged my shoulders and said; "It was on sale, 80% off."

Sgt. Mobley thought himself amusing when he replied; "You should have gotten a few. 'La La Land' seems to suit you."

Butch and I weren't sure which of us he was insulting and we looked at each other, shaking our heads slowly.

Sgt. Mobley looked out the window, noting that the rain had stopped and that we were beginning to get a bit of real sunshine. He said; "Tell you what. Don't file this report now. When a dead body is reported, you can't imagine how many reports have to be filed and how many people get involved. Let's take a drive out to Mason's house and if we find the body, you can make your report then."

Butch said; "Sounds fair to me."

I nodded agreement. Sergeant Mobley finished the last of his coffee, made a few entries into his computer, apparently bringing up on screen the beginning of our report. He said; "Leslie..... Leslie?....... Didn't your parents know what sex you were born into?"

Butch, half laughing and half embarrassed said; "You can call and ask them. They're probably having breakfast right now. I've often wanted to ask them that question myself. But, do me a favor; don't tell anyone else."

We all got up from our chairs and Sergeant Mobley led us to his car. We drove in silence.

### Chapter 16

When we got to Mason's sickly yellow house at about 8AM, a few things had changed. The heavy rains had brought down a number of sizable tree branches and there was already another car in the driveway, a Mercedes of recent vintage with a metallic green hue. We parked behind it and got out. Joe Mason came out the house door on the driveway side trailed by a big guy carrying a rifle.

Sergeant Mobley motioned to us to get down. He pulled his revolver, squatted down and yelled; "Drop it, now." Mason and his friend looked surprised and did nothing. Sergeant Mobley yelled; "Drop it, goddammit." The big guy apparently now realized what was going on and dropped it. They walked a few steps away from the rifle and Sergeant Mobley wiped his brow and said; "Joe, for Christ sake, don't you teach your friends any country manners?"

Joe apologized; "I'm sorry. This is my new hunting tenant, Rocco Giambrone. He's from Hudson County. You know what I mean?"

Everyone introduced themselves to each other, casually shaking hands.

Joe smirked and said; "What law did I break today, Sergeant?"

Sgt. Mobley said; "None, probably. I'm kind of humoring your two neighbors here."

Joe looked at Butch and me and said; "More nefarious goings on at the Mason property?"

Sgt. Mobley answered for us; "You got it. Mind if I have a look around?"

Joe extended his arms affably and said; "Of course not." Then directing his speech to Butch and me; "I want you boys to get a good look at Rocco here. He's going to be here for some time and I want you all to get along."

Rocco said; "You guys live around here, right?"

I pointed at my house and said; "Right next door."

Butch added; "About a mile away."

Rocco appeared friendly when he said; "One of these days, you guys have to pick up some wine and bring it over here. I can cook up something and you can show me local points of interest."

I said; "I'd like that."

Butch chimed in; "Me, too."

Sgt. Mobley directed his commentary to Joe and said; "Excuse us a minute. Your neighbors want to show me something." Mobley, Butch and I walked to where we had said the body was. We were soon out of earshot of Joe and Rocco, who stayed near the house.

Sgt. Mobley questioned; "Well?"

I said; "It was right around here."

Butch was somewhat relieved and said; "Like I said, maybe I didn't hit him. He may have played dead until we left."

I offered another possibility; "Somebody could have moved it. This morning's rain was hard enough to wash away any blood."

Sgt. Mobley sternly said; "When you report a dead body there really should be one."

Butch explained; "When we explained what happened, we told you that we got out of here quickly because we didn't know if he was dead, or sitting there waiting to fire again. We didn't know if there was anyone else around either."

Sgt. Mobley nodded and said; "It was pitch black, in the rain, wasn't it?"

Butch simply said; "Yes."

Sgt. Mobley was getting the impression that nothing happened and said; "While we're here, let's get this settled once and for all. Find me any evidence that you can."

We walked around the general area, including near the stream, looking for anything; signs on the ground of a body being dragged, blood, shell casings, or any kind of activity. Nobody could find a thing that looked unusual. After about five minutes Sergeant Mobley said; "Satisfied."

I said; "I guess so. But, you know the rain washes everything clean."

Sgt. Mobley said; "I suppose it makes bodies disintegrate, too."

Butch was glad to say; "Well, at least I'm not a murderer." He then shot me a look and added; "At least not yet."

I asked; "Can you do one more thing for me, Sergeant Mobley?"

Sgt. Mobley replied; "Maybe. What is it?"

I said; "Can you look in the house for any sign of the kind of garbage I told you about?"

Sgt. Mobley shook his head and responded; "I don't have a warrant and I don't have any cause to get one."

As a last ditch appeal, I said; "Can you at least look in the window where we saw the photos?"

Sgt. Mobley sighed and said; "Okay, I think I can manage that, but after I do, you guys promise me you're going to stop the wild stories, right?"

I said; "It's a deal."

Butch followed suit; "Fine."

We walked back toward the house and I noticed that the screen Butch had jimmied out was back in its place. We arrived and Joe was waiting with Rocco.

Sgt. Mobley said; "Joe, sorry for any inconvenience. My friends here made some kind of mistake in the dark. It won't happen again."

Joe waved his hand and said; "No inconvenience. You're just doing your job and we were here doing nothing anyway. Now, Ed and Butch, I want you and Rocco to be good friends. When you're in an isolated area and something bad happens, you can sure use help from a buddy."

Butch and I smiled and nodded at him, shaking his hand and again shook hands with Rocco. At the same time I couldn't help but think that Joe's last statement could also be interpreted as a warning. We were walking back to the car when Sgt. Mobley reached for, then dropped his keys next to the appropriate window. When he squatted down to pick them up, he put his left hand to his back saying; "I think today is a three painkiller day."

Butch and I also squatted down, next to him, ostensibly helping him get back up. The three of us got a full view into the room, now lit not only by artificial light but also getting the benefit of somewhat of a morning sun. No one could see any photos. Paintings of country scenes hung on the wall. The only things on the tables, chairs and chests were lamps, books and clocks. Butch and I "helped" Sergeant Mobley and we went back to the car, all of us waving goodbye to Joe and Rocco, who returned the favor.

The first part of the drive back was in silence. I couldn't help thinking that with a brain injury any type of delusion was possible. But it seemed so real. Butch was having similar thoughts, for different reasons. After a few minutes, Sergeant Mobley said; "Satisfied?"

We both mumbled a quiet; "Yes."

"And no police report?"

We both shook our heads saying; "No."

When we got back to the police headquarters' parking lot Sergeant Mobley, smiled at us and said; "Behave yourselves for a while, okay?"

I said; "Thanks, okay." Butch repeated the same thing and we went back to the purple Mustang. Sergeant Mobley yelled out; "And Ed, do yourself a favor and get another shirt."

We all laughed and I said; "You have my word. I will never wear this again."

Butch drove me back to my house the shorter way and passed the yellow house, which now had no cars or people visiting. I got out when he parked in my driveway and we both mumbled something like; "See ya' soon." I think we both were wondering about what happened at the house, if anything; what happened to us, if we could trust our own senses, etc., etc., etc. He continued on home and I went into mine, immediately lying down on the couch, not knowing what to think or do.

Somewhere else in New Jersey a red Toyota hatchback was cruising down a busy highway. The two female occupants were having an edgy conversation very important to both of them.

The driver, the lady in black informed her companion; "We can never go back to Mason's."

The 13 year old actress nervously said; "Well, where are we going then?"

L.I.B. said; "Nowhere today. We have to find another place and make arrangements."

The actress was more un-nerved; "Where am I going to get $1,500."

L.I.B. calmly said; "You'll just have to wait."

The actress continued in her role; "My meth habit doesn't feel like waiting for anything."

L.I.B. looked at the actress and pointedly said; "You know, that's the entire problem. If you could just cut out that....."

The actress cut her off; "I'd be bored to death."

L.I.B. implored; "You're a very smart girl. You can do a lot of other interesting things with your life."

The actress got defiant; "Like what? Learn home economics, tidy up house, pretend I like working in an office and cater to some overbearing bastard boss and husband!"

L.I.B. sighed and sheepishly said; "Probably something like that. But, you could get other kinds of jobs, too."

The actress laughed; "Yeah, sure. I could feign interest in my doo dah job all day, shop and pick up the kids on the way home, cook, cater to the slob and watch television. On weekends I could run my errands and clean up the place. Get the fuck out of here!"

L.I.B. made a weak response; "Who told you to expect perfection?"

The feisty little actress was on a roll. She stuck out her tongue and said; "The spirit of the methamphetamine monster. Do you know how many sick old farts I'm going to have to be nice to in order to get $1,500?"

The lady in black made no response, instead, tried to make her brain purge some recently acquired images.

### Chapter 17

I guess I was exhausted, because I didn't wake up until the next day's 6AM first sign of light. I remained on the couch watching it. I had some sort of confusing dream, but couldn't remember it a few seconds after opening my eyes. I laid there until the sun's rise was full over the hills, watching it through the window right in front of me. I went to the kitchen to make coffee. While it was percolating I looked out the kitchen windows in the direction of the yellow house. As we were separated by about 300 feet of trees I couldn't see it, but didn't see any devils with guns in the vicinity, either and was thankful for that.

When my coffee was ready, I considered carrying it outside to a spot where I could get a better view, but decided against it, as I didn't want to risk starting the old pattern again. After the coffee started to restore my senses, I realized that I had to analyze the next possible events.

First, let's say everyone else was right and Butch and I were wrong. In that case I'm in no physical danger, but that suggests that the two of us are delusional. I guess that's possible, but wouldn't it be impossible for both of us to have the same delusion? Maybe, maybe not, but no matter, as I'll have no trouble in this scenario.

Second, let's say that the guy who hit the deck when Butch shot was not hit. So, if he's still alive, what would he do next? If Mason was telling the truth, there is a new tenant in the house. The question is; "Does the former tenant want retribution?" I can't know for sure. If I stay here unarmed, I'm an easy target. If I stayed at Butch's he'd probably find both of us eventually, but at least Butch was armed. So, the suggestion is that I need a gun and the knowledge of how to use it. Butch could help with that. Though we technically didn't file a police report this time, I did file one previously and if I wind up dead, the former tenants, assuming they can be located, will be the first suspects, assuming Sergeant Mobley is not in on it. Messy. No end to the shit.

Third, let's say Butch did shoot the guy dead. That means somebody else came in, removed the body and took away the evidence. So, I get the same bottom line questions as scenario two, resulting in the same best solution; get a gun and learn how to use it.

I can't think of a fourth scenario, but that might be because I'm delusional. Never mind, that leads everywhere and nowhere at the same time. To pursue this line of thought would result in attempting to use logic to analyze insanity. The only possible suggestion is to conjure up some faith in my own mental state of health. That shouldn't be hard. Everyone I've ever met thinks that they are perfectly sane, despite unspoken reservations on my part in many cases.

So, easy, that settles that. I can stay home with a pistol under my pillow, to maximize safety. Wait a minute. I should say to maximize safety regarding outsiders. It doesn't maximize my safety, if I am indeed delusional.

I opened drawers and closets all over the house, but wasn't fully concentrating on the search. Rather, scenarios one, two, three, four and tangents affixed thereto, kept revolving around my head. I got some food, kept opening doors and drawers and did a lot of staring at the sky. This effort was tiring, confusing and time consuming. When I looked at the kitchen clock the arms said 12:00, presumably PM as the sun was out. Wasn't there darkness at the break of noon somewhere? If I was delusional, maybe I could be in Iceland or Tibet. This whole effort is proving to be a waste of time. I decided that I could never be sure of anything, but at least I had the excuse of having had a brain tumor. I wondered what Butch was doing and decided to drive to his house.

He was having a similar morning, with similar confusing thoughts exacerbated by the presence of his parents, who kept asking him what was wrong? He didn't have any good answers and the only possible way of offering meaningful retorts of any merit, would require the writing of a short story, not conducive to contemporary conversation.

He was walking out the back door to take a solitary walk in the woods when I arrived. When he didn't turn around to see who was coming down the noisy gravel driveway, I yelled out, "Butch."

He stopped, turned, looked at me and said; "Oh, you."

"Yeah, me, what's wrong?"

"That's what my folks keep saying. Can't anyone say anything else?"

"Okay, forget it. I don't really care what's wrong any more. Do you want some company?"

"I only want the company of someone who doesn't keep saying that something is wrong. There may not be such a person."

"Fine, I'm with you. I just say it a little differently."

"I can hardly wait to hear that."

"If I don't know what the problem is, why bother thinking about a solution."

He just looked at me and kept walking into the woods. I followed silently.

A bit later he said; "You know, if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be in all this shit."

"What shit is that?"

"Save your wisecracks for someone who doesn't know you."

"My mother told me never to talk to strangers."

"You had a mother?"

"I'm not really sure."

Butch half smiled and laughed when he said; "You are the most fucked up person I've ever met."

"I think I'm complemented."

"You are a dick head."

"Not to seem trite, but you're pretty fucked up yourself."

"Thanks, at least I'm not drinking."

"Do you want to get some wine?"

"No, I think I'm going to the bowling alley to see my old girlfriend, Alice. The last thing I want to do is show up sloppy drunk."

"Want some company?"

"Are you kidding me? You'll manage to say something to her and fuck it up."

Though I didn't really like that comment, it was probably pretty accurate. Though I didn't know for certain, my analysis of perceived current events indicated a strong possibility.

I said; "Well, I've got some cool duds for you to wear. I brought back your clothes."

"I'm not wearing that ridiculous shirt. It was a gift from a relative and I wouldn't ever wear it."

"It's so bad, it's good."

"Then keep it and wear it."

"Do you want your pants back?"

"Sure."

We quietly walked another five minutes.

I said; "Generally speaking, relationships with girls don't go that well when you have no income."

"Tell me about it."

"I've got an idea for a gambling scam. Do you play cards?"

"I played some."

"Seven stud."

"Sure."

"Good. Let me run my idea by you."

Butch gave me one of his amused ridiculous looks and said; "We're going to pull off a scam. Instead of 'Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid' this is going to be 'Butch Wino and the Flaky Brain Kid.' Be a little realistic; you have brain damage and I've been drunk for years."

I said; "That's where you miss the point. If you haven't noticed, the rest of the world is drunk and brain damaged, too, but doesn't know it. We have the advantage because we do."

### The End, until tomorrow
