

[[||]]... from the [virtual] inside flap...

All thirty-six short stories from calendar year 2017 are invisibly bound together in this digital document. Just like Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, Volume 1 (and Volume 2), these brief tales run the gamut from the thought-filled meta-real to the subtly surreal to the oddly-ungodly ordinary. Most would be American-movie-rated PG-13; however, one North Coast (California) tale, Lolita of Loleta, is quite risqué, and is for adults only. All fall between 1,000 and 4,500 words, with 2,300 words being the average run of script.

Of the three dozen tales herein, twenty-one are largely autobiographical. Accompanying the author (Agent 33) in most of these slice-of-life vignettes is his wife, code name Monique (Agent 32). Both are part of a nebulous entity known as psecret psociety (yes, with silent p's), which has an indecipherable mission statement lying around somewhere gathering dust.

So, if you find yourself in need of some interesting (or at least different) reading material to fill those ten-to-fifteen-minute voids in your day, this might fit the bill of sail. [sic]

"The future may be a vastly unconfined space, but from this vantage point, it's a bottle that is draining fast."

– Galerie Parcouer
Psecret psociety pshort pstories

Vol. III (2017)

by Mike Bozart

1st Edition

(with gallery graphics)

© 2018 Mike Bozart, all rights reserved

And now for some somber legalese... [Yes, I heard that yawn ago.]

First and foremost, this collection of short stories is a volume of fiction, and is not an entirely factual account of any slice of the space-time continuum on Earth or anywhere else. Names, characters, places, events, incidents, and situations are either the product of the author's warped imagination or are used in a purely and wholly fictitious fashion. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or their otherworldly spirits, or any precious locales or proprietary objects and related implements, is entirely, and without exception, coincidental. Whew! Glad that's over.

cover art by M. van Tryke

This collection of tales

is dedicated to those

of you who pause

to aimlessly wonder

about this existence

on a cool gray day

as the microwave oven

beeps... again

~{~

Table of Contents

Cover

Inside flap

Title page

Disclaimer

Dedication

Foreword

Preface

Acknowledgments

Epigraph

About the Author

1. Charlie West

2. Fries or Freeze

3. Gallivanting in Galax

4. The Punt

5. Lake Montonia Gaze

6. Greenville Jaunt

7. Lake Montonia Regazed

8. The Bully's Last Slurp

9. Grandfathered

10. Inside Office 108

11. Winston-Salem Revue

12. Quotidian x 2

13. Xinguara

14. Yep, That was Me

15. Terminal Moraine

16. The Classified Ad

17. Trinidad Head

18. Mad River Madman

19. Al on Arcata

20. Fortunate in Fortuna

21. Lolita of Loleta

22. The Other Manila

23. Samoa Sam

24. Moonstone Moonchild

25. The Vision

26. Columbia Eclipsed

27. Pass-Through Paradox

28. The Toothache

29. The Locked Door

30. The Bunker

31. Starring in Roanoke

32. The Race

33. Zap

34. That Day

35. The Waitress

36. The Waiter

37. Bonus novelette: Foxfire

Foreword

Another collection of short stories by my old pal in North Carolina. Yeah, his electronic file plopped into – and promptly clogged – my inbox three days ago. Ahem. Ok, where do I start? Hold on. Let me get another drink. Hope I'm not out of Bailey's.

He offers up thirty-six this time. Unfortunately, twenty-one of the three dozen involve him doing the same, really got old six years ago, (supposedly) secretly recorded conversation deal. So, let's see; that's 21 over 36. And that's 58.33% according to my solar calculator. I wish that number was more like 5.83% to be perfectly honest. Oh, Monique is fine, but he is just not that interesting or entertaining. I've told him to cut down on the autobiographical ones. Way, way down. Obviously, my beneficial advice has fallen on deaf ears. Well, it's his loss. I tried.

Oh, he also includes a couple of stories revolving around his rooting for the Liverpool Football Club (LFC) in various Charlotte bars. I told him nine months ago to stop writing about such, as they just reduce his small niche readership even further, as only a slither are LFC fans. Once again, my advice was unheeded.

Now to the much more preferable non-autobiographical tales. My favorite one is The Bunker. That's me all the way. Yes, I really identified with the older Canadian fellow. However, he cut the story short. It could have – and should have – gone on for at least another 500 words. Well, if nothing else, he's created a new genre for readers who like to be left frustrated: the cut-short short story. It's certain to be a hit. Not!

Well, he wanted this preface to be at least 400 words. The kettle is whistling. My head hurts and my feet are cold. Yep, I'm done.

Take it or leave it, Mike. Oh, by the way, I'm still waiting on that check from last year. I bet that you redact the preceding sentence, and this one. Cheers!

– Herman S. Goetze [Taos, New Mexico, USA]
Preface

Short stories. Some nearly as word-starved as flash fiction. You take a bite with your eyes and chew it with your mind. If you don't like it, it's over rather quickly – unlike a 400-page novel. But, if you do like the particular condensed tale, well, you get to savor it more incisively – almost like a poem. Anyway, that's what she (Monique) suggested I write.

Yes, I still love the 1500-meter race. I mean, the 1500-word pace. It's a nice distance. A nice segment of the trail. Though, I seem to be favoring the 2.5K in this set.

Word to the wise reader: Italics after a paragraph of normal-face text are character thoughts. "Which character?" you silently ask. Well, it is usually apparent. And when it is unclear, well, it just adds to the enigma of it all. So ridiculous!

There are obvious, and not so obvious, paradoxes swimming around in this binary tank of tales. The word even appears in a title: Pass-Through Paradox. Though, maybe not singular.

Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, Volume 1 comprised six calendar years of short stories, spanning from January 2010 through December 2015. Yes, we got off to a slow start. Blame it on Gold (the novel and the short story), too much noodling, wrong paths taken, single-speed bicycling, and mushroom foraging. Volume 2 was comprised from just one year (2016), as was this collection: Volume 3 (2017). I have a keen hunch that Volume 4 may take two years – or more (if I last that long). Yes, the old boy is slowing down. Health aint what it was. The gears upstairs are clanking, and it's way too late for a squirt of oil to remedy the defects.
Acknowledgments

The author would like to once again thank his co-conspiratorial wife (aka Monique) for partaking in – and greatly enhancing – these meta-real tales.

"Help! I've fallen in and I can't get out."

1. Charlie West (Jan. 2017)

A mild, sunny, halcyon December Thursday morning in eastern North America found my Filipina wife Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33) in our gray 2005 Kia Rio hatchback, motoring northward up Interstate Highway 77 (aka I-77), nearing the North Carolina – Virginia state line. We were going to rent a car at CLT (the Charlotte airport), but when Advantage tried to slide in hundreds of dollars in additional charges, we politely declined the disadvantage. The cheerful counter clerk then candidly informed us that they had to do such, as some locals were not returning the cars. I thought: What the hell! Who are they allowing to drive off in their almost-new cars? Don't they do any screening?

The little 4-cylinder engine chugged up the Blue Ridge escarpment. A few miles into Virginia, a breathtaking view of the North Carolina piedmont opened up on the right.

"Nice view, isn't it, Agent 32?" Agent 32? He's already in record mode. Unbelievable.

"It certainly is, Parkaar. [my ailing alias] But, please keep your eyes on the road. Slow down! We're coming up fast on that creeping truck."

I let off the gas pedal a little. An 18-wheeler was crawling up the mountainside. I then passed the semi on the left and settled in the center lane. I wonder if Monique is getting hungry. I bet she is. She didn't eat any breakfast. She's going hypoglycemic, I can tell.

"Want to stop in Wytheville for lunch?" I asked her.

Monique spied a sign. "Is that near Fort Chiswell?"

"Fort Jizzwell?" [sic] He said that for the recorder.

"Gosh, that's so vulgar, 33!"

"Frank [the late, great Agent 107, a dark-haired Caucasian dude who kind of looked like Bryan Ferry, circa 1975] and I called it that. We always got a chuckle out of it." They thought that was funny? Men!

"I guess it's a male thing. Anyway, how far from Wytheville are we?"

"Just 27 minutes out, mahal." [love in Tagalog]

"Ok, let's stop there."

Soon we were sitting in the Appleby's (an American chain restaurant) on East Main Street (US 11). A very courteous African American waitress took our order. I looked over at the bar, and remained fixated on it. So, that's where Frank would go on Saturday nights, searching for new love.

Monique noticed my incessant staring at the horseshoe-shaped bar. "Did you meet another agent at that bar, 33? Tell the truth. Don't lie."

"No, nothing like that, 32. It's where Frank would ply the local lasses a decade ago, looking for a compatible date. He told me that he would be doing ok until the girl found out that he hadn't gone to the local high school." What?!

"Really?" Monique asked with a stunned expression.

"That's what he told me, 32. He also said that he was at a further disadvantage, as he wasn't a ball-cap wearer, much less one to don one backwards."

"Did Frank drink alcohol at that bar, 33?"

"Yes, even though he never really liked doing such. He told me that he would nurse a Heineken for two hours, so as to not seem odd. I know that he would have loved to fire up a big bowl [of marijuana] instead."

"Oh yes, I'm sure of that, Agent 33."

Our waitress then returned with our food. Monique had a grilled chicken and rice dish. I just had a bowl of French onion soup. We ate without speaking; we were famished. This soup is fairly tasty. I'd give it a 7.777777.

I paid our bill thirteen minutes later. Under the tip I left the waitress a coupon for a free download of Gold, a summer story (my 2013 e-novel). Upon exiting, the ever-smiling waitress suddenly said: "Thank you, agents!" Wow! I guess she overheard us. / I wonder if she will friend-request psecret psociety on Facebook. She seems game to it.

Our journey continued up I-77. We were soon approaching the Big Walker Mountain Tunnel. I checked to make sure that the headlights were on.

Monique saw the tunnel's name next to the portal. "Is there a Little Walker Mountain Tunnel, too, Parkaar?"

"I don't think so, Monique."

"Then, why the Big, 33?"

"It's probably a tall tale, 32, with a short ending."

"I just had to ask." She shook her head and sighed.

I had a quick laugh. She then smiled.

Soon we emerged from the northwest portal of the eight-tenths-of-a-mile-long (1.29 km) underground vehicular passage. Nineteen miles (30.58 km) later, we were entering the East River Mountain Tunnel.

"When we emerge from this one, 32, we'll be in WV." [West Virginia]

When we exited the second tunnel, Monique made a declaration: "That last tunnel is longer than the first one, 33."

"How do you know this to be true, perspicacious Agent 32? Did you time our passages through both of them? But, what if our average speeds were different?"

"No, I didn't time them, Agent 33."

"Then how do you know that the latter tunnel is longer than the former?"

"It's a psecret, [sic] 33, with a silent p. That last tunnel was a shade over a mile. [1.61 km] Am I right, Mr. Geo-Almanac?" [sic] Mr. Geo-Almanac? What?

"Well, yes, you are correct, 32. The East River Mountain Tunnel is 1.025 miles [1.65 km] long."

The conversation ceased until we rolled past Flat Top Mountain. I wonder if she remembers that sledding day.

"Remember when we went sledding next to the Winterplace Ski Resort? Agent 66 [my son] was with us."

"Not sure that I recall that, 33." What is he on about now?

"We also tried snowboarding. I think that I made it 70 yards [64 meters] before falling. Agent 66 won, however, as he went 100 yards [91.44 meters] before toppling."

"Oh, yes; I remember it now. We spent the night in Wytheville. You didn't want to drive all the way back to Charlotte." Probably had roid rage.

We stopped and paid at the Ghent Toll Plaza. Twenty-four minutes later, we were rolling into the Pax Toll Plaza to pay another two dollars.

"Is this the last one?" Monique asked.

"No, there is one more before Charleston, 32."

"What do they use the toll money for, 33?"

"Well, initially it was used to pay off the cost of road construction. But, now it's used for road maintenance, I suppose. Once a highway goes toll, it rarely reverts back to being a freeway. State governments like that steady stream of revenue too much."

"I'm glad you have cash in your wallet, 33. They don't accept debit or credit cards."

"Yeah, I researched this turnpike yesterday, 32."

"That figures." She giggled.

After another twenty-four minutes, we were clearing the Chelyan Toll Plaza. Interstate 64-77 then flanked the teal green Kanawha River all the way to Charleston. The river is wider than I thought. / I bet that water is cold.

When I saw the golden dome of the Capitol Building, I pointed it out (to the left) for Monique.

"Well, after 271 miles, [436 km] we're finally here, Agent 32."

"Where is our hotel?"

"Just a mile away," I said as I veered for Exit 100.

Soon we were parking behind the Charleston Capitol Hotel, an older nine-floor inn on Washington Street that was in the process of being upfitted to become a Wyndham Garden Hotel. Our room – 301 – was definitely pre-remodel: The now-adhesion-less wallpaper had waves in it. But, other than that, it was a decent room for the money.

Monique unpacked our luggage as I examined the room for clues. I soon noticed that the casement window's sashes were screwed so that they would not slide open.

"Monique, the window is locked."

"Maybe someone committed suicide, and the hotel wants to prevent another fatal leap."

"I don't think that a leap from this window would be fatal, Agent 32. Come over and take a look."

Monique walked over and saw that the flat roof of the second story was only 13 feet (4 meters) below. "If we had to evacuate quickly, we could jump onto that HVAC unit." [It was only 8 feet (2.44 meters) below the sill.]

"Yes, we could, Agent 32, like in Tiki Wiki. [a previous short story] Never know when you'll need an alternate exit."

"Do you feel tired, Parkaar?"

"Surprisingly, not really, Monique. Want to tour the downtown on foot?"

"Sure! I want to take some pics and videos, 33."

"Ok, let's hit the streets of this town of Charles, Agent 32."

At 3:47 PM we were walking down Leon Sullivan Way towards the Kanawha River. Monique stopped to take some pics of the patina-coated-spires of Sacred Heart Roman Catholic Church.

Once across Kanawha Boulevard, we walked northwestward along a narrow riverside asphalt sidewalk. The sidewalk was level with the street curb, but just to the left, a very steep, grass-covered slope dropped down to a lower walkway some 25 feet (7.62 meters) or so below. If you weren't paying attention – texting for example – you could take quite a nasty tumble. Surprised there's no railing. Very dangerous for bicycles and skateboards. Maybe they aren't allowed on the upper walk. And, what about tipsy folks leaving pubs? Just one errant step. Has there not been a lawsuit yet? Not even any warning signs. I guess Charleston is not as litigious as Charlotte. Walker beware.

"Watch your step, Monique. You could literally die if you landed the wrong way. No Facebooking here."

"I hear you, Mr. Safety. But, unlike you, I can walk and chew gum. Don't be so paranoid." Walk and chew gum? She must have got that phrase from my dad.

"I'm paid to be paranoid, asawa." [wife in Cebuano]

She just smiled.

A few minutes later we were passing under the mighty South Side Bridge, a Parker truss bridge. I looked back and noticed a stairway leading up to the road deck. Ah, nice! The bridge allows for pedestrian crossings.

"Want to walk across the bridge, Monique?"

"Maybe later, Parkaar. I think I'm feeling hungry again."

"Ok, no problem, 32. Capitol Street is just ahead. Many good restaurants on that street from what I've read online."

"Ok, lead the way, 33."

We walked up to the historic, twelve-story Union Building, which was where Capitol Street came to a T-intersection with Kanawha Boulevard. The sidewalk was quite narrow. A sign just above the railing warned:

CAUTION

BOULEVARD

TRAFFIC

AT FOOT OF STEPS

And, they weren't kidding, either. Motor vehicles whizzed by us – inches from our toes – at 45 MPH (72.4 km/h). You sure don't want to rush out of this building.

After 30 to 40 seconds, we got a white crosswalk signal and traversed Kanawha Boulevard. We soon came upon a pair of late-20-something Caucasian male hipsters, who were chatting away outside Sam's Uptown Cafe and Bar. As we passed them, I heard one of them ask the other: "Are you staying in Charlie West this weekend?" Staying in Charlie West? Huh?

While waiting for the crosswalk signal to turn at Virginia Street, I turned to look at my lovely pinay (Tagalog for a Filipina) wife. "Hon, can I borrow your phone for a second?"

"Sure," she said as she handed the Samsung Galaxy to me. "Need to look at Google Maps?"

"Uh, no. I just need to look up a phrase."

"What phrase would that be, Parkaar?"

"Charlie West. Oh, I just found it. It's a nickname for Charleston, West Virginia. I heard one of those dudes back there say it." He's always eavesdropping.

I handed the phone back to Monique. We proceeded northeastward on Capitol Street. The sidewalks now had more people on them. Employees were getting off work. A desk clock in a storefront window stated that it was 4:31. Ah, only off by a minute.

We soon came upon The Elite Gentlemen's Club. Monique then looked at me. "Is this a totoy [boobs in Cebuano] bar, Parkaar?"

"I think so, mahal."

"So, they have these places in every city in America, 33?"

"Yeah, pretty much. But, they're not as wild as the ones in Manila."

"And, how would you know, my darling kano?" [Filipino slang for American] Foot-in-mouth disease strikes again.

"Oh, friends have told me." What a lame answer. But, I'll give him a pass for now.

"Well, I'm hungry for some good pizza, Parkaar."

Right after we passed a packed Adelphia Sports Bar & Grille, there it was: Pies and Pints. Ah, yes – found it.

We passed through the green façade. The place was bustling. Lively conversations abounded between pizza chomps and gulps of suds. Looks like a kewl [sic] scene. / Wonder how long we'll have to wait to be seated.

Just a minute later, the blonde-haired hostess led us to a 2-top table that was adjacent to a 4-top table in the rear dining area, where a Caucasian dad, mom and two sons were finishing up and preparing to leave.

A brunette waitress soon came over to take our drink order. Monique just ordered a Sprite. I asked the waitress to surprise me with a good West Virginia dark beer. The Big Timber Porter that she brought back was exceptional. Five stars all the way from Elkins. I hope that I can find this beer somewhere in Charlotte.

We then ordered an onion pizza, as a biracial family of four sat down just three feet (one meter) from us. Due to the close proximity, conversations couldn't be ignored. The light-skinned African American dad made a statement to his Caucasian wife: "We should be able to make it to Mocksville by nine o'clock." Mocksville?

"Pardon me for asking, but are you guys going to Mocksville, North Carolina?" I queried the mid-30-something gent to my immediate right.

"Sure are," the man said. "That's where my wife's family is from. We'll have Christmas down there. We always stop in Charleston, because it's the halfway mark."

"I can remember going to a campground near Mocksville in the '70s with my family," I said. "It had this large pond with a waterslide and diving platform in the middle. But, I forget the name of it. [Lake Myers] So, where did you guys start out from?"

"Just south of Youngstown." [Ohio]

"Browns fans?"

"No, Steelers."

"Oh, that's right; eastern Ohio is Steeler country."

"Most, but not all of it. And, where are you guys from?"

"Charlotte."

"A fast-growing city."

"Fast-growing rents, too."

He chuckled as the waitress placed the large pizza on the silver rack on our table. The pie was delicious. We devoured it, leaving nary a crumb.

Upon leaving, I told the man and his wife that I had a biracial son, and that they had two lovely daughters. The teenage girls blushed. We wished each other safe travels.

Monique and I then sauntered along Capitol Street to Washington Street, where we turned right and walked back to our hotel. It feels fairly safe strolling this town at night.

Once ensconced in our room, I checked the psecret psociety page on Facebook. Ernie the electronic earwig had posted a question about combination sports. Some of the replies from the agents were quite amusing. Billiards using hand grenades. Ha! Agent 4 must have been toked-up.

Monique got into bed and checked her Facebook on her smartphone. She sent a message to me (even though I was sitting in a chair only about ten feet – 3 meters – away):

When are you going to get in the bed? I'm cold! Ah, the madness of this modern digital age.

We fundled [sic] our grundles and then slept like babies through the foggy West Charlie night. After a courtesy continental breakfast, we were putting our shoe soles to the Charleston sidewalks once again. Today's first target: Charleston Town Center, a three-level shopping mall that was only seven blocks away. Monique demanded this one.

The mall was already packed at 10:10 AM on this Friday before Christmas. I followed Monique as she went shop to shop, diligently searching for refrigerator magnets (her favorite item to collect as of late). As we passed through the food court, I saw a dour-looking, 50-something, Caucasian guy sporting a Cleveland Browns cap. Well, there's a true fan. I don't think Cleveland has won a single game this year.

We struck out in the mall proper. However, a nearby corner shop had some very irreverent magnets for the fridge. We bought two: Go Fuck Your Self and one of Mister (Fred) Rogers flipping the middle finger.

The pangs of hunger hit as we arrived at the corner of Capitol & Lee. Monique wanted Italian again, and Graziano's was right there. Thus, in we went. She ordered a Stromboli and I got a slice of cheese pizza. It was good feed.

Our consumption slowed. I studied the restaurant's interior, wondering if any patron had ever uttered the phrase Charlie West. And then I mumbled such. Did he say something?

"Are you feeling ok, 33?" Monique asked between bites.

"Yes, feeling fine, mahal. And, how about you?"

"Feeling good now. I love this food. I have energy again."

Then I thought about the banner on the business next door (Delfine's Jewelry).

"Monique, did you notice the banner hanging on the shop next door?"

"No, Parkaar, I didn't. What did it say?"

"Long-term wife insurance. A clever pun for a jewelry store, huh?" I chuckled.

"The ring you got me is fine, 33. I love it!"

We boxed up what we couldn't finish and walked back to our hotel room. Rain moved in. We just stayed inside, ate leftovers, and watched the local news.

A male reporter was at Yeager Airport giving a delay update. There was only a lone traveler in camera range. The 40-ish Caucasian reporter then made a municipality-deprecating pronouncement: "Well, as you can plainly see, folks, our fair city is not a top holiday destination." Ah, but we came and have enjoyed it. We could retire in Charlie West. Cheap rent.

On the way out of Charleston on Saturday, Christmas Eve, we had a nice Thai lunch at Su Tei on MacCorkle Avenue SE. The green curry was piquantly divine. Monique's red curry wasn't overly sweet, she informed.

Before we left, I asked the late-30-something Asian waitress if Charlie West sounded familiar. She said that she didn't remember such a customer. And, I just left it at that. Of course, I left another Gold card under the tip. Maybe she knows English well enough to read it. Or, maybe she gives it to her novel-loving best friend. Or, maybe I'm just steadily going knowhere. [sic] Floating down the chilly Kanawha River. Slowly losing buoyancy. Settling in the silt.

2. Fries of Freeze (Jan. 2017)

The wooden sign on Scenic Road (Virginia Route 94) read:

Where the Trail begins... FRIES

I pulled off on the gravel turnout and immediately saw the 15-foot-tall (4.57 meters), stone, turn-of-the-20th-century, cotton mill dam on the New River.

"What's the deal with this stop, Parkaar?" [my ailing alias] Monique, my Filipina wife, asked from the passenger seat of our 2005 Kia Rio. I just know that he's already recording.

"Oh, I just wanted to look at this old dam again, Agent 32." Agent 32? Yep, he's definitely recording.

"Why, did someone go over it and die?"

"Not sure. Maybe when it was a waterfall." [The dam was built at the site of Bartlett Falls.]

I stepped out of our warm, gray car, and into a cold, gray December day. There were patches of hardened snow here and there that crunched under foot. The temperature was below freezing, even at the four o'clock hour.

Monique then got out and walked over to the edge of the little plateau. She glanced down at the narrow pond that was adjacent to the river.

A brown sedan then slowly drove by. I guess we are already on the radar.

"What is the purpose of that dam, Parkaar? Was it built for flood control?"

"No, it was built for hydroelectric power for the textile plant. See that old building down there." I pointed to a brick, four-story powerhouse.

Monique stared at the old building that had large, arched, bricked-in, top-floor window insets.

"The water flowed through it, 32, turning large turbines for electricity. The guy who got the mill up and running was from North Carolina. The town has his surname."

"Oh, I thought that it was because this town had good French fries, 33." She then had a hearty laugh.

I chuckled. "And, get this, the correct pronunciation is freeze."

"How do you know this, 33?"

"I remember reading it in a pamphlet about the New River Trail."

"Really?"

"Yep, yep, yep."

"Oh, not the Malloy [a semi-fictional character who appears in numerous short stories and in the novella Mysterieau of San Francisco] shtick again. Give it a break, Parkaar."

I just grinned and rubbed my right eye.

Monique then gazed at the wide river section below the dam. This little town is in the middle of nowhere. Not sure if I could live here. Though, I'm sure my husband could.

For some reason I recalled a day in the mid-1990s when I saw an elderly trout fisherman standing on a mid-stream rock, casting away. Wonder if that guy is still alive. Maybe he died quietly in his sleep in 2009. Did he ever win a mid-level scratch-off prize? Did he once work in the mill? Was work hard to find after 1989? Did he have a rival for a certain local lass? Did he win out and marry her? Did she die tragically on the river? I doubt that he would have ever expected to surface in a short story.

"What are you thinking about, 33? You seem awfully pensive over there."

"Oh, just thinking about mortality, I guess."

"In a fey way again, are you?"

"Well, no one lives forever, 32." Gosh! He can be so morbid.

"Ok, enough of that, Parkaar. New topic: This famous trail – where does it start?"

"Less than a mile [1.6 km] from here, Monique. It's right beside the river. A great photo-op."

"Ok, let's check it out."

We got back in the car and motored into town. After passing the post office, I made a right onto Firehouse Drive. Soon we were entering a gravel parking lot for New River Trail State Park. Our vehicle was the only one. However, the sign said that you had to pay at all times (by cash into a lockbox), and for any amount of time. So, no free parking here. Not even on this fatalistically forlorn day. We'll just stop for a minute.

I parked the Kia so that we were facing the grayish green river. I kept the engine running.

"Well, want to snap a quick pic, Monique?"

"Sure, Parkaar."

We got out of the car and she took a series of photos of the broad river.

"So, how new is this New River, 33?"

"It's actually a very old river, 32. Thus, the name."

"You Americans are crazy!" She laughed.

Then I heard a car entering the parking lot. It was a white sedan that slowly passed by us, looped around, and summarily exited. Whew! Glad it wasn't a cop or someone from State Parks. I need a parking ticket like another hole in my head. [I have a shunt behind my right ear.]

"Who was that, Parkaar?"

"Just some tourists from Ohio. I think that was our important portent: It's time to leave."

We got back in the car and rolled up to the trailhead. This jogged Monique's memory.

"Oh, yes! I remember this place. We rode our bikes here a few years ago. We got drinks at that red caboose. I rode 37.3 miles [60 km] that day! My personal best."

"Yeah, that was one fine ride. No doubt about it. We should do it again sometime. Maybe next spring."

We then exited the parking area and headed back towards the dam. As we went by the former mill site, I thought about the people who worked there over the decades. It must have been devastating to this little hamlet when that mill closed. And the high school closed, too. But, this place sure has potential. So much natural beauty. If I had the money, I'd open an inn here. Oh, what am I thinking? What do I know about innkeeping? Nada. [Nothing in Spanish] In keeping with innkeeping. Words.

Then Monique looked at me as we passed the dam and headed for Galax. "The water just keeps going down."

"Yeah, that's what it's paid to do, 32."

"Paid to do?! Have you lost your last marble, 33?"

Suddenly we heard the rumble of the right-side tires on the gravel shoulder. The car had drifted off the pavement.

"Ok, turn that digital audio recorder off now!" Monique demanded. "Start focusing on the matter at hand: safely driving us to a warm hotel in Galax."

I removed the thin recorder from my shirt pocket and switched it off. Wonder if I got enough material for a short story. Seems a wee thin. There's always the fluff factor, though. And, the form factor. The fluffable, [sic] formable factor. The lost sinker.

3. Gallivanting in Galax (Jan. 2017)

The Main Street shadows were growing longer by the millisecond. A chilly dusk was starting to settle on the idyllic Blue Ridge town of Galax (VA, USA). It was Christmas Eve, and it was very quiet as far as the ear could see from the 2nd floor, south-facing Rodeway Inn balcony. I wonder if there's any magic tonight in this little mountain town. Did I have that same thought back in 2012? [We stayed in Galax in October 2012 and a shorty story, 'Galax_ Galaxy', was the result.]

I then looked down and noticed that there were only two other vehicles in the parking lot. Who stays in a hotel on Christmas Eve? People like us – that's who! [We had our family Christmas the previous Saturday.] I had an internal chuckle that went external.

"What are you laughing about now, Agent 33?" Monique, my Filipina wife, asked as she came over to the metal railing. Agent 33? Hmmm... I wonder if Monique is using her new digital audio recorder.

"Oh, just reveling in the invisible yet detectable, small-town holiday cheer, Agent 32." Ok, he knows that I'm recording.

"You've been reveling in that jug of [Cabernet Sauvignon] wine for the past half-hour, Parkaar. [my ailing alias] I'm bored. Is there anywhere that we could go? Is there any place open?"

"Well, it is Christmas Eve, you know. It's going to be slim pickings, 32." Slim pickings? Must be some Americanism.

Monique then did a Yelp search on her smartphone with the keywords: best restaurants, Galax, VA. She studied the first result. Ah, this looks perfect! "Hey bana, [husband in Cebuano] they have a craft brewery here that has good pizza. It got four and a half stars out of five. It's called Creek Bottom Brewing. It's on Meadow Street. Are you up for it?"

"Sure, sweetie. But, are they open? Do you have a phone number? I'll call them for you."

Monique recited the phone number to me, and I called them on my not-that-smart phone. The guy who answered said that they were indeed open, but would be closing early. I told him to hold the door lock, as we were on the way.

"Agent 32, how far is that joint from here?"

"Let me check Google Maps, Parkaar. One minute."

"No rush. Do you have the distance yet?" I then laughed.

"Just like your dad." She chuckled as she looked at the route on her screen. "It's only .7 miles [1.13 km] from here. Want to walk it, Agent 33?"

"Sure, Agent 32. That will increase the short-story potential."

"And, it will be more adventurous. Life should be an adventure!"

"No argument here. Let's go now, before they close."

Soon we were walking south on the east side of North Main Street. After crossing Washington Street, we came upon a tall evergreen tree, perhaps a spruce or fir, decorated with large, solid-color ornaments. Monique demanded a video. My on-location report (now on Facebook) with hands under a couple of six-inch orbs: "Is it on? [Monique: "Yeah."] It's Christmas Eve, and we're in Galax, Virginia, just by chance. And, look at this tree. This tree has got some big balls. Over here. Hey, you've ever heard of the dream of the blue balls?"

Bathroom humor, I know. I can do better. My apologies.

Next, we passed a most likely closed (but maybe open?) Macado's, a sub shop. We kept walking, as Monique is not a sandwich fan. Maybe next time for me.

We then crossed Center Street. We walked past a series of closed boutiques and offices. Next Generation. People put us duh-duh-down. [sic] Just because we get around. Things they do look awful cuh-cuh-cold. [sic] I hope I die before I get old. Well, too late for me. I'm ancient his-his-history. [sic] Talkin' 'bout the next gen-uh-uh-ration. [sic] Next generation, baby. / Wonder what nonsense he is thinking right now.

We then passed The Galax Smokehouse and arrived at an intersection: Grayson Street. We turned left and soon passed the Visitor's Center, which unfortunately, too, was closed. I bet they have some nice brochures.

Next, we crossed a little side street: Rex Lane. The nearly dark streets were completely deserted now. We continued our downward trek towards Chestnut Creek. I noticed the old Rex Theater on the right. Wonder if 'Casablanca' played there. Maybe it's not quite that old. But, that building sure has character. Hope the wrecking ball doesn't get it.

Then we came upon a sheet-metal-clad building that came up flush with the sidewalk. The most striking feature: a couple of exterior doors that opened about three feet (one meter) above the sidewalk. There were no steps. Wow! That is one Paul Bunyan step up – or down. I don't think that would pass ADA (Americans with Disabilities Act). I had a low-volume chuckle.

Monique noticed me studying the doors. "Where are the stairs, Parkaar?"

"They must have reeled them in for the holiday weekend." He's just spouting inanities for the recorder.

"Why did I have to ask?" Monique asked with exasperation.

"I don't know right now, lovely Agent 32, but maybe it will come to me." Whatever!

Monique just sighed. Hope he doesn't drink too much at the microbrewery.

We then crossed Depot Avenue and passed by the USPS (United States Post Office) building. A desolate Railroad Avenue followed. And then, we were walking under the Vaughan Bassett (a furniture plant) over-street connector. It was quite wide. Wonder if they can run forklifts through it. Is there a conveyor belt in there? Wonder how the safety guy – or gal – manages.

We stopped in the middle of the bridge over Chestnut Creek, a shallow brook, and looked downstream. A New River volume feeder. Fries Junction. Yeah, that's the confluence.

"Well, not much farther, Monique. The brewpub is probably right over there." I pointed north with my right index finger. "Probably just .2 miles [322 meters] to go."

"I bet that water is really cold. Do you think it is 33 degrees, [Fahrenheit; 0.56º Celsius] 33?"

"Not that cold, 32. It's probably in the 40s. [Fahrenheit; 4.44º to 9.99º Celsius] But, still way too cold to wade." To wade?!

"Yellow card to Parkaar. One more ridiculous comment and I turn the recorder off." Oh, no!

"That's not much leeway, dearest ref."

Monique didn't respond. Soon we were making a rounded inside-corner left onto North Meadow Street. The galvanized steel guardrail on our immediate left ended, and then the sidewalk did, too. Glad that Monique didn't wear high heels. She would be hating it right now.

We marched on the grass next to the road, passing various industrial businesses. Then we passed a lone residence and arrived at East View Street. We safely crossed Meadow Street, waving a car by. And then as we crossed View Street, I looked back southwestward across the creek. If there were a pedestrian bridge – or even a low-water weir – connecting Webster and View, it would cut the distance nearly in half, I bet. Would also be a good bike link. / Lord knows what he's thinking of now. Won't even ask.

We immediately saw the brown wooden sign in front of the PRONETS Building:

Creek Bottom Brews – Craft Beer Store & Tasting Room

We noticed several cars in the gravel parking lot and made our way to the front door of their building, which was an annex of the PRONETS Building. I pulled on the door handle. It opened. Yee-hee! They're not closed. I'm so hungry for some pizza / Yey! We made it in time. Can't wait to taste their beer.

We walked in and stopped near the register. A middle-aged Caucasian couple, who were seated near the door, had just finished eating, and were getting up to leave. They chatted with the staff as they made their exit. Must be locals. They seem to know each other.

We were quickly seated in the back area by a late-20-something, brown-haired, bearded, white dude. Prerequisite no. 1 for being a male craft brewer: Full beard.

"Thanks for staying open for us," I said to him.

"Ah, that was you," he said. "No problem, man. You guys got in under the wire." He then headed back to the kitchen.

I then studied the walls, which were lined with tall shelves of assorted craft beers, while waiting for our waiter. This was the perfect stop tonight.

A blonde-haired Caucasian lady of about 25 years soon took our pizza order. When she asked me what I would like to drink, I told her to surprise me with something dark. The pint of Porter Wagoneer that she brought back really hit the spot. Nice chocolate aroma. Great brewski. [sic]

Monique sipped on a Sprite as we waited for the pizza. We could see the stone oven from where we were seated. Wow! A real stone oven. / This pizza should be good.

The pizza landed twelve minutes later. It was delicious. The dark beer complimented it perfectly.

"We picked a good place, Parkaar," Monique said as she finished off the next-to-penultimate onion slice.

"We really did, Agent 32. We could have done a lot worse."

"We could have been eating at a convenient store tonight, Agent 33." So true.

"No doubt, 32."

Then the waitress walked up. "Is everything ok?"

"Yes, everything is fine," I replied as Monique nodded.

"Would you like another beer, sir?"

"How much time do we have?" I asked, fearing that closing time was fast approaching.

"Oh, probably twenty minutes. We won't run you out." That's very nice of them.

"In that case, sure!"

"Where are you all from?" the short waitress then asked.

"Charlotte," Monique quickly stated.

"And what brings you up here on Christmas Eve?"

"Our health," Monique replied. Ah, Casablanca. I'll play along, too.

"We came to Galax for the waters," I added.

"But, neither of you are drinking our fine mountain water," the waitress stated. I wonder if she got the Casablanca reference. Her reply is ambiguous. The mysteries in this life.

Seventeen minutes later we had consumed all the food and beverages. I paid the bill with our credit-union debit card. And, par for the course, I left a Gold card (a coupon for a free e-copy of my 2013 novel, Gold, a summer story) under the tip. He sure is dispensing those cards rather quickly.

However, we didn't get out the door before the waitress pulled her tip – and saw the card.

"Didn't you write a science-fiction short story that was based in Galax several years ago?" she asked me as she approached us.

"I did. I've learned to stay away from that genre. It certainly wasn't my best. It has a one-star rating at last check."

"Oh, I was fine with the sci-fi theme. What distressed me was the thoughts of my fellow townsfolk. It was quite negative and dark."

"Sorry about that," I said. "The next short story about Galax will be much more positive. I like this town."

"Ok, I'll look forward to reading it," she said. "Goodnight and Merry Christmas."

"Likewise," Monique and I replied in unison.

We decided to perambulate back, so as to form a rectangular loop, since the northern return route was approximately equal to the distance of the way we had come. Also, I wanted to include a few more sights and site-specific thoughts in the future short story. (The one that you are reading now.)

Monique and I walked north-northwestward on North Meadow Street. We cut through the CVS Pharmacy parking lot to arrive on East Stuart Drive (US 58/221). It was dark now.

Traffic was sporadic on the four-lane highway as we walked over Chestnut Creek on a narrow sidewalk. We hurried so that we would be off of the bridge before a large, whole-right-lane-wide truck got there. We made it by a step. Whew!

As we crossed T. George Vaughan, Jr. Road, I looked over to the right and saw an old red NW (Norfolk and Western) caboose. It was at the beginning of the Galax branch of the New River Trail. I pointed to it.

"Monique, that's where our rail-trail bicycling adventure started 50 months ago." Fifty months? Why doesn't he just say 'a little over four years ago'? Because the recorder is on.

"Yes, it was a perfect fall day, Parkaar."

"Indeed it was, 32."

"I wonder if anyone is on that trail right now, 33."

"Well, there are some 57 miles [91.7 km] of fine crushed stone. There's probably some lost soul out there somewhere. Maybe between Draper and Pulaski."

"Why would you guess there, 33?" Monique asked as we crossed Madison Street.

"Just a hunched-over hunch, 32." What?!

At the corner of East Stuart and North Main was a gasoline station that had been converted into a community church (Hearts United). The sign on the brick wall said that they accepted everyone – Muslims, Latinos, Asians, African Americans, and LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transsexual) folks. Pretty impressive for a small town in Appalachia. Wonder if they get harassed. / I just know that my bana likes this.

We turned left. Two blocks later, we were crossing East Webster Street. Monique then pointed to a wooden sign:

Galax Police Department

She snapped a pic of me standing next to it (posted on Facebook). It's reassuring that the police station is right next to us. / Glad that we're on foot. I'm probably under 0.08, [blood-alcohol concentration] but I know that I have alcohol on my breath. Smart move leaving the car parked.

Seventy-seven feet (25.67 meters) later, we were climbing the exterior steps to our room. A charming South Asian family of four passed us. I wonder if they are related to the owner. [who appeared to be of Indian descent] / Glad we're not the only ones here tonight. That would be creepy.

We rounded the balcony corner and were safely back at our hotel room. I unlocked and opened the door. Monique immediately flopped down on the queen-size bed. She was exhausted.

I then told her that I was going to take a few nighttime pics. I closed the door and walked to the eastern end of the second-floor exterior corridor and noticed the sign on the adjacent building:

Midtown Apartments

A make-your-own-message wall sign stated that all utilities were included. Nice views. Cheap rent. This would be it.

And then a 60-ish white guy in a green army jacket staggered out of the shadows below. He appeared to be extremely impaired.

"Merry Christmas!" I yelled down to him.

"What's sooooo [sic] merry about it?" he slurred out as he wiped his disheveled gray beard with his right cuff.

"Well, we're both alive in America. We've still got a chance."

"I aint got no chances left. And, you don't, either, pal. It's over. We lost." We? Such an incorrigibly optimistic chap.

"Ok, well, enjoy this nice night anyway."

"What's so nice about it?!" he shouted. Bitter always?

I didn't reply. I just strided back to our room. While unlocking the door, I noticed a sign to my left:

Knights Inn 4 Blocks →

I looked up the hill. Wonder if anyone ever found that note.

Once inside, I sat on the side of the bed and began to take off my heavy, brown, steel-toe hiking shoes.

Monique then rolled over. "Did you encounter anything interesting?" she sleepily asked.

"Just an impromptu story-closer, 32."

"I'll transcribe the recording for you tomorrow."

"Salamat, ang akong matam-is nga asawa. ['Thanks, my sweet wife' in Cebuano] Very much appreciated. I think we've got another story here."

Monique quickly fell back asleep. Twelve minutes later, I heard a man stomping past our door. Wonder if that's the homeless-appearing guy.

Then all was quiet for the rest of the waking night. After the weather segment on the 10 o'clock local news (out of Roanoke), I turned the TV off. Sleep crashed down on my consciousness within minutes.

Just before dawn, an intense dream took hold. The sound of the microwave door closing awoke me. Monique looked at my shocked face. I immediately felt under the pillows. But, nothing was there.

"Wrong story, Parkaar," Monique stated.

We laughed.

4. **The Punt** (Jan. 2017)

A cool, gray, late November Saturday, replete with low clouds that looked exquisitely bored, found my 13-year-old Amerasian son (the new Agent 66 – formerly 666) and I playing some American football in our east Charlotte (NC, USA) back yard. We were passing the brown, bi-pointed, oval, white-striped pigskin back and forth. I then told him: "Get ready, son. Here comes a booming punt. See if you can field it."

"I'm going to catch it and return it for a touchdown on your ass, dad!" he exclaimed. Such adolescent boldness.

"Be sensible, son. Call for a fair catch. You don't want to get crumpled by the old man." I chuckled.

"Crumpled? Ha! You won't even be able to touch me, dad! I'm going to juke you. I've got the moves." He sure is feeling his oats today.

"Ok, here it comes."

My son nodded. He had such a determined look on his face.

I then dropped the football from both hands and my right, brown, steel-toe safety shoe struck it fairly hard. It went about forty-five feet (13.7 meters) up in the air.

"The 52-year-old geezer hit that one pretty good," I proudly announced as the football was in mid-flight.

However, the punt was partially shanked, and started heading for the garden area to my son's right. Oh, crap! That's going offline. I hope that it doesn't slice through the bird netting. Monique [my wife, Agent 32] won't like seeing a big rip in it.

"You shanked it, dad!" I sure did.

The ball soared over the now-dead stalks in the vegetable garden and into some Japanese mimosa trees that lined the back patio. Some autumn-defiant leaves were knocked off by the ball and fluttered downward. But, I never heard or saw the football hit the ground. Hmmm... that's odd. Wonder where it went. Maybe it deflected into the neighbor's yard.

My son and I then walked over to the patch of slender, smooth-trunk mimosa trees, which were about sixteen to twenty feet (4.9 to 6.1 meters) tall. We didn't see the football anywhere on the ground. But when I looked up, there it was: Our laced ellipsoid was stuck in the crotch of some upper limbs, some eighteen feet (5.5 meters) above the ground.

"Well, there it is, son," I said as I pointed to the limb-pinched football. "What are the odds of that happening?"

"About the same as winning the Powerball lottery, I would bet, dad." One in 292 million? That may be about right.

"Oh, you would have to bring up that sore subject." [reference the short story Powerballed]

"Sorry, dad."

"It's ok, son. That's life. Par for the curse." [sic] The curse?

"Well, how are we going to get it down, dad? That tree is way too skinny for me to climb. I'm sure that it would break before I got to the football."

"It would, son. And, the trunk is too thin to support the weight of our extension ladder. I'm going to give it a good shaking. Maybe it will drop out like the golden egg." The golden egg? I bet he uses that in a future short story.

I then walked over and located the slim trunk of the Albizia tree that supported the vise-grip limbs. I grabbed it with both hands and began to shake the tree vigorously, slamming it into the surrounding trees. The result: More leaves fell to the ground, but the caramel-colored egg-ball didn't budge a millimeter (1/25 of an inch).

"Hey dad, we could throw another ball at it. Maybe that would knock it loose." Good idea.

"Yeah, I guess it's worth a try, son. Where is that other football – the slow leaker?" [After fifteen minutes, this found-in-a-creek American football would lose half its air pressure.]

My son quickly located it next to the natural gas meter. We went inside the house and pumped it up to maximum air pressure. Wish there were some way to seal this football's bladder. If only I could get some Slime® (a puncture sealant) into it to seal that pinhole.

Once back on the patio, my son took the first throw. It was blocked by another mimosa limb. Then I took a shot at it. Blocked as well. This is going to take a luck shot to free that football. It won't take 292 million throws, but it may take 292. Or, a few more.

We alternated throws for sixteen minutes with no luck. When I missed badly with the now-low-on-air football, which sailed halfway across the neighbor's back yard, my son had had enough. This is futile.

"Dad, my arm's tired. Can we try this again later?" My arm is shot, too.

"Sure, it's not going anywhere. It's not going to rain tonight. And, I think that the owls will leave it alone for the night." Why would an owl want that football? My dad says the weirdest things.

Six weeks later, in mid-January, my son and I went outside in the late afternoon to check on the perched football, which had been rained on numerous times, and had even been sleeted upon and snowed on a week prior.

All the leaves had now fallen off the Japanese mimosa trees. The football was starkly obvious at first glance, appearing like an abandoned bird's nest in the darkening sky. And, it was still firmly ensconced in the crotch of the V-shaped vertical conjunction of the topmost limbs. Still can't believe that it landed perfectly in the crotch of that tree. All of the angles had to be just right for that to happen: the downward trajectory of the football, the attitude of the football as it struck the crotch, the alignment of the limbs. An inauspicious flight from Wankersburg to Crotchdale. Must remember that line. I had an internal chuckle.

"Dad, what are you thinking about?" Maybe he's thinking of a new way to get our football out of that tree.

"Oh, nothing of importance, son. Just amazed at how astoundingly unlucky my punt was. I couldn't do that again in 292 years." Gosh, dad's obsessed with 292.

"You're not going to live to be 292, dad. I don't think any human has ever lived past 125."

"You're right on both counts, son."

My son and I then took turns again throwing the slow-leaking football at the stuck-in-the-tree football. In the bottom of the fifth inning, I actually struck the lodged pigskin. But, it didn't fall from the tree. In fact, it barely budged. Sheez-us H. Christ! [sic] That ball is wedged in there good. / That football is going to disintegrate up in that tree. I wonder how long it will take.

I then spied an old croquet ball on the patio next to a basket of small garden tools. I walked over and picked up the one-pound (0.45 kg) dark blue orb. How in the world did we end up with just a single croquet ball? Did the game get that out of hand? / Wonder if dad remembers where I found that ball.

"What do ya think, son? This has the mass – and will have the momentum – to dislodge that football if it strikes it."

"But dad, if you miss, it could also go sailing into the neighbor's car." That's true.

"I'll throw it almost straight up, son – at, say, a 75-degree angle – from back over here, [near the property line] so that it lands safely in our back yard." Famous last words.

I then went into a windup like a baseball pitcher. I hurled the 3.625-inch-diameter (92 mm) croquet ball from my right hand with as much velocity as I could muster. It whizzed past the tree-clasped football (just an inch – 2.54 cm – too high)... and then crashed loudly onto the sheet-metal roof of our rear shed. Damn! Just what I didn't want to happen. Un-focking-believable! [sic] This is going from bad to worse in curvilinear fashion. / Oh, dear! Wonder how bad the damage is.

"Dad, I bet the odds of that occurring were much greater than the odds of your punt resulting in a tree-stuck football." I'm sure.

I sighed. "Yep, you would be right, son. So very right."

We walked over to the rear shed that was just up from a runnel. The croquet ball had struck about four inches (10.16 cm) from a corner. I observed a substantial dent in the aluminum roof panel, but, thankfully, no hole. Darn it! Wouldn't you know it? It was just the width of the ball from missing the shed entirely and quietly landing in this soft earth. Bad luck loves to camp on my shoulders. This shed kit cost $292. That number is shadowing me. Is it an augury to play those digits on a lottery ticket? No, that's just madness.

As of January 27, 2017, the football was still stuck in the fateful crotch of that Japanese mimosa – like an ensnared partridge in a silk tree.
5. Lake Montonia Gaze (Feb. 2017)

On a seasonally cold 2013 winter morning, after gulping down my last slug of coffee, I gave Slim (who never took an agent number) a call from our frosty east Charlotte (NC, USA) back yard (bad cell reception in the basement apartment). Monique, my Filipina wife (Agent 32), was still asleep and not feeling good (a chest cold).

I punched in his new ten digits on my little LG not-that-smart phone. On the third ring he answered.

"Huh-lo," [sic] Slim said, sounding like I had awakened him.

"Hi, Slim. It's Mike – Mike van Tryke. [my art-name] Want to do a cool-air hike today at Crowders Mountain State Park and reminisce about Frank? [Agent 107, who had died unexpectedly – at 47 – three weeks prior] I think that it will warm up to 45." [º Fahrenheit; 7.22º Celsius]

"You mean a cold-air hike. I bet that it will struggle to reach 40 [º Fahrenheit; 4.44º Celsius] on the north side of that ridge. But, yeah, sure. I've got nothing planned. I just need to do a little house-cleaning first. Want to roll out from my place at noon? I'll be glad to drive. Just give me a few bucks for gas. I'm low on loot until payday – Friday."

"Sure! Sounds great, Slim. See you then."

Monique awoke just after ten o'clock and said that she would be fine without me for the afternoon, as she was just going to rest in bed.

The green minivan rolled onto Slim's gravel Plaza Hills driveway at 11:58 AM. As I strolled up to his front door, I noticed a new McMansion on the lot beside him. Wow! The NoDa [a now-über-trendy area of northeast Charlotte] gentrification wave has crossed The Plaza. I bet the value of Slim's modest two-bedroom house has tripled since he bought it in '89. But, he's not looking to sell. Thus, he's just paying more in property taxes now. I'm sure that he's thrilled.

I knocked on the thick, wooden, round-top door, as Slim had disabled the doorbell (annoying sound). Eight seconds later, the door was being unlocked.

Slim's now-balding, 51-year-old (2½ years my senior), bespectacled, black-haired, Caucasian head appeared in the door gap. "I'm all ready to go, Mike." He then stepped onto his gray-painted concrete slab porch.

A stray, medium-size, mixed-breed dog on the street started to approach us aggressively, but Slim yelled it away. Then Slim led the way to his gold-colored 1974 Chevy Camaro.

"Mike, I want to take the old lady out today. I haven't driven her in months. Could you back your car out of the driveway?"

I obliged. Soon we were on the Brookshire Freeway (NC 16), heading northwest away from uptown Charlotte. Slim opened it up a few times, giving the old V-8 engine a stiff dose of throttle.

"Just clearing out her lungs, Mike," he said with his trademark, almost maniacal, grin. I bet Slim had a few bong hits [water-pipe-filtered inhalations of marijuana] for breakfast. Wake-n-bake.

A few minutes later we were motoring down Interstate 85 South (but actually headed more west than south). Slim then inserted the Best of Journey CD into his high-end stereo. He started to sing along when Wheel in the Sky came on. Slim still loves his Journey.

When we passed over the Catawba River, I started to wonder which access point Slim had in mind for our hike. Don't want to hike from the Linwood Road parking lot today. Too many people will be out. Won't have any quality Frankenthoughts. [sic] Too many distractions.

"Slim, what part of the mountain ridge did you want to hike?" I asked as we zoomed past Exit 27 (Belmont).

"Let's hike up to that craggy overlook – the one south of Kings Pinnacle – where I found that roach [the last part of a marijuana cigarette] in the cranny of a boulder." He just used 'craggy' and 'cranny' in the same sentence. Graggy [sic] granny. Fraggy [sic] Franny.

"I remember that, Slim. You said that it was RAD – rainwater-advanced dope." Wrong.

"No, Mike; I said that it was R-E-D – rainwater-enhanced dope." My memory is shot. / Mike's memory is fried.

"Oh, yeah. You're right. That was quite a bizarre find. They must've got so stoned that they dropped it." Wrong again.

"No, it wasn't dropped, Mike. Remember that I removed it from a crack – a cranny – in that large boulder? Someone had strategically placed it there." Oh, yes.

"Maybe Frank pranked us and planted it there when we weren't looking." No, no, no. Gosh, his brain is toast now.

"No, the roach was stone cold and the paper was weathered. It had been there for at least several days – probably over a week. Don't you remember?"

"Yeah, yeah. It's coming back, Slim. I have an image of it now on my neural screen." Neural screen? Ha!

"I bet that it was placed there for a reason, Mike."

"Yeah, the stoners [marijuana smokers] probably didn't want that half-inch [1.27 cm] of evidence in their car. Just not worth the risk." His brain can still function after all.

"Congratulations! That's the first intelligent thing that you've said since you got in the car, Mike." Slim had a guffaw.

"I still have my moments, Slim. Still keeping senility at bay."

"Just barely."

I laughed. And then somber thoughts of Frank shut it down.

We then blew right past Gastonia. Slim had it locked down at 74 MPH (119 km/h) in the far left lane. Hope we don't get pulled over. A speeding ticket would send his insurance through the roof. He always liked to drive fast – just like Frank. I guess that he knows the leeway limit.

"So, what exit do we take, Slim? Was it Exit 5?"

"No, that's one too far, Mike. We take Exit 8 for NC 161." [aka York Road]

"Oh, yeah; that's right."

Just then we were passing through the long Exit 10, which had a section of US 74 sandwiched between the southbound and northbound lanes of Interstate 85.

One hundred seconds later, Slim had slowed down and moved over to the far right lane. We safely exited the freeway and headed south on York Road. We could see the ridge looming ahead. With the leaves off the deciduous trees, we could even see some of the granite outcrops and precipices. Was that the one?

As we approached Stepps Gap, where the Ridgeline Trail crosses the highway, I noticed shiny steel guardrails that tightly lined both shoulders. Well, no parking here.

"Where are we going to park your muscle-mobile, Slim? The just-off-the-road-on-the-grassy-shoulder parking days are now over." He sure is talking oddly. Maybe Mike is already on something.

"Right here," Slim said as he suddenly turned right onto a gravel road named Oak Mountain Lane. "See the pink surveyor's tape on these trees?"

"Yes." What in the world is Slim thinking?

"Pass me the notebook under your seat," Slim requested as he pulled off the gravel road onto a flat sandy patch.

I felt under the seat and extracted a grade-school spiral notebook. I handed it to Slim as he shifted into Park.

"Also, could you please pass me the magic marker that is in the glove compartment?"

I did so.

"Thanky-thanky." [sic] Slim then wrote SURVEY CREW on a lined sheet of paper. Next, he tore it from the notebook and placed it on his dashboard in front of the steering wheel. What in the world?! Does he expect that to be his free-parking pass?

"I hope your car doesn't get towed, Slim. It's a long walk back to Charlotte. Thirty-eight miles [61.16 km] is a little beyond my range." Gosh, he worries too much.

"Relax. It will be ok, Mike." Hope so. But, I sure wouldn't want to bet on it.

We then exited his Camaro and began our hike. We backtracked on the gravel road to NC 161. Then we walked across the highway and picked up the Ridgeline Trail. Soon we were climbing steadily, but not too steeply. In only eleven minutes we had reached the first northwest-facing overlook. I wandered over to check it out.

"This isn't the one, Mike. It was the third one up. Remember?" Yep, he's right.

"You've still got an elephant's memory, Slim."

"Only compared to yours, Mike."

We had a laugh for a few seconds.

About two hundred feet (61 meters) farther was the second rocky overlook. Three Caucasian hikers in their 30s, two females and a male, were taking a water break. We just said hello and kept marching up the ridge.

In another two hundred or so feet, we were at our favorite spot of year's past: the third perch. Lucky for us, no one was there. I looked at my cell phone as we stepped through a fissure and onto some massive boulders. It was 1:11. The sun was bright and did provide a little extra warmth. Though, the hike itself had already warmed us up.

I found a chair-like feature in the light gray, mostly rounded, granite rocks and sat down. Slim then did likewise. His stone recliner was about six feet (two meters) to my left.

I then noticed a green pond in the valley below. I pointed down to it. "Slim, there's Lake Montonia."

"Oh, yes. I see it."

"Remember that Monday evening that me, you and Frank came up here, back in the summer of '94?" Back in the summer of '69...

"Hmmm... not sure."

"The exact date was June 27th." Exact date?

"Why would we have come up here on a Monday in June?"

"I think your electrical controls company had a complete shutdown that week. And, Frank was off work due to a construction accident. I think he partially cut his left thumb with a circular saw. And as for me, I was working from home at the time, writing safety talks."

"Oh, yes. I was on a forced vacation due to a downturn in that company's business. That was one lean summer. Glad that I'm not with them anymore. Ok, so what happened? Refresh my memory."

"And, you said that I had the bad memory, Slim." I chuckled.

Slim grinned. "Was that the time we stayed up here until nightfall, and then stumbled our way back down the trail in the pitch-black darkness, tripping over roots, because none of us remembered to bring a flashlight?"

"Yes, that would be the night."

"So, what was so special about that particular outing? That wasn't the time that I found the hidden roach."

"Yeah, I know that. But, remember the swimmers in Lake Montonia that evening? They were splashing around and hooting and hollering so loud that we could make out their conversation up here."

"Ok, I think that I recall it now."

"And then, remember that loud scream just after eight o'clock, around dusk?"

"Oh, yes! That was one blood-curdling scream. So, what about it, Mike?"

"Well, it turns out that that scream was related to an 18-year-old male's serious accident in that swimming hole."

"You're kidding me. What happened?"

"Dude slid down the water slide on his knees, toppled over at the end, and then his head struck a submerged section of concrete. A lawsuit ensued that wound through the courts for several years."

"Was he paralyzed?"

"I'm not sure."

"How much money did he get?"

"I'm not sure."

"Can you reply with something other than 'I'm not sure'?"

"I'm not sure."

"Boo. Enough. Stop. Please."

"Hey, you set me up, Slim. I had to say it a third time." On the third perch.

Slim then fired up a joint (a marijuana cigarette) and began to take some deep drags on it. After the fifth inhalation, he handed it towards me.

I declined. "That's ok, Slim. I'd like to take a puff, but they now have drug testing where I work. I'll just stir a few of my magic granules into my water bottle. It's totally legal, fast-acting, mildly psychedelic, and only lasts three hours. But, boy does it uncap the thought pipeline." Uncap the thought pipeline?

"Got enough for me, too?"

"Sure, Slim. I anticipated your interest."

I then poured a teaspoon of the blue-green granules into mine and Slim's water bottles. We both gulped down the solution at the same time.

"Here's to our fantastic Frank!" I announced as I finished off the half-liter (16.9 oz.) bottle.

"Wherever he may be," Slim added, right on cue.

We were silent for seventeen minutes as the psychoactive serum took hold of our neural circuitry. Then a chilly gust of wind whistled through the scraggly pines that were desperately trying not to be blown off the rocks.

"What do ya think, Slim? Just atoms?" What?! He's already zapped. Hope he doesn't fall off this cliff.

"Atoms?" Slim asked, seeking elaboration.

"Atoms. Molecules. And then after we die, everything moving to a lower energy state."

"You mean the corpse?"

"Yes, and everything associated with the deceased one's brain – all the thoughts, memories, concepts of self, etc."

"Ok, I think that I see where you're going. What really happens after we die? What is verifiable? Entropy wins out against even us humans. Is that it?"

"Yeah, that's what seems to be tingling my synapses right now, Slim. How about you?"

"I'm getting thoughts of existences in alternate universes after death. Frank may be laughing at us right now from his sixth-dimension perch."

"A wormhole with a view."

We both started laughing uproariously, gasping for oxygen. Twenty-two seconds later, I had caught my breath. Slim recomposed himself five seconds subsequent, just before a pack of hikers walked by. Whew!

"Slim, what do you think led to Frank's apparent suicide?"

"That is the unsolvable riddle, Mike."

"Some say it was financial; others say it was medical; and still others think it was relationship related. But, I blame it on the Ambien®. Those pills made him paranoid as hell and completely delusional."

"You may be right, Mike. If I had to assign a probability to these different theories, I would score it like this: Financial, 5% – his store was making money; medical, 30% – he did complain of chronic back pain, but was it really that bad?; relationship reasons, 20% – he had just celebrated Thanksgiving and Christmas with Sally and his family, and there were no signs of discord; Ambien®, 90% – I saw him, too, acting very strange on that stuff."

"I've never taken Ambien®, Slim, but I've read the horror stories on the internet. You know, in some ways it seems a lot like Marezine®, that over-the-counter motion-sickness preventative. If you took more than six of those tablets, you could slide into an intensely, incredibly real-like unreality. You could easily imagine certain people were present – in hiding – who really weren't."

"It will always be a mystery, I guess."

"Yep, probably so. And, no note was left, Slim."

"Well, with Frank that doesn't surprise me, Mike. You know that he was a man of few words – spoken or written."

"That's the truth. Maybe it was a combination of everything, and he just said to himself: "That's it. Enough. Done. I'm out of here. You guys sort through it without me."

"He sure left a void."

"No doubt, Slim."

"I wonder if... he's aware..."

Suddenly, a mighty gust of Canadian air ripped across the bluff's rock face.

"I think our Frank just exhaled, Slim." Our frank and open, deep conversations...

We laughed for a while. Then we focused on Lake Montonia again. I thought that I saw ripples on the surface. But, then I doubted my posterized perception. I'm too far away to see surface features on that pond way down there.

"I'm pondering on that pond," Slim stated. A grand day for it.

"Ok." Slim is zonked on my magic granules.

"Exactly how many people have sat on these rocks over the years, and wondered about their own mortality, Mike?" Huh?

"That question costs too much for a near-pauper like me to answer, Slim." Costs too much to answer?

We then got lost in our hyper-spatial thoughts for about an hour. Not much was said. Hikers passed by and we just waved and smiled.

Then I blurted out: "Let's make a deal, Slim. Whichever one of us outlives the other... well, that person must come up here and eulogize the other two while gazing at Lake Montonia." Eulogize? Oh, boy ...

"Well, Mike, that person will most likely be you, Mr. Vegetarian Cyclist."

"I don't know, Slim. I've got some medical issues. Some worsening medical issues."

"Well, go see a doctor!"

"I have."

"Well, what is it?"

"GI tract issues." Huh?

"GI tract?"

"Gastrointestinal tract."

"Just pour some Drano® (pipe clog cutter) down your hatch."

"And then hang glide into Lake Montonia?"

Slim chortled. "Go out on a high note!"

6. **Greenville Jaunt** (Feb. 2017)

After sitting through another agonizing LFC (Liverpool Football Club) underperformance (a 2-0 loss to lowly Hull City) at Valhalla Pub in uptown Charlotte (NC, USA) on Saturday, February 4th, Monique (my Filipina wife, aka Agent 32) and I were off to Greenville – the one in South Carolina. We had heard good things about this foothills town from friends. Also, one of my brothers had lived there for about a year in the mid-1990s. Moreover, we were curious to investigate. Maybe a short story will emerge from this trip. Hope so.

Soon we were scooting down I-85 (Interstate Highway 85) South in our Kia hatchback. It was a nice, sunny, cool-but-not-so-cold winter day. Traffic was light to moderate in the one o'clock hour. We were listening to Blackbird Blackbird's [sic] Tangerine Sky CD and didn't say much. Well, not until we rolled past Exit 13.

Monique then looked over at the ridge to the left. "There's Crowders Mountain, Parkaar!" [my ailing alias] Recording? Check.

"Yep, that's it, Monique. I'm sure that it's Crowded [sic] Mountain today."

"It's safer when other hikers are on the trail, Agent 33."

"Maybe so, Agent 32. But, hordes ruin the experience. That mountain is probably overrun right now with Charlotte weekend warriors." And he's one of them.

The song Darlin' Dear started playing as we passed Exit 5. Oh, darlin' dear, you got nothing to fear... Wonder where Mikey [Maramag] is playing tonight...

Monique glanced back at the ridgeline. The U-shaped Kings Pinnacle was a stark image in the forefront of a cerulean sky backdrop.

"So, that's where your last short story [Lake Montonia Gaze] took place, 33?"

"Near there. A mile or so down from that rocky peak, 32."

"What happens in that short story, Parkaar? Does anyone die or fall in love?"

"Oh, you'll just have to sit down and read it, Monique."

Disappointed with my answer, she gave me a playful frown.

In a few minutes we crossed the state line and entered South Carolina. Monique's smartphone, which was set to Google Maps, added an audio welcome.

Fourteen minutes later we were approaching the somewhat-famous Gaffney Peachoid, a peach-shaped – and peach-painted – water tower just off the highway. Monique filmed the roadside attraction. (The short video is on the psecret psociety Facebook page.)

"What are the specs on that water tower, Parkaar?" I'm sure that he has some numbers. He always does.

"It holds a million gallons [3,785,412 liters] of water; was completed in 1981; is 135 feet [41.15 meters] tall; and is open for swimming only during the summer months." What?!

"I'm calling tai [Cebauno for bullshit] on that last one, 33."

I just laughed.

Monique then grinned. "How much farther to Greenville?"

"Forty-six miles, [74 km] Monique. We're already more than halfway there. We should be in town around 2:20. However, check-in at the hotel is not until three o'clock."

"We can just drive around to pass the time, 33. You know, get the lay of the land." Where in the world did she hear that Americanism?

"Sure. Ok."

Twenty-one minutes later we were approaching the I-26 interchange. Hmmm... Asheville is only an hour away. Should we try to squeeze it into this weekend? No, just stay solely focused on Greenville.

Monique noticed the large green sign. "What is Spartanburg like, Parkaar?"

"I don't know, 32. I've never been there. Maybe we'll check it out on a future trip."

Nineteen minutes later we were taking Exit 51 for I-385, a freeway that goes right into downtown Greenville. We were moving right along until the last mile (1.61 km). That's when we came to a grinding halt. I wonder what the cause of this backup is. Is there a college basketball game today?

The bumper-to-bumper traffic crept to the end of the freeway. Now we were on East North Street. Is there a North East Street in this burg? [There isn't.]

When we got to North Academy Street, we saw the reason for the slowdown. Police were directing traffic for The Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus matinee show (Circus XTREME®). People were streaming into the Bon Secours ['Good Help' in French] Wellness Arena to our right. Ah, Greenville is on the final tour, too. [Another show – Out of This World – was in Charlotte.]

"What is going on, 33?" Monique asked, stunned by the throngs of people passing by.

"It's the last weekend for a venerable century-old American circus. Remember when we saw Ringling Brothers at Time Warner Arena [now Spectrum Center] in uptown Charlotte a few years ago?"

"Oh, it's the same circus?"

"Yep. It's their final go-round. I think the animal controversy did them in. Plus, I think that it's not high-tech enough for the kids of today. But, maybe in the future there will be a circus of robots." Oh, boy...

"Sex robots?" [reference: A Novella Idea, a short story about such] Monique then giggled like an impish schoolgirl.

"That one will cost extra, 32."

"For an autonomous happy ending?"

We both laughed as I took a forced right turn onto North Church Street. A block later, I turned left onto Beattie Place, a one-way street. We were certainly in the core downtown area now. A couple of blocks later, I made a left onto North Main Street. The first thing that struck me: the horizontal traffic lights (red on the left end) mounted next to the yellow-on-black overhead street signs. Ah, very kewl. [sic] Well done, Greenville. Very stylishly done.

The inviting, two-lane, tree-lined street was thriving with boutiques, restaurants, coffee shops, pubs and assorted offices. I didn't see a single boarded-up storefront. This place has something going... going in the right direction.

We stayed on Main Street until I saw the soft left for Augusta Street. Less than a mile later we were pulling into the Quality Inn & Suites parking lot next to a Taco Bell. As soon as I parked the car, a black guy of about sixty-five years with only a left leg, sitting in a wheelchair, sped over to us. Maybe he's a disabled Vietnam vet. I'll give him a couple of bucks.

Monique was immediately wary and afraid of him. As I stepped out of our gray car to go to the hotel office, I saw the toe of his right shoe sticking out from under his lap blanket. A con artist. It's just a hustle.

He then said, "How much moh-nay [sic] you gonna gib [sic] me?" Zilch, pal. He's just a drug addict or alcoholic, or both.

I got Monique out of the car (was afraid to leave her in it), and we hightailed it to the office. And, he followed us. All the way to the front desk! Oh, great! Is this hotel just a flophouse for derelicts? Won't ever stay here again. Should've paid a little more to stay at a downtown hotel. Live and learn.

The African-American-Latina desk clerk told him to leave or she would call the cops. He did so, most reluctantly.

We then got settled into room 114, the Taco Bell-facing room at the end of the first-floor hallway. After unpacking the luggage, Monique was ready to explore the city.

"Do you really think it's safe to walk to Falls Park, mahal?" [love in Tagalog] Monique asked. "Or, should we just drive there?" I don't want to drive after drinking.

"I think we'll be just fine on foot, asawa. [wife in Cebuano] It's only .9 miles [1.45 km] and there will be daylight for another three hours. Enough time to explore, eat, drink, and return safely." Return safely... I sure hope so.

"What about that guy in the wheelchair? He scares me!"

"Oh, he's harmless. He's probably already moved onto another area to work his ruse."

Monique then walked over to the window and parted the curtains. She looked back and forth. Then she looked at me. "Ok, I don't see him."

"See, he's already chasing a new wallet or purse."

We then exited the hotel via the back door. It was a refreshing 50º Fahrenheit (10º Celsius) and still mostly sunny with not much wind. We crossed Otis Street and began walking north on Augusta Street. So far, so fair.

Just before Woodfin Avenue was a Church's Chicken restaurant.

"If you'd like some fried chicken tonight, asawa, this place is pretty good. Or, so say my fried chicken-eating friends." Fried friends.

"No, that's ok. I'm hungry for some good pizza."

"Ok, I know just the place."

Just past Woodfin Avenue, we noticed an abandoned house with a high-pitched roof.

"I bet they have a nice inhabitable attic," I said.

"It looks like it was a business, Parkaar."

"An out-of-business business with an in-business attic." Huh.

"Are you recording again, 33?"

"As long as the battery light is bright, no static at all." What? I won't even ask.

A couple of blocks farther, we were passing a new residential development called Augusta Walk. Red clay was still exposed, awaiting sod. It looked expensive. Way out of our price range, I'm sure.

After passing Thurston Street, we arrived at the microbrewery that I had seen on Google Maps: Upstate Craft Beer Co. Time to slug down a cold, dark one.

We stopped in. It was moderately crowded. I had a pecan-flavored porter that was pretty good. Monique just had a soft drink. Pretty relaxed scene here. Nice woodwork. Someone sank a lot of money into this joint.

We downed our drinks and were soon back on Augusta Street, heading north once again. As we neared Vardry Street, the railroad tracks inched closer, sandwiched between the high school and the sidewalk. We then crossed Augusta Street and soon passed Brick Street Café. Maybe check this out next time.

At Field Street, I looked over my left shoulder and saw a modest brick house across from Fluor Field (home of Greenville's minor league baseball team, the Drive) with a large JOE sign between windows. Ah, there it is.

I stopped and pointed at the sign. "Look over there, Agent 32. That's the museum for Shoeless Joe Jackson." We're stepping out.

"The singer?"

"No, the baseball player from a century ago. He was quite a batter. In the 1911 season he hit an astonishing .408. His major league career ended in 1920, thanks to a harsh ruling against him by the commissioner [Kenesaw Mountain Landis] for his role in the fixed 1919 World Series. Though, many now think that he may have been innocent. He died in that house in 1951, probably still haunted by the Black Sox Scandal." Black socks scandal?

"Did he forget to wash his socks, 33?" Oh, just play along.

I laughed. "And, he forgot his cleats, too, 32." Silly boy.

"I can tell that you want to go there, bana. [husband in Cebuano] We have time."

"Let's check and see if it's open on your phone. [Monique's cell phone is smarter than mine.] I think that I read about it being open limited hours."

Monique then looked it up on her Samsung phone. "It closed at two o'clock, Parkaar. And, it's closed on Sunday." An hour late and a day off. Story of my life.

"Darn! Well, maybe on the next trip, 32."

We continued our peripatetic journey on Augusta Street, passing a colorful establishment called Funnelicious. Bet they sell funnel cakes. / Do they sell funny funnels?

Then we started to pass a series of party-walled boutiques. When we got to the Eggs Up Grill, I knew that we were close. I bet that we can cut through this parking lot.

"Monique, we can take a shortcut to Falls Park. Follow me." I sure hope he knows where he's going.

We walked through the small parking lot, and then down a narrow alley to arrive at... another parking lot. But, on the other side of it was our intended destination: Falls Park. Ah, this is nice. / Wow! We made it.

We followed a rivulet downstream to the Reedy River, where we then saw the impressive, crescent-shaped Liberty Bridge towering ahead. Yee-hee! / Wow! That is much higher than I imagined.

"I can't wait to walk on that bridge, Agent 33!"

"Same here, Agent 32."

There were families of every color roaming around. One older Caucasian gentleman overheard our agentspeak, [sic] and gave us a wry look. Whoops!

We wound our way up to the western entrance of the unique pedestrian bridge. Once we were on it, we felt the slight shaking associated with suspension bridges. What a clever design. And excellent execution of such.

"Let's go out to the middle, Agent 33."

"Sure, Agent 32." I hope that no one thinks that we're part of some nefarious group, sent to blow up this bridge.

We made our way to the middle of the concrete bridge deck's arc. The view of the waterfalls was spectacular. Monique took some pics and videos. Wow! We are really up here. I bet that we're over 40 feet [12.2 meters] above that shallow stream. Even a belly dive would be a fatal splat!

"Certain death if you fall from here, Monique. Don't lean on the railing. You never know when a bolt might shear off." Gosh, he's so paranoid.

"Don't worry, Mr. Safety; I'm not even going to touch the railing." Good.

We walked the whole 344-foot [104.85 meters] curvilinear length to the Camperdown Mill site. Then we passed under South Main Street. The next feature that we came upon: a bowstring bridge across the Reedy River. It wasn't a tall bridge, but it did cross the river at an odd 45-degree angle. And then I saw why. There were a series of ten concrete spillways to our left, strategically placed on a slant. We stopped to take some pics. They really have made the most of this watercourse. Many American cities would kill to have something like this.

We then began walking back on the other side of the Reedy River. There were some new condos/apartments going up. Wow! That would be the place to live, alright. A nice balcony overlooking the falls and the greenway. Sweet digs if you can swing it.

Monique reminded me that she was hungry for pizza, just as I saw the rear balcony of the Mellow Mushroom. We sauntered up the steps and were promptly seated. It wasn't too crowded; we were ahead of the dinner rush.

The Thai-dye grilled chicken pizza was just as good as the one that we had in Blowing Rock (NC, USA), perhaps even more succulent. I washed it down with a Duck Rabbit Milk Stout (an excellent porter from eastern North Carolina). Monique just went with ice water.

We finished up thirty-four minutes later. Of – and on – course, I left a Gold card (a coupon for a free download of my 2013 e-novel Gold, a summer story) under the tip. She has tattoos. Maybe she will like the risqué desperation in it.

"Want to go back a different way?" I asked Monique as we exited down the steps.

"Sure! You know me, 33; I love to see new things in America." Indeed she does.

We took the trail to Howe Street, and were soon passing the Greenville County office complex on our left. On the corner of Bradshaw Street, we noticed Chef Manigault's La Vieille Maison ('The Old House' in French) restaurant. Wonder if Simon Mignolet has ever eaten there? Whence did that thought come? / I wonder what nonsense my bana is thinking now.

We stayed on Howe until it ended at Haynie Street. There we made a right, followed by a quick left onto Chicora Avenue, a lane of residences and vacant lots. When it ended at McKay Street, we turned right. After walking past some large asphalt parking lots, we were back at Augusta Street. Ah, that wasn't too bad. A nice little calorie-burn. / Glad that we didn't encounter that wheelchair loko. [crazy in Cebuano]

After skipping across the not-too-busy four-lane road, we were only two blocks from our hotel. As we approached the Taco Bell, I asked Monique if she wanted a Cantina Bowl for a late-night feast. She said that she was full.

We safely got back to our hotel room. Monique breathed a sigh of relief and then laid her slender 5'-3" (160 cm) frame down on the king-size bed. She was out like a lamb in four minutes. Her battery had gone dead.

I watched the local news while sipping a Blue Moon Cappuccino Oatmeal Stout beer. (We had brought some from Charlotte.) Drowsiness soon overtook me as well. I think that the last time I spied the digital alarm clock, its red numerals were 7:43. Seven equals four plus three. Seven minus four equals three. Seven goes into forty-three... six times... and one seventh. Six point one-four something. Approximately six point one-four-three. Six plus one and four-three. Seven four-three. Bet on seven, four and three tomorrow. [I would forget to do such.]

We both awoke at 2:02 AM – imagine that – and serviced the accounts. Monique was back asleep by 2:45. Lucky her.

I then turned the TV on to get drowsy. Finally, at 3:15, I fell asleep. An intense series of three dreams ensued. One after another. Always in a dicey life-threatening situation, awaking just before the fatal misstep. These nightmares are going to be the death of me.

At 7:06 I awoke and hit the kapper-krapper. [sic] Monique was twelve minutes behind me. She took a long hot shower.

Next, we walked to the lounge across from the office for the complimentary continental breakfast. The spread was actually pretty impressive: bagels, toast, cereal, waffles, muffins, juices, teas, and several urns of coffee. Not bad.

There was only one person present at 8:14 AM. He was a Caucasian fellow in his mid-30s, feasting on a bowl of Frosted Flakes® and milk.

I snatched some lemon poppy seed muffins and poured a tall cup of coffee. I then sat down at a table along the wall. Monique soon parked across from me with her haul.

"Can you help me with the waffle machine?" she asked.

"Sure, asawa."

I got up and sprayed the already-quite-hot waffle griddle with a non-stick spray. Then I looked around for the waffle batter. I was reaching for the oatmeal porridge when the man suddenly spoke.

"No, that's not the waffle batter. It's on the other side."

I immediately saw it and felt foolish. "Thanks, man. I haven't had my coffee yet."

He laughed. "Don't feel bad. I've watched many people make the same mistake over the past two months."

"You've been in this hotel for two months?" He must have some contract work.

"Yeah, and one more month to go. I install patented building foundations. This is my third stint in Greenville. I always like coming here. It's a nice town. Today is my lone day off this week. I'm going fishing with a local."

"Ah, very nice. Where are you from?"

"The thumb of Michigan."

"It's a right thumb, isn't it?" Hope my map memory is correct.

"Unless you see it palm-down. I'm from a little town called Bad Axe." A bad azz [sic] with a bad axe from Bad Axe. A horror movie in the offing.

"I see. You're a long way south."

"A thirteen-hour drive if traffic is good. It's nice country up there – nothing like Detroit."

"I hear ya."

"Have you guys checked out Falls Park yet?"

"Yes, we have!" Monique interjected. "We walked across the amazing Liberty Bridge!"

"Yeah, it's nice," he concurred. "You guys should also check out Paris Mountain. Hike to the old reservoir. [We would.] There's a cool old dam up there."

"Thanks for the tip," I said as I pried out the cooked waffle.

"Sure. Now, about this psecret psociety..."

7. **Lake Montonia Regazed** (Feb. 2017)

On a rare as of late, seasonally cold, frosty February 2017 Sunday morning, I spied Monique, my sexy Filipina wife (Agent 32), reading a previous short story (like this one) on our ancient Dell Inspiron laptop computer in our basement bedroom in east Charlotte (NC, USA).

"Which one are you reading, mahal?" [love in Tagalog] I asked as I searched for our tablet computer. Maybe it's under one of these pillows.

"The title is Lake Montonia Gaze, Parkaar." [my ailing alias]

"Oh, that's a recent one," I said as I sat down on the side of our queen-size bed.

"Can I ask you a few questions, Agent 33?" Recording time.

"Sure, charmingly inquisitive Agent 32. I've had my morning cup o' java. Some nascent brainwaves are oscillating now." He said that for the recorder. I just know he did.

"Question number one: Why do you have to put 'my ailing alias' in brackets – in every story – after I call you Parkaar?"

"Because we may have a new reader – a keen new reader, no less, in our niche of a niche – who still may be completely oblivious to my quasi-Flemish sobriquet. That's also why I have to state that you are Agent 32, a cute Filipina with a codename of Monique, in every installment. Each one of these short stories needs to be stocked as a stand-alone tale." Stocked? As a what?

"A stand-alone tail? Just an ending with no body?" Ending with nobody? Hope not.

"Well, yeah, something like that, I guess." He guesses?

"Ok, enough of that; let's move on, Parkaarazzi. [sic] Question two: Why do you have to put in all of these metric conversions? Is it really necessary?"

"Because, believe it or not, we have some non-American readers, who probably think that Fahrenheit is some strange mental disorder, and that feet only go into socks and shoes." He's obviously babbling for the future transcript now.

Monique was unfazed. She cleared her throat. "Question three: You show the thoughts of people – like me – in italics; but, how in the world do you know that that is what we are, or were, really thinking, 33?" That that.

"I assumed that you approved the drafts, Monique. As for the others, the real and not-so-real ones, well, I've honed in on their neural proclivities by employing Markov chains. I know their beans. Ok, maybe I enjoyed some literary license." Literary license?

"If a license were required to write, I think that you would be in big trouble, Agent 33." Yep.

"Maybe so, maybe sow." I wonder how he spelled that second one. Guess I'll see in about a week.

Monique continued the interrogation as if she were in a court proceeding. "Question four: Why do you use sic in brackets? I'm not an English major, but isn't that just for nonfiction?"

"Well, we're forging forth with a new genre, Agent 32 – hyper-technical meta-fiction. It's a requirement with all of the odd spellings and peculiar phrasings. Must separate the puns from the errant runs. Some mis-takes [sic] are lovingly intentional." I've heard enough.

"Ok, that's it. I can't take any more of this nonsense." Is it that annoying?

"Oh, come on, Monique by the Creek. [the title of a misplaced short story] One more question, adorable Agent 32. Reload and fire away." A way or a whey?

Monique shifted her pink-camisoled torso in the swivel-type desk chair. "Ok, question five – the final one at that: What is the purpose of these short stories, Agent 33?" Let's go deep and long with this one.

"Hmmm... Ok, here we go. Imagine, if you will, that you are an ant on a drone, Agent 32, and – " What?!

"An ant?! I don't want to be no stinking ant." And, wouldn't an ant get blown off?

"Well, these drones can't fly with more than a quarter-ounce [7.09 grams] of additional weight. That's not much of a payload. You'll have to pick a very lightweight creature, which narrows it down to insects and spiders." Spiders? Yuck! No way!

"Can't I just be the built-in camera on the drone?"

"The camera can't think. Well, at least not yet. At this juncture, you'll have to go bio-something, Monique."

"Ok, I'll be a ladybug."

"Good choice. So, there you are Miss Ladybug –" Nope.

"Stop! Backtrack. I'm a married ladybug, bana. [husband in Cebuano] Or, did you conveniently forget?" Whoops!

"How could I ever forget, mahal?" You just did.

"I'm sure that two ladybugs weigh less than a quarter of an ounce, Parkaar. Thus, restart your longwinded answer with me right beside you on that drone."

"Ok, so there we are – two ladybugs safely micro-strapped onto the nosecone of this high-quality, cutting-edge – well, by today's standards – chalk-white drone."

"Where is this drone? What are we flying over?"

"Yes, yes, yes. Well, I was just getting to that, Agent 32."

Monique then sneezed. "I'm ok. Continue, Agent 33."

"We are hovering at – oh, let's say, thirty feet [9.14 meters] or so – above Lake Montonia on a nice autumn day."

"Any humans below us, 33?"

"No, no humans below, 32. We don't have to worry about being taken down by gunshot. Well, at least not yet." But, later?

"Ok, so what happens next, Parkaar?"

"Monique, as we are gazing at the tranquil surface of Lake Montonia in ladybug form, the drone shifts into high gear, and begins to head towards the ridge."

"Towards Kings Pinnacle, 33?"

"Just a little southwest of there, 32."

"Ok, this is the craziest answer ever to a simple question. But, please do continue, Agent 33. Though, let's not crash into the treetops."

"Exactly, 32. We don't halve [sic] time to crash." Did he say 'have' or 'halve'? Oh, I'll just let it go.

"So, what are we two ladybugs thinking about while planted on this drone, as it speeds towards the mountain ridge?"

"Well, that's a tough call to answer, astute Agent 32. It's inchoate and indecipherable, and we don't want to give the story away too soon. But, as we quickly approach the granite outcrops, we now see –." A gruesome fate, I'm sure.

"A large hawk swooping down to rip the drone to shreds in its razor-sharp talons. Am I right?" She's already seen too many American horror flicks.

"A bit less menacing, Agent 32. There are some gentle people sitting on the rocks." Gentle people with shotguns?

"Can we make out who these gentle people are? Do we know them?"

"Yes, we certainly do. As the drone zooms in closer, the two people on that cliff look a whole lot like – drumroll, please – us!" Us? What in the freaking world?!

"I thought we were two ladybugs on a drone." A song title there.

"We were! And now, well, we're back in human form enjoying a fall afternoon on the ridge as the distant Interstate 85 traffic whizzes by unaware of the drone that is now drifting backwards and crashing into Lake Montonia. Yes, it looks like we switched off just in time. That drone had a low charge. It was never going up and over." Oh, brother.

"That's your complete and final answer to question five, Parkaarobfuscatti?" [sic]

"Complete and final? Now, we never want to use those kinds of adjectives on an indeterminate flight of fancy." Fancy?

"Don't you mean fantasy, Agent 33?"

"Fancy fantasy on the cheap." Oh, my kano! [Filipino slang for American]

"Ok, one last question, Parkaaroni." [sic]

"Sure, Agent 32. Random is fine." Will this be question six?

"Question 5(a): Who is/was controlling the drone in your little vignette of a reply, Agent 33?"

"Why, Ernie the electronic earwig, of course. Who else! Monique, please tell me that you knew that."

"Ok, that's enough."

<click>
8. **The Bully's Last Slurp** (Feb. 2017)

Xeeb, a Hmong American, was one of only two Asian students in his 11th grade chemistry class at North Burke High School, which was ten miles (16.1 km) north of downtown Morganton (NC, USA) in a foothills community known as Worry. He often wondered who had fretted so much to get this tranquil area its uneasily anxious name.

He typically kept to himself. Though, Xeeb had some friends of every race. He was not antisocial.

His parents constantly stressed the importance of doing well academically. And, he had not disappointed: Xeeb had brought home straight-A report cards three of the four quarters in 10th grade. It took his mother a month to calm down after he received a B+ in physical education. His three-years-younger sister was just as studious.

Xeeb's school experience in western North Carolina had gone fairly well from kindergarten through 10th grade. There were a few ethnically insensitive remarks along the way, but nothing mean-spirited. However, all that changed in early September of 2007, the beginning of his junior year at the moss-on-the-mortar-joints-between-the-bricks high school.

There was this one ultra-white-skinned kid – nearly albino – with light blonde hair, who was your classic stoner-jock (a football player who smoked marijuana). This particular Caucasian American, oddly named Looger, would tease him in the chemistry lab before the start of class. The first insult, "I bet Xeeb can make rice in his beaker," was followed with "Don't gook [sic] it up!" a few days later. Xeeb just looked at Looger and shook his black-haired head. What an inbred idiot.

Xeeb wasn't the fighting type. Besides, it would probably be a bad idea to fight Looger, as he was somewhat taller and thirty pounds (13.6 kg) heavier. Thus, he just told the late-60-ish female Caucasian teacher about the harassment after class. The next day she had a curt talk with Looger before the bell rang.

All then seemed ok. The teasing and taunts ceased. That is until a mid-November Monday. That's when Looger decided to move to Xeeb's lab table for an experiment involving hydrogen (H) gas generation from hydrochloric acid (HCl) and zinc (Zn) metal shavings.

After the HCl was carefully poured into the flask by Xeeb, Looger strategically knocked over the unlidded bottle of acid. It spilled across Xeeb's right wrist, just above the opening of his black neoprene glove. The immediate sensation: It burned like crazy.

"You did that on purpose, Looger!" Xeeb shouted.

"No, I didn't; it was an accident," Looger sheepishly retorted.

The teacher quickly neutralized the HCl on Xeeb's tan skin. Then medic arrived ten minutes later. His chemical burn was treated at the town hospital. He would be ok, but a scar – that looked like a bracelet – would always be there to remind him of that odious day.

Xeeb's parents weren't convinced about the deliberate spilling of the bottle of HCl by Looger. His mom told him, "Son, accidents happen in labs sometimes." His dad then added, "Just be glad that it wasn't worse." This just made him angrier. I'm going to get even with that shit-for-brains asshole. No, not even; I'm going to go one better.

Xeeb and Looger would never again partake in any chemistry experiments together. The wiser-by-the-years instructor, now somewhat suspicious of the incident in retrospect, separated them by placing Looger in the back of the room. He was now the only one at the rearmost table. There was no communication of any kind between Looger and Xeeb over the next five weeks.

On Friday afternoon, December 21st, classes recessed for the Christmas break. Over the two-week-long holiday vacation, Xeeb had plenty of time to plot his revenge. On a late December day, as sleet tinkled on his second-floor bedroom window, his mind locked onto a most pernicious, time-delayed method. Dad just got a new contract for asbestos abatement at that old mill in town. I could get some of that asbestos pipe insulation, bag it, and pulverize it. Yeah, get it into a hyper-friable state. And then, I could mix it into a bag of pot [marijuana] and give it to Looger as a peace offering. I'm sure that he would gladly smoke it. He wouldn't die immediately, but probably within twenty years – since he aggressively inhaled those malicious microscopic fibers – the linings of his lungs would be gone, along with his dumb-ass life. Wait, hold on. What if other people smoked that pot, too? This plan is no good. And, do I really want to monitor him for two decades? Hell no! Scratch the asbestos idea. Cough. Bad pun. Dudgeon in the dungeon. Back to square one.

Soon classes recommenced. January and February passed without further incident. But then in late March, Looger started to feel emboldened once again. He mockingly asked Xeeb one Friday as class was ending, "How's the wrist action?" That's it! I'm getting this millet-fed hog-humper.

Xeeb just glared and walked away. That 'Deliverance' reject doesn't know what's coming... but, it's coming alright.

The friends of Xeeb all had their advice. Juan, his Mexican American friend with parents of dubious residency status, told him to just let it go. Mark, his closest Caucasian American friend, advised him to do something to Looger's old car, like cut the brake lines. Hien, his Vietnamese American friend, told him to send a confidential note to the principal. David, his stout African American friend, said that he would hold Looger, so that Xeeb could beat him braindead with a baseball bat. But, none of the four stratagems felt right to Xeeb. He was out for bloodless, untraceable, fast-acting, terminal revenge.

One habit that Looger had that caught Xeeb's eye was his constant porting of a white styrofoam cup filled with Mountain Dew into the chemistry lab. He did this even though the laboratory safety rules, which all of the students had read and signed, prohibited drinks from being on the tables. However, the aging instructor, Mrs. Magnesium, had grown very lax on the enforcement.

On a warm and sunny Thursday in mid-April, the chemistry class began an experiment involving antifreeze and its inhibiting effect on ice-crystal formation. It was a brand of antifreeze in which the ethylene glycol was tinted a yellow-green color. Xeeb's neural cogs soon started clanking away as he stared at the chartreuse fluid. This particular antifreeze is about the same color as Mountain Dew. And, it's sweet, too. It's readily ingestible. Hundreds of dogs die each year from licking this stuff up. If I could just get a good dose into Looger's large-ass cup... Ah, yes, renal failure within three days. But, how to do this without detection?

And just two minutes later, Xeeb got his lucky break, as Looger stepped out to go to the bathroom. Ah, perfect. Time to act. This is my chance. Maybe my lone chance. Go!

Xeeb then wrapped a sheet of notebook paper around the vial of ethylene glycol and began walking to the trashcan, which was next to Looger's back-of-the-room table. He discreetly popped the lid on the bully's styrofoam cup with his nitrile-gloved right hand and let 3.3 fluid ounces (97.6 mL) of the translucent liquid stream in. It seeped through the mound of ice. He quickly recapped it and tossed the sheet of paper into the black wastebasket. Hope no one saw me.

He turned to go back to his seat. Everyone still had their backs to him, even the elderly teacher who was helping the poor black girl who could never seem to do the experiments properly. Ah, thanks, Marby.

As he walked up the aisle, he then had a frantic thought: I don't have any antifreeze to do the experiment.

An Hispanic girl that he kind of liked, Alba, looked at him and smiled as he passed. I wish that he would ask me out. / I need to get some more antifreeze in this vial. Where is the master jug? Oh, there it is, beside the lectern.

Xeeb discreetly refilled his vial as the class continued with the experiment, all heads-down and thoroughly engrossed. Right as he sat down to get to work on the experiment, Looger re-entered the laboratory-classroom. Well, there's no turning back now. If the asshole-doofus drinks all of it, I'll be a murderer by Sunday afternoon. Will I be able to live with myself? What kind of terrible fate have I set in motion?

Looger poured out his vial of antifreeze to commence the experiment. Xeeb glanced back at him... and smiled.

Looger shot back a scowl. He then vacuumed up a mighty slug of the Mountain Dew coolant through his white, red-striped, plastic straw. Looger then licked his lips and drank some more, apparently loving the taste. That convenience store on [NC] 181 has the best Mountain Dew. I need to keep going there. / What a stupid dipshit. Keep drinking, Einstein. The human race will be much better off without that ignorant jerk reaching adulthood.

The lab exercise ended with Looger crunching on the ice in his poison chalice. Wow! He drank it all. Enjoy your last seventy-two, [hours] big boy.

Looger wouldn't be in school on Friday. He would indeed be hospitalized Thursday evening.

The following Monday, it was announced during first period that Looger had died. It was ruled a suicide. Grief counselors were available. But, Xeeb didn't feel sad. In fact, he never would.

At lunchtime Xeeb and his friends gathered at their usual cafeteria table.

"So, Looger offed himself," Jaun posited.

"Good riddance," Hien said.

Xeeb just nodded.
9. **Grandfathered** (Mar. 2017)

My ever-curious Siquijodnon (Philippines) wife, codename Monique (aka Agent 32 in this ongoing meta-real saga), had brought up the idea of a trip to Grandfather Mountain once again. She had queried me about the three-hundred-million-year-old, 5,946-foot-elevation (1,812 meters above sea level), forest-covered, craggy mountain ridge near Linville (NC, USA) for several years. On this milder Saturday (March 18, 2017) morning, we would finally go check it out together. And, as we pulled out of our east Charlotte driveway, I hoped that the change of scenery would evoke another short story. (It obviously did.)

Traffic was light and pleasantly uneventful on Interstate 85 and US 321, save for a lone throttlehead. We were parked in front of the Mellow Mushroom stone pizzatorium fortress in Blowing Rock at 11:11 AM, just two hours and two minutes later. Yes, the palindromic times were bookending us once again. Racecar. Kayak. No lemon, no melon. Shaken not stirred, derrits ton nekahs. [sic]

Our small Thai dye pizza hit the spot once again; it was as good as the one in Greenville, South Carolina (mentioned in Greenville Jaunt). I downed a vanilla porter microbrew with it. Monique stayed with ice water. We left just as the popular restaurant began to fill; we had beat the rush.

After a visit to the upstairs coffee shop across the street (Camp Coffee Roasters) for java and a refrigerator magnet, we were rolling south on US 221. The black-on-white highway-route sign tripped a switch in my no-lemon melon. US highways 221, 321 and 421 all converge in Boone. [NC] That's three _21s. Wonder if that occurs anywhere else in America.

After passing Bass Lake, we took a right for the Blue Ridge Parkway. Monique looked at the grassy hill on the left.

"Parkaar, [my ailing alias] is that where we went sledding a couple of winters ago?"

"Yes, that is the knoll, Monique," I replied as I rubbed my sleep-encrusted right eyelashes. "You do indeed have a mouse's memory." A what?!

"Hey, I thought the saying was an elephant's memory, Agent 33?" Recording? Check. / I just know that he's already recording.

"Well, a mouse's memory is even better. Think of all the predators that a rodent has to remember." Huh.

"But, a mouse has a much smaller brain, Parkaar. Haven't they done studies with various animals? I don't think any rodent made the top 10."

"Bumped to no. 11 by an octopus' tentacle." Don't even ask.

The conversation ceased as we passed over Sims Creek. As we came upon a most-heavenly-tranquil Sims Pond on the left, I realized that I had forgotten where the entrance to Grandfather Mountain State Park was. Is it on NC 105? I don't think it's on the [Blue Ridge] Parkway. Directions time.

"Monique, could you activate Google Maps on your cell phone, and set Grandfather Mountain State Park as the destination?"

"Sure. Just a second." He doesn't know where the access point is? But, he said that he had been there before with Agent 66. His memory is crumbling fast.

Monique entered the data and then placed her smartphone in the middle air-conditioning-duct-attached clamp (an add-on accessory that we had bought at a Ross store).

We passed some vacant, wide-open, already green, barbed-wire-enclosed meadows. There was still some snow in the shaded areas from last Sunday's winter storm. The air temperature was about 50º Fahrenheit (10º Celsius).

Soon we were passing Price Lake on our left. The sky was mostly cloudy, but rays of sun filtered through the cumulus clouds' gray underbellies, glimmering on the slate-colored, not-quite-flat surface. Still looks the same.

"Agent 66 and I walked all the way around that lake in 2008," I said while rubbing my right eye yet again. Why does this one eye collect so much sleep? Does my left eye watch my right one in the mirror all night? What a crazy thought. / I wonder what nonsense my kano [Philippine slang for American] is thinking now.

"Is it a hard hike, Parkaartrotski?" [sic]

"No, the trail pretty much hugs the shoreline. Not much elevation change. Maybe we can do it next time."

Monique just nodded.

We continued, passing the campground entrance on the right. Then 6.2 miles (10 km) of rhododendron-lined transit transpired in silence. The deciduous trees were still leafless. Sure would be nice to live up here one day. / I just know that my husband is fantasizing about living here someday. Wonder if my hunch is correct. Guess I'll find out soon enough. I just know that he will write up this excursion.

When we rounded a southward-jutting flank of Grandfather Mountain, we saw it: the Linn Cove Viaduct. The elevated, curvy like a stretched letter S, concrete roadway section appeared to be hovering alongside the mountain. Never gets old seeing that.

"Well, Monique, that's where we're headed," I said as I pointed to the engineering feat with my left hand.

"We have to drive on that?" Oy!

"Yes. Don't worry; it's safe. No major issues since it was completed in 1987." What were the minor issues?

"Ok, but go slow."

"Certainly. I don't want us to land on US 221, [100 meters – 328 feet – below] either. Well, not yet." What is he talking about?

We passed over some curved bridges that spanned steep ravines before finally driving on the viaduct. When I looked to the left, it appeared that we were on some self-levitating road, as nothing but the ominous sky could be seen above the concrete guard wall. Please, dear God, no earthquake. / Wonder if Monique is saying a silent prayer.

About 1.3 miles (2.1 km) further, we were following the Google Maps prompt to exit onto US 221 South. In just a mile (.62 km), we were at the park's vehicular entrance. We used a pair of coupons from the free High Country Visitor's Guide copies that we had snagged at Mellow Mushroom in Blowing Rock. It saved us four bucks. (Total cost for both of us: $36.)

The admission ticket came with a CD that was like an invisible tour guide for the ascent. First item of note: MacRae Meadows, home of the annual Scottish Highland Games. After some gentle curves and a sharp switchback, we arrived at Split Rock and Sphinx Rock. Then we turned right to enter the parking lot for the Nature Museum. It wasn't very crowded. There was no problem getting a decent spot.

"Well, we picked a good day to come up here, Monique. The cool, showery weather has kept the hordes away." [It was 43º Fahrenheit; 6º Celsius.] Gosh, he hates crowds so much.

"I bet that you would love it if we were the only two up here, Parkaarsolitario." [sic] Yes, I would.

"Score! I'll use that one, Monique." I'm sure that he will.

Once inside the Grandfather Mountain Nature Museum (complete name on the exterior wall), we checked out the flora and fauna exhibits. Then we watched a looping, continuously playing, informative, short film in the small theater.

As we neared the restrooms, I made an announcement at a louder-than-normal volume: "They forgot to mention the ground waves, Agent 32."

Monique replied as if she already knew. "A strategic omission, Agent 33."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that we had intrigued a 30-something Caucasian female staff member and a middle-age Asian couple. Triumph. Now they'll have something novel to talk about.

We exited and checked out the fenced Wildlife Habitat. We went down to the bear area first. A black bear with a tawny coat was sunning herself on a large boulder. Monique got her cell phone out and started to take a video. (It's on the psecret psociety Facebook page.) Here's the transcript:

Monique: "Go!"

Parkaar: "Alright. Looks like a brown bear."

Unknown male: "Her name is Koko." Or, Cocoa?

[just the sound of wind and footsteps for several seconds]

Unknown male: "I've never seen her on the rock before. Not on this rock. I've never seen any of them on this rock."

Unknown female: "She's my baby."

Unknown male: "Koko's my favorite."

Unknown female: "Hello pretty! You're so pretty. You pretty girl. Oh-" [cut] Pretty? That bear would find your flesh to be pretty tasty, I bet.

We moseyed along towards the deer area. On the way, we observed some bald eagles in a tall enclosure. A mouse's memory.

"Monique, did you hear the pretty remarks back there?"

"Yes, that bear was staring at them with a hungry look."

"That bear was probably hoping that they'd fall into the pit, Monique. Human flesh would be a nice afternoon treat. Quite the delicacy."

Monique laughed. "I was thinking the same thing, 33."

Once at the deer observation deck, we noticed a white-tailed family of three in view, but they were far off in the distance. Thus, we moved on to the otter tank.

"With eastern cougars now extinct, Monique, the deer have one less predator to worry about."

"When did those cougars go extinct?"

"Officially in 2011, I believe. But they may have all died-out several years earlier."

"I guess that trying to figure out when the last one died is kind of hard, Parkaar." Who will be the last human?

We then came upon a jolly Hispanic family of five.

"I wonder if the last eastern cougar knew that it was the last one." Huh?

"What a most ridiculous thought, Agent 33!" Glad that she raised her voice. Excellent.

We watched a pair of river otters swim underwater for a few seconds. Then they exited the tank to sun themselves on a slanted rock. All in an otter's day.

"Ready to head back and check out that mile-high swinging suspension bridge, Agent 32?"

"How much does it swing, 33?"

"Not so much since they replaced the wooden planks with metal ones. I think it was in the late '90s." [It was 1999.]

We then backtracked to our little hatchback, which was as gray as the nimbus clouds. Right after we got inside, a few wind-blown raindrops splattered on the windshield.

"How long is it going to rain?" Monique asked.

"Probably just a few minutes. Just a passing shower, mahal. [love in Tagalog] I saw the radar on the weather display in the Nature Museum." He would have to check that out.

Up the mountain we went, switchbacking past Cliffside Overlook and Sheer Bluff. After a trio of tight hairpin turns, we arrived at the highest parking lot. I parked with our car facing the famous bridge. The rain had already quit.

"Well, this is it, Monique. Are you ready for it?"

"I guess so. Let's do it!"

We both exited the car. The wind was in a word: fierce. And in another word: sustained. This northwest gale must be a nonstop 30 MPH (48.3 km/h) with gusts over 45 MPH (72.4 km/h). / Wow! Up here is so much windier than below.

I struggled to get my windbreaker-attached hood on. The strong wind ripped it about like a flag. Finally, I walked over to the stone wall at the base of the swinging bridge for a wind block. It worked. I got my hood on and tied the drawstring under my chin. Sheezus H. Christ! [sic] Forgot how windy it is up here.

Monique had climbed the zigzagging steps while I was fussing with my hood. When I arrived on the ridgeline trail, she was slowly walking towards the suspension bridge. Then, all of a sudden, she stopped and started flapping her hands.

"No, no, no," she said. "I can't do this."

I came up behind her and took her left hand. "Sure, you can, asawa." [wife in Tagalog and Cebuano]

Then a small Caucasian boy, probably only six years old, passed us and strolled onto the whistling bridge. (It sounded like an otherworldly harmonica.)

Monique then followed him. And, I followed her.

Once in the middle of the bridge, some 80 feet (24.4 meters) above the ravine, we noticed a white-text-on-green tread:

1 MILE 5,280 FT.

Monique walked over to it. I snapped a pic.

"We're not a mile above that glen, Parkaar."

"No, mahal; we're not. But, we're one mile [1,609 meters] above mean sea level." Mean sea?

"How about friendly sea level?" Huh?

"Yeah, that, too, Monique," I said as a winter-coated, faces-scarf-wrapped adult party of three approached.

"I'm ready to go back now, Agent 33."

"Yeah, me, too, Agent 32. This ferocious wind might blow us over to Grandmother Mountain." [2 miles – 3.2 km – south, as a straight-line crow flies]

One of the ladies heard me and gave me an odd look. Success in small instances.

We then walked over to a thick-walled (to withstand the high winds) structure called the Top Shop. We took the elevator down to the first floor. In the gift shop, I bought a souvenir coffee mug for Monique. It had her name on it.

We then marched back to our car. The wind was still howling. Don't think I could live up here.

The descent down the mountain was incident-free. We cleared the gatehouse. I then turned left onto US 221 North. We soon went under the Blue Ridge Parkway. I want to find that cave.

Monique noticed the change in route. "You don't want to take the [Blue Ridge] Parkway back?"

"No, mahal. I want to show you a Grandfather Mountain attraction that tops them all."

"If it involves roaming with black bears, count me out!"

"No, nothing like that. No animals are involved."

The conversation died out. We crawled along US 221, curve by curve. (It is more sinuous than the Blue Ridge Parkway in this stretch.) Then I saw a tall concrete pier through the woods on my left. It was one of seven that supported the Linn Cove Viaduct. This is it! Where's that turnout?

Soon we came upon an unsigned gravel parking area on the right side of a left bend in the highway. I pulled into it and parked. No one else was in the turnout. Perfect!

"Well, honey, this is it," I announced.

"All I see are trees."

"I mean, this is the parking spot. The hike is only three-fourths of a mile." [1.2 km]

"Seven tenths of a mile to what, bana?" [husband in Cebuano]

"It's a surprise, dear!" Oh, no! I was afraid he was going to say that.

"We won't be in physical danger, will we?" Maybe psychic.

"No, we'll be fine. Promise."

"Ok, let's go before another round of rain moves in."

And with that plainly stated accord, we were off on foot. We walked southward along the shoulder to a left curve. There we crossed the highway and picked up a faint, mostly leaf-covered, narrow path. Where in the world is he taking me? This had better be worth it.

Next, we started to climb a wash. Medium-size boulders were strewn about the little wet-weather channel. We carefully stepped over them, sometimes holding hands for balance and support.

"How much farther?" Monique asked after we passed over a mossy series of cobbles.

I then looked upslope and spied a concrete viaduct column. "We're almost here." What?

"You mean almost there, right?"

"Ah, yes. Sorry, my last marble is now cracked."

Monique wasn't amused. I looked up again at the bottom of the albescent concrete viaduct. A lone raindrop landed right in my right eye. I hope I'm on course. If this just results in a cold soaking, I'll never hear the end of it.

We marched up another 50 meters (164 feet), and there it was: the cave.

"There is now here, Monique. That's our magic cave." I started to walk towards the six-foot (two-meter), vertical-oval opening in the gray bedrock.

"Have you lost your mind, Parkaarloko?" [sic] Probably.

"It's ok, Monique. Charlie said it was bat-free." Charlie? Is he talking about 'that' Charlie?

"What about bear-free, 33?"

"Absolutely. I'll go first, mahal."

"We don't even have a flashlight!"

"That's ok; we can use our cell phones. It's only about twenty feet [6 meters] deep. You can guard the entrance." No way!

"You're not leaving me outside! I'm going in with you."

"Ok, fine. C'mon."

We both got our cell phones in flashlight mode. The passage was initially five feet (1.5 meters) in height and about a yard (meter) in width. The floor of the cave was damp dark earth. Thirteen feet (4 meters) in, it was pitch-dark. The cave then bent slightly to the right and got lower and tighter. At the end, our beams of light refracted off an expanse of quartz crystals with two earphones hanging down. What in this bizarre subterranean void is this?! / Yey! Charlie left them.

I crouched way down, and made my way over to the quartz corner. I sat down on a rock that someone had left in the recent past. "Monique, when I drop my right hand, no talking or flashlight for three minutes. Ok?"

She nodded. I then inset the earphones and gave her the signal. Well, here goes. / Listening to rocks? He must have been sky-high in here.

Suddenly it was incredibly dark and eerily quiet. Then a faint sound emerged from the earphones. It was like a low-frequency, low-volume hum. And then it started to grow in intensity. The Grandfather Mountain groundwave, Charlie called it. Next, it was changing pitch at irregular intervals. And then, sharp, jarring sounds were interspersed. Then the low-level hum mutated into a groan. Next, there were some banging sounds, kind of like a pile driver. And then, indecipherable whispering commenced. I wondered if it was in the Cherokee language.

And then Monique turned on her smartphone's flashlight – right in my face! "Time's up, psychonaut!"

"Has it already been three minutes, Monique?"

"Three minutes and thirteen seconds, Sportzee. [sic] Did you hear anything besides your internal chatter?"

"Yes, I heard a lot of different sounds. I guess they were grandfathered in." What?!

"Are you ready to go back now?"

"You don't want to have a listen?"

"I'll download it later." Huh?
10. Inside Office 108 (Mar. 2017)

Her mostly below ground level, windowless, repurposed office (formerly a miscellaneous storage room) was at the end of a hallway that always seemed to be poorly lit. Paula, an attractive, 36-year-old, brunette, struggling single mom, was a just-above-entry-level discrepancy reviewer in the Charlotte (NC, USA) junior college's administration unit. She had had the job for six years now and liked it reasonably well, but desperately needed more money for her two teenage sons. Her boys' father, a drunk who she never married, was long gone (somewhere in northern Florida). Without any child support, finances were very tight.

Leonard, or Lenny as he was more often called, was a 55-year-old, slim, ever-randy, silver-haired Caucasian academic who was still a bit caddish. He was married but was now a suburban empty nester. After receiving a Ph.D. in college administration, he gave up teaching for a position in such. Paula was one of his direct reports. He was giving her the come-hither eye by the end of his second week on the job.

Trevor was a 28-year-old, stocky, blonde-haired lad from the Mooresville area of southern Iredell County (25 miles – 40 km – north of Charlotte). He had joined the junior college's security team seven years prior (in 1999). Being in the National Guard, he was called up for active duty in Iraq in January of 2004. When he came back 22 months later, Trevor was a different man. He was angry and often brooded. At a college meeting in March of 2006 on tornado safety, he made way-off-topic, vitriolic comments about Washington politicians. Many suspected PTSD [Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder] and wondered if he was getting treatment. He wasn't.

It was a chilly, rainy Wednesday-before-Thanksgiving evening (November 22) in 2006. The time was 6:56 PM. All the employees in the junior college's A5 Building had gone home two hours ago. All except for two.

Inside office 108, Paula was performing fellatio on Lenny.

"Does this feel good?" Paula lifted her head to ask.

"As good as heaven, sexy," Lenny answered between gasps. "You're going to get that new position. I'll make damn sure of it."

"Oh, thank you so much, sir!" Then Paula continued with the penile tongue-lashing.

Lenny was about to unload a burst of pearlescent protein when, all of a sudden, there was a knock on the door. What the fuck! / Oh, dear God! Now, who could that be? Housekeeping already went through here.

"Anyone in there?" Trevor asked in a direct, loud, low voice.

Lenny immediately hand-signaled Paula to not answer, and to be still and quiet. Paula complied. Office 108 was now needle-drop quiet. Time hung in an abandoned cobweb.

And then, four long seconds later, two more firm knuckle raps were imparted upon the wooden door. "Security coming in," Trevor announced, just like he had done numerous times in Baghdad and Mosul.

In just two seconds, Trevor had the office door unlocked and opened. He entered with his service revolver drawn on a pants-down Lenny and a topless Paula.

"Freeze!" Trevor yelled at the top of his lungs at the embarrassed and utterly freaked-out duo. "Keep your hands up. Stay right where you are. Don't move an inch." [2.54 cm] He then got on his two-way radio as he kept his firearm pointed. "Security requesting backup to A5. Two suspects apprehended inside office 108."

Before the first backup security officer arrived, Trevor had Lenny and Paula handcuffed.

The results of this fateful November evening:

  1. Paula would be reprimanded. She would claim a momentary lapse of reason to Human Resources and keep her job.

  2. Lenny would be formally admonished. He would assume a lesser position at a satellite campus, some 13 miles (21 km) away. He would no longer be Paula's supervisor.

  3. Trevor would be fired for inappropriate measures as the report would state. An employee-misconduct panel found that he should have allowed Lenny and Paula to get dressed, and that handcuffing them was unwarranted.

By the Christmas break of 2006, it seemed that all of the college's higher-ups had heard about the incident inside office 108. And by the summer of 2007, several largely congruent versions of the event from various mid-level employees had reached my ears. I remained mum.

Then in November of 2009, almost three years to the day after the busted oralization [sic] session, I found out through multiple sources that Trevor had committed suicide (a gunshot to the head). R-I-P, vet.

And then in mid-June of 2011, it was announced that Lenny had suffered a fatal heart attack at his home over the weekend. Did his wife ever learn of the incident inside office 108? I wonder. If not, maybe she suspected as much.

Because of where I worked, I rarely saw Paula. But when I did occasionally pass her in a hallway, there was always this sheepish look that seemed to suggest that she was thinking: I wonder if he knows about the incident.

Then in April of 2013, I got a mold complaint from Paula. I went over to inspect her office. She was seated at her desk as I looked for signs of moisture. My mind re-imagined that tumescent evening. Wonder if that desk was the desk that Paula was on. Or, was Lenny on the desk with Paula in the chair? I bet they thought that they would never get caught. Obviously. Having oral sex in a college office. Man, that's not real smart. Lenny's sausage was doing the thinking once again. Wonder if Paula ever married a decent guy. Nope – no ring on her finger. Wonder if Paula still thinks about that encounter. Does she think about Lenny? Or, Trevor? The things that can happen in one's life.

"Well, Paula, I don't see any dampness, but I'll have Lenny check the RH [relative humidity] in here."

"Lenny?" Paula asked with a startled look. Darn! I slipped.

"I'm sorry; I mean Denny – Denny from maintenance."

The ensuing silence was beyond awkward.
11. Winston-Salem Revue (Apr. 2017)

Act I: The drive.

The weather on this April Fools' Day morning was in three words: perfect for driving (sunny and mild). The 85-minute drive – primarily up Interstate 85 – to Winston-Salem (NC, USA) from Charlotte was acceptably uneventful. Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33) disembarked after watching the Liverpool-Everton match (LIV 3-1 EVE) at Valhalla Pub in 3rd Ward. I would chant 'Olé, olé' and Monique would follow with 'Coutinho-o-o, Coutinho-o-o'. Yes, we had forgotten to bring our CDs, so we had to improvise until a radio station picked up its game. As we neared the intersecting metal arches on US 52, a short conversation arose.

"Look, mahal, [love in Tagalog] we're going through a giant gyroscope," I said to Monique. Huh?

"But, where is the pull string, Agent 33?" I just know that he has switched on his audio recorder.

"Maybe it's not yet finished, Agent 32." [Actually, it – a piece of modern sculpture – was installed in November of 2016.]

"So, that's why it's not spinning." She's already on her game.

"Score! I'll make sure to include that opening goal when I write this trek up later." I just knew that he was recording.

Eight minutes later, we began to scale High Street from Brookstown Avenue (from the Tar Branch valley) in our gray 2005 Kia Rio hatchback. At the STOP sign, I rolled down my window and peered over my left shoulder. I guess traffic from that freeway exit ramp has the right of way. Yep, that car just cruised right through. Hmmm... Can't see if anyone is coming that well. Bad sight lines. Ah, just ease out slowly.

It was not an unlucky motor-vehicle day. We safely made it up the semi-steep hill to The Hawthorne Inn & Conference Center. Whew! Note to self: Don't enter this hotel parking lot from lower High Street.

Act II: The hotel.

The Hawthorne, an older complex, had been refurbished. Our room, 601, an end unit, was behind the conference center. There was a medium-size, water-filled but not yet open, swollen-hourglass-shaped swimming pool in between the two buildings.

Our room had a balcony. In fact, all of the hotel rooms had separate balconies. However, none were accessible. Or, I should more accurately state, access was strongly discouraged. "What do you mean, Agent 33?" I heard one of you ask in the UK. Or, was it from the USA? Anyway, all of the balcony doors (the sliding-glass type, I presumed) had been replaced with aluminum-framed glass panels (similar to the storefronts of those ubiquitous American strip malls).

Now, stay with me for one strange feature: the screen-less upper-left window panel – drumroll or spring roll? – could be widely opened! Yes, you could step over – well, with the aid of an adjacent dining chair if under 6'-7" (2 meters) tall – the meter-high (39.37 inches) first panel and alight on the black-mesh-cloth-covered concrete balcony, which brings up some other interesting items of concern.

For one, the balcony itself would probably not pass current building code. Oh, it still looked structurally sound. And, I'm sure that the reinforced-concrete slab could still safely support a party of four. Well, as long as they didn't start hopping about like overgrown cheering rabbits, which we certainly didn't do. (We didn't even go out on it.)

I opened the large vertical-hinged window to let in some 68º Fahrenheit (20º Celsius) air. We picked a perfect day.

The welded, semi-ornate, wrought-iron railing system caught my eye. "Monique, look at this railing. If you were a safety inspector, what would jump out at you?" Jump out at me? Is there a mumu? [Tagalog for phantom]

"You wouldn't make it to the pool if you jumped from here. Splat! Extra-large spatula needed in the courtyard." She then enjoyed a cha-cha-esque chortle.

"You're thinking overboard; look below-board, Agent 32."

"Woah! I see that gaping gap hazard. A baby could easily roll under the railing, Agent 33."

There were about 11 inches (28 cm) of vertical clearance between the slab and the lowest horizontal rail segment.

"Good safety eye, Monique. You must be reading those hot tomes, IBC [International Building Code] 2015 and OSHA [Occupational Safety and Health Administration] 1910 nine hours a day." Yeah, right! Was OSHA created in 1910? [OSHA was established in 1970 by the OSH Act.]

"Make it ten, Parkaar." [my ailing alias] Monique then smiled.

I chuckled for a couple of seconds. "Anywho [sic] or whom, that's probably why their legal and safety departments got rid of the balcony doors. I bet a small toddler crawled under and off." Yikes! How terrible!

"Also, 33, look how close we are to the next room's balcony. [about 4 feet, 1.22 meters, to the right] You know that drunks would attempt that. I bet one of them doofled, [sic] [defn: doofle, (v.i.) to awkwardly or unexpectedly fail when performing or attempting to perform a physical task or body movement] to use your term, and made an unforeseen earthly exit." Maybe so.

"Yeah, I could see it happening, Monique."

"And, what's with this black fabric over the balcony's concrete deck, Agent 33? Is it supposed to deter people from stepping on it? Is it sticky like flypaper?" Huh?

"Oh, I think it's for aesthetic reasons, my lovely pinay, [a Philippine woman] enchanting Agent 32. Maybe it was cheaper than exterior concrete paint. And, maybe it lasts longer. Paint tends to get flaky on concrete." How does he know this? / Wonder if any acrylic paint is left on that raised sewage-line cone off Executive Center Drive? [in east Charlotte] When did I paint that mumu on it? 1983, I think. It's probably all gone now. Sure wasn't much left in 2003.

"Ok, enough of balcony safety. Did you bring any condoms, Pumperazzi? [sic] No glove, no love." Where in the world did she hear that phrase?

"On course, 32."

"I thought that the saying was 'of course', 33."

"Of and on, and on and off." Why did I have to ask?

"Ok, put your sausage wrapper on and prepare for organasm." [sic] Organasm, what a hilarious coinage.

Act III: The stroll.

With the delightful weather and the close proximity to downtown, we opted to go it on foot. We walked down to the southernmost point of the hotel parking lot. We turned left and crossed Marshall Street SW, passing a conglomeration of three restaurants (Twin City Hive Coffee Lounge, Di Lisio's Italian Restaurant and Señor Bravo Mexican Restaurant).

"Want a cappuccino, Monique?"

"I'm fine for now. I'm more hungry than thirsty."

"Ok, I know a safe bet that isn't too far from here."

"Lead the way, Parkaarwalkski." [sic] She's on a roll.

We walked hand-in-hand across South Cherry Street. And then we turned left onto The Strollway, a pedestrian and bicycle passage which slipped under the west-side overhang of a five-story building before emerging in the parking lot as a paved, tree-lined, generously wide, urban greenway trail. Whereas most greenways follow creeks or rivers, this one seemed to connect contiguous parking lots. We had never experienced anything like it. This is really unique. Linking downtown surface lots: an ingenious idea.

Soon we were passing under the Business Interstate 40 / US 421 freeway. We crossed West 1st Street and saw the city's tallest building, the 34-story, 460-foot (140-meter), round-topped Wells Fargo tower (100 North Main Street) across a vacant plaza. I think that was formerly the Wachovia tower. [It was.]

We soon came upon the emerald-green-windowed, quite modern, angular, 21-story BB&T Financial Center tower on our immediate right at 2nd Street NW. This is where The Strollway officially ended. This must be the northern terminus. Will have to bring our bikes next time. I really miss that old Plymouth minivan. It sure made bicycle transport a breeze.

We walked directly across the street, continuing up the western sidewalk of Town Run Lane NW. When we arrived at West 3rd Street, we looked right and saw the older Winston Tower a few blocks away. Its name was spelled out in tall, dark, Times-font letters atop the 29-floor, completed in 1966, rectangular tower. Funny, I didn't see that building from our hotel balcony. [It was completely blocked by the BB&T Financial Center.]

"Is there a Salem Tower, too, Agent 33?" Monique asked.

"I don't think so, Agent 32," I replied as a multiracial pack of middle-aged joggers overtook us. Wonder if any of them heard the agent-number nonsense. / That red-haired guy just called that Asian lady 'Agent 32'. Who in the world are those people? Too many weirdies [sic] here now.

"Did you know that this city actually started from the combination of two neighboring small towns, Agent 33?" Monique must have pulled up Wikipedia on her smartphone.

"Uh, yes, I actually did, Agent 32. And, get this, Winston and Salem are both RJR [R. J. Reynolds] cigarette brands, mahal. Imagine if they had built a matching pair of buildings to the exact proportions of a cigarette pack, and painted or decaled them accordingly. A 350-foot-tall (107 meters), 90-foot-deep (27.4 meters), 220-foot-wide (67 meters) Winston pack o' cigs building next to a same-size Salem pack o' cigs building. Then, exactly halfway-up, an over-alley connector could be the requisite dash." Or, would it be a hyphen?

"Yeah, that would have been interesting, Parkaar – a real tourist attraction, no less. But, how would the reverse side of those cigarette-pack buildings be imaged?" So keen she is.

"Oh, you're right, mahal. There's a dilemma there. Would they switch the package fronts? Or, would they just leave them blank? Or, paint/label the respective package backs on the buildings?

"Well, it's academic now, 33. I really doubt that they would be built today. You know how cigarette smoking is now frowned upon." Yeah, she's right.

"No doubt, 32. Such would have had to have been built prior to the early 1970s – before the prevailing cigarette-smoking sentiment changed in this country."

On the other side of West 3rd Street, the public way's name changed to Park Vista Lane. We walked up to West 4th Street and turned left. In just two blocks we had arrived: the Mellow Mushroom of Winston-Salem. Our readers are going to think that we are working for this gourmet pizza outfit. But, I just know that Monique is craving another Thai-dye pizza. I wouldn't mind a couple of slices myself.

"Yey! You knew just what I wanted, mahal!" Monique exclaimed at the front door.

Act IV: Eats and drinks.

It wasn't too crowded in the corner building (at North Marshall Street). We were quickly seated and ordered our favorite to-date, pan-Asian pizza. The curry-chicken-cucumber pie was on our table ten minutes later. I chased it down with a local porter beer (forgot the name). Monique just had a red tumbler of ice water.

"Monique, would you happen to have any GOLD cards [business-card coupons for free downloads of my 2013 e-novel Gold, a summer story] on you?"

She opened her large brown handbag and started checking the zippered compartments. Thirteen seconds later she handed me a one-centimeter-thick (0.4 inches) stack.

"Thanks, mahal. I'll hide a few."

"Hide them?" How does that help?

"Semi-hide them. Delayed discovery, remember?" Gosh, what a feckless book-promotion method.

"Is your alternative technique working, 33?"

"Well, it's been downloaded over 3,500 times on that one website; over 5,300 times in total. It just takes time." He'll be in the grave before it gains any real traction. / At least by the time I die, thousands will have been exposed to – and mentally infected by – it, versus just a handful if it was a book on a shelf.

Monique devoured a couple of slices. She then handed me the crescent-shaped crusts to eat. Man, I love their dough.

After clearing her plate, Monique looked at me. "Ok, what's our next stop, Agent 33?"

"Foothills Brewing, Agent 32. It's just a few blocks down West 4th Street. Their Jade IPA is killer! It has won awards."

En route to the brewpub, on the now-crowded sidewalk, we spotted a late-20-something African American lad in a red Liverpool FC jersey (Origi) who was walking a small dog. Wonder where they watch Liverpool matches in this burg.

I gave a thumbs-up just before passing him. I was still wearing my black Liverpool FC T-shirt, which had a large, white, iconic liver bird on the front and The Pride of Merseyside on the back. Nevertonians [sic] be hating me.

Monique then yelled to him: "Yey! We won!"

He just nodded, smiled, and continued heading east.

The mood inside the taproom was college-hoops festive with many sky-blue UNC shirts. It was Final Four semifinal Saturday, and both South and North Carolina would be playing later (against Gonzaga and Oregon, respectively). Such a splendid day, worthy of bottling.

The Jade IPA was indeed as good as the last time I had it (in the NoDa area of Charlotte, I think). However, the People's Porter missed the mark this time. A wanker-clanker. [sic] Should have stuck with Jade.

I switched back to Jade. Monique then had a Carolina Strawberry, a cream ale brewed with local strawberries. She liked it.

We just relaxed and slowly sipped our brews while taking in a perfect spring day in the piedmont. We got a wee inebriated, but neither of us acted the April Fool.

Having knowhere [sic] to go (and all day to arrive), neither of us monitored the time. Well, not until we heard a cell-phone chirp. It was now 5:45 PM. The afternoon sure has flown by. And now it's almost time for the first basketball game.

"Want to check out Second & Green Tavern, Monique? It's a sports bar. I saw it on Google Maps. It's very close to here."

"Sure, mahal. Let's let our adventure continue."

We walked down West 4th Street for three blocks. Then we turned left onto North Green Street. In a bock and a half, we had arrived at our destination.

I grabbed the door handle. Wonder what this place is like.

"Well, here we go," I told Monique as I opened the door.

We were greeted by stares and even some glares from an apparently locals-only, standing-room-only barroom. Hmmm... not exactly what I was hoping for. They must know that we're out-of-towners.

We made a perfunctory loop around the wooden tables, but there were indeed no seats to be had. Thus, we just politely slipped out.

Once outside, I turned to Monique. "I think that they knew we were from Charlotte this time." I laughed.

Monique wasn't amused. "Hon, they were staring at me, up and downing my body with their eyes. I don't like it."

We backtracked to West 4th Street. At the corner of North Spring Street was a classy Italian eatery: Quanto Basta.

Monique looked very intrigued. "How about a little Basta pasta to finish off our outing, Parkaar?"

"Sure, asawa." [wife in Cebuano]

It was a charming little Italian restaurant. Our young Caucasian waiter was first-class. We ended up ordering a flatbread seafood pizza. It was divine. Pizza twice in one day. And both were winners. / Those clams were sarap. [zesty-tasty in Tagalog]

I splurged on an $8 bottle of German dark beer. The Ayinger Celebrator Doppelbock was delicious. Too bad this beer costs so much. A case sure would be nice.

We paid up 27 minutes later. We left the waiter a generous tip and, par for the curse, [sic] a GOLD card. He looks like he reads. And, I bet he likes film noir. Maybe he will like the erotic passages, if nothing else.

"Well, Monique, do you just want to watch the basketball games in our hotel room?"

"Sure, that's fine by me. But, let's stop somewhere for bottled water. I think we've had enough beer." Depends on what beer the store has.

"There's a Mobil gasoline station with a convenience store on the way back."

"Ok, Parkaar. Lead the way."

We walked down a vacated North Spring Street for three blocks, and then made a soft left onto Brookstown Avenue. A block and a half later, we were walking under the Business Interstate 40 / US 421 freeway. It was almost dusk. Glad we're passing through here before darkness falls. Looks like a good place to get rolled. / I can tell that homeless people live under here. Maybe some really bad guys, too. Where is my pepper spray? Oh, there it is in the side pocket.

We walked past High Street, noticing our hotel on the hill. Then we made a right turn onto Cotton Street SW and passed by Machine Gun Graphics (left) and a dialysis center (right). Holey renal decals. Why'd I think that? / Where in the world is he going?

The road soon ended at a vacant parking lot. We were then staring at a hillside that was covered with tall grass, ivy and kudzu. The Fairway One Stop was at the top, some 60 feet (18.3 meters) upslope. There was a faint coyote path that wound to the summit.

"Ready for it, hon?" I asked Monique.

"Can I make it in these boots? They have heels."

"I think so. If it gets too hard, I'll carry you." Yeah, right!

"No, that's ok; we would both fall down." Possibly.

We then slowly marched up the verdant incline. It wasn't too treacherous. In a mere four minutes, we were in the store.

The beer selection was about what I feared: lame as hell – all macro-swill. Thus, we just bought some bottled water and white cheddar popcorn. Probably had enough beer anyway.

"Who's winning the game?" I asked the rotund, 60-ish, African American cashier.

"I don't have time for TV," he tersely replied. Ok. Moving right along.

We descended the viny slope safely, just as the sun dropped behind some bare trees. We were back in room 601 right as twilight permeated the mild air. What a nice walking excursion. / I'm so glad that we made it back safely. I hope he doesn't want to go out again tonight.

Act V: A Nightcap.

We watched the two games together. Gonzaga would fend off South Carolina, despite a gutsy comeback from the Gamecocks. North Carolina would barely survive against Oregon, despite missing their last four free throws. The Ducks just couldn't buy a rebound at the end.

After the games were over, we looked at the lighted buildings off in the distance. The completed-in-1929-just-before-the-crash Reynolds Building caught our eye. Multicolored floodlights pulsed, illuminating the terraced crown of the smaller-scale Empire State Building.

"Those lights are a nice touch, Monique."

"Yes, it's lovely, bana. [husband in Cebuano] Did you get enough material today for another short story?"

"Probably more than enough, honey."

"What will be the theme?" Searching for significance in an insignificant existence – the usual psecret psociety paradox. No, bite your tongue; don't say it. Way too nihilist.

I laughed. "There probably won't be one again."

"I wonder how many people have stayed in this room over the years."

"More than 601, I would bet."

"What if we are the 60,106th party?"

"Nice palindromic number, princess. But, I don't think this hotel is over sixty years old. Therefore, that's less than 22,000 possible parties, even if it was occupied every night, which I'm sure it hasn't been."

"How about 016,610, with a zero in front to get palindromic credit?" We're ridiculous.

"I like it, Monique. Now, where does that gets us?"

"It gets us to here, silly."

"Are you tired, Monique?"

"Yes."

"Me, too. Let's call it a day."

"I'll fix the bed."

Act VI: The reloading.

After indulging in a complimentary continental breakfast, we repacked our luggage and used a cart to get it to our car. The loaded-down cart almost got away from me on the descending ramp. Monique saw the situation and couldn't stop laughing.

"Parkaar, you looked so funny trying to control that cart." She laughed some more. "Your arms were stretched way out in front, while you walked so oddly."

"Well, just some free Sunday morning entertainment for my dear wife. I'm just glad that it didn't end up in the patio of the Mexican restaurant down there."

"Oh, yes, that would be horrible."

I got the car unlocked. We placed the luggage in the back seat, as the hatchback area was full of sporting goods.

Once all loaded-up, we got in our usual seats.

"Well, Monique, would you like to see Salem Lake?"

"Sure! How far away is it?"

"Oh, just ten minutes, maybe nine." Maybe nine?

Act VII: The Lake.

After crossing a bridge on Linwood Road, we turned right and entered the Salem Lake Trail gravel-and-dirt parking lot, which was packed. It didn't look like there were any spots left on this pleasantly crisp spring morning. But then, at the end of the lot, an older, white-haired cyclist started waving to us. He motioned for us to come down to him.

I cautiously drove towards him. He pointed to the last vacant spot, which was hidden by his long cargo van, and which was actually the premier spot – the closest one to the start of the 7.07-mile (11.38 km), lake-looping trail.

"That sure was nice of him," Monique opined.

"Yes, it was," I replied. "There still are some decent people on this planet."

Once out of the car, I watched him tune his mountain bike before commencing his ride. "Thanks for cueing us in. Pretty crowded here today."

"No problem," he said. "It's a popular access area on weekends. So, where are you guys from?"

"Charlotte," Monique chimed. "We're cyclists, too, but we don't have our bikes today."

"My friend and I went riding down there last weekend," he disclosed.

"I see," I said. "Well, have a great ride. I'm not sure how far we'll walk. We won't be doing the whole loop today."

"Enjoy," he said as he clicked his clipless shoes onto the cleated pedals and rode off.

We then began our walk with me toting a black plastic bag of bottled Starbucks coffees. The narrow lake was olive-colored. The sky was cerulean with some cirrus clouds and crossing contrails that made a tic-tac-toe board. X takes middle square.

In just 1,000 feet (305 meters), we had reached a high-voltage line crossing. It was so quiet that you could hear a very slight hum on the lake.

We continued another 1,000 feet to arrive at a wetlands cove. There was a wooden sign that explained the value of wetlands, and how they filter out pollution. Is this where I put that note back in '95?

I crouched down and looked under the sign.

"What are you looking for, Parkaar?"

"A note that I left here twenty-two years ago, mahal."

"What did it say?"

"Oh, something droll like 'Help! I'm trapped in a North Korean lumber yard.' Something like that." Oh, boy.

"It's time to go back."
12. Quotidian x 2 (Apr. 2017)

Amsterdam in late May of 2007, replete with tulips, windmills, canals, coughing, and another perspicacious IT (Information Technology) specialist. Even though he didn't know ten words of Dutch, Dave had gladly accepted the six-month programming assignment for his company's new client in the Netherlands. His small studio apartment, not that far from Centraal Station, was on a nondescript alley named Niuewe Nieuwstraat. A fellow American ex-pat had told him that it translated to New Newstreet. He thought: Just as bad as my hometown's [Charlotte, NC, USA] Park Road Park.

Dave was a 27-year-old, still single, trim, brown-haired Caucasian, who dwelled in his apartment most of the time during the workweek, as his binary tasks were much easier to do there. He had set up his workstation in front of the 3rd-floor sash-style window, which offered an impossible-to-ignore view of El Guapo, a little coffee shop that legally sold marijuana. Dave could quickly tell the cannabis tourists from the local weedheads (marijuana users): The locals didn't stumble, wobble and laugh hysterically when leaving. Moreover, it was a frame of endless entertainment.

Now, Dave wasn't beyond a puff or two himself in times of uncharted leisure. The herbal dispensary's hashish was a cut above the best that he had experienced in the States. He always kept a stash in a small jar, but was disciplined enough to only indulge on weekends.

In his first week in Amsterdam, Dave checked out several must-see sites: The Vincent van Gogh Museum, The Anne Frank House, and yes, the infamous Red Light District, where he had one too many Grolsch beers on his first Saturday night. Alcohol-emboldened Dave couldn't resist; he paid for sex with a dark-haired, ebony-eyed, smiling-inside-a-window-box prostitute whom he later found out was from Syria. He then fretted over having a sexually transmitted disease. There would be no return engagement; he was a oner-and-doner. [sic] Dave wouldn't visit De Wallen again.

By the third week, Dave's new life had fallen into a pattern. He would awake at 7:47 AM and make some strong black coffee. Then he would drink it while alternating his gaze between his window with the curious street scene and the morning news on an English language cable TV station.

And, there he was below again at 8:08 AM: a 50-something, slightly limping, Caucasian man of slight build in a gray pinstriped suit, donning a fedora. Dave's mind started to ponder this recurring personage. That man has passed by here at this exact time every day this week. I guess that he has a job nearby that starts at 8:30.

After another productive week of algorithm tweaking, Dave fired up a small chunk of hash and looked out his favorite window. It was a delightful spring Friday evening. People were merrily strolling about. He mused on the scene. This sure is one cool country. The Dutch are quite a tolerant people. But, are they too tolerant? Are the new Middle Eastern immigrants really assimilating? Not sure if this experiment is going to work out for them. Another Dutch female was assaulted on a bus just last night. Islam in pluralistic Western democracies – that's the challenge of this 21st century. Wonder how it turns out. Guess I'm not very optimistic. Too bad that agnosticism is not sweeping the globe. Oh well, in 10,000 years it's probably all irrelevant.

His mind meandered in a THC-infused surreal reverie. And then at 8:08 PM, there he was again – the man in the gray suit with the slight limp. He was passing in the same direction – not the reverse. Wow! Exactly twelve hours later. Why isn't he walking back the other way? Where has he been all day? This is über-odd.

And then the next morning, a mid-June Saturday, Mr. Gray Suit passed by once again at 8:08 AM, moseying along in the usual west-to-east direction. That's at least six days in a row. Wonder if he'll return at 8:08 tonight.

After going out for groceries and doing some sightseeing and lounging in Vondelpark (and chatting with a 20-something, blonde-haired, blue-eyed Dutch damsel named Helga – an Ajax-FC-loving, perfect-English-speaking, native Amsterdammer), Dave alighted on his desk chair at 7:59 PM. Nine minutes later, the fedora-topped man in gray meandered down the brick alley right on cue. This is whey-weird. [sic] Now, if he does this routine on Sunday...

And yes, the next day, the gimpy diminutive man in gray did just that: a pair of semidiurnal passings at 8:08 on the dot. Dave was incredulous. This is unbelievable. Seven straight days at the exact same times, and always going in the same direction. Is this some zany performance-art stunt? If he appears tomorrow morning at 8:08 AM, I'm going to... well, I'm not sure. What to do? Hmmm...

Sure enough, Monday morning at 8:08 AM, the man in gray appeared on schedule. It was raining. Dave could see the water running off his fedora. Ok, that's it! I'm tailing him. I'm getting to the bottom of this charade.

And with that line of thought, Dave raced down the narrow staircase. When his shoes hit the street, the gray man was only about 50 feet (15 meters) away. Got him. Just don't be too obvious. Must not let him know that I'm following him.

Dave steadily closed the gap. The space between them was soon down to just four meters (13 feet) as they approached Nieuwendijk, another pedestrian, shop-filled, brick alleyway. The limping man's gray suit appeared to be soaking wet now. Dave was getting wet, too; he had forgotten his umbrella. Drats! I sure picked the wrong day to tail him. Should I just go back and do this tonight? Maybe the rain will have stopped. Yeah, let's retreat and resolve this later.

The man in the gray suit turned right as Dave turned to go back to his apartment. His mind raced. What if he doesn't show up at 8:08 tonight? Well, that would just prove that I need to lay off the hash. He had an internal chuckle.

Dave changed into some dry clothes and settled into his usual work routine. The rain stopped at 4:44 PM. He then checked the local radar on his laptop. Good, that was the last of it. All clear over the North Sea. No more precipitation. A dry night. Maybe call Helga later. She said that she gets off work at nine. She seems really cool, and sure has one hot body. And, Mr. Weiner is getting lonely.

After eating a microwaved frozen pasta dinner, Dave moved back to his window-front chair. It was 7:57 PM. Some low clouds raced by, but the rain did indeed appear to be over.

And then at precisely 8:08 PM, the hatted man in the gray suit appeared, plodding forward at his never-changing slow speed of 1.5 MPH (2.4 km/h). Dave immediately sprinted down to the street, nearly running into a bicyclist in his rush.

It was still light outside. Dave easily spotted the man in the gray suit. He tailed him, lagging three meters (about ten feet) behind him.

The gray-suited man made his usual right turn onto Nieuwendijk. Dave patiently trailed him for five blocks. At Dam Square, Dave sped up and passed him. He glanced backwards. The man in the gray suit was looking down at the cemented cobbles as he began to veer to the left (towards Damrak). Must think up some kind of ruse. Quick!

Dave crouched and lowered his right hand down to an embedded tram rail. He appeared to extract something from the adjacent recess. Dave then accosted the small man.

"Your coin?" [an American penny] Dave asked. Hope he knows English. My Dutch still sucks.

The gray-suited gent looked at him. His eyes were a steely hazel. "No, sir, that's not my coin," he stated in an emotionless monotone. His expression was hard to read. Is he really human? Is this some kind of smart-robot test?

"Ok, have a nice night," Dave said as he stepped back.

"You, too, sir." And then he continued on his seemingly preset way. Wow! That was strange. He's either a robot, or from another planet. Wait until Helga hears about this.

Once back at his apartment, Dave called Helga and told her about the encounter with the gray-suited, fedora-hatted man-machine. He even told her the whole observational history, stressing the exact time. She was quite intrigued and invited herself over the next evening. As Dave consented, he checked for his box of condoms in the sock drawer, anticipating a romp on the new mattress. Good deal – two left. / I bet he is wanting to have sex with me tomorrow night. Another horny American. Though, I wouldn't mind a little action myself. How long has it been?

Dave had a meeting from 8:00 AM to noon on Tuesday. Helga arrived with some Thai takeout at 7:37 PM. They ate it in the kitchenette. Then Helga took the seat in front of the prime window. It was cloudy and mild at 8:05 PM. The foot traffic below was sparse to sporadic.

"Ok, it's 8:08," Dave announced behind Helga's bare left shoulder. "Any second now." She's going to freak out, especially if she spends the night and sees him again at 8:08 tomorrow morning. Wonder what her reaction will be.

But, the gray-suited man failed to appear. At 8:53 PM, Helga left in a huff, thinking that it was just a wily ploy for sex.

The limping man didn't materialize on Wednesday morning, either. Nor, ever again.
13. Xinguara (Apr. 2017)

Xinguara, a remote interior village in northern Brazil, sited where the Amazon rainforest yields to the savanna, some 350 miles (563 km) from the equatorial Atlantic Ocean. It's a steamy mid-August morning in 2016. Hugo, a lanky, 19-year-old, black-haired, brown-skinned fisherman is buying some tackle at a small general store. As he studies the new spool of monofilament line and brass hooks on the checkout counter, he thinks about the day ahead. I bet that I catch over ten kilograms [22 pounds] of fish today in that shady spot. Hope no one else decides to set up there. Hope that I can forget about Lara. [an attractive, svelte, flirtatious, 20-year-old female with long raven hair and light skin]

The prior night at Aldeia's Beer Rest Pizzaria Choperia, a restaurant and bar on route BR-155 on the east side of town. Hugo and Lara are seated at a small outdoor table. They have just finished a pizza and are sipping on their beers.

Hugo: "Lara, do you have any plans for this Saturday? It's our big rematch with Germany, [the Olympics men's football/soccer final] you know. Want to watch it together? Your favorite player, Neymar, will be playing."

Lara: "Oh, I'd love to, Hugo, but Eduardo has already invited me to go with him to São Paulo. It's some kind of investment opportunity. We'll be back Sunday night." Lovely.

Hugo: "Oh, ok. Are you guys getting romantic?"

Lara: "No, nothing like that, silly." I bet.

Hugo: "What will be the sleeping arrangements?"

Lara: "Separate hotel rooms. Purely platonic." Yeah, right.

They hugged for a few seconds, but didn't kiss. Lara then asked Hugo if he wanted a ride home. He declined. They politely said their goodbyes. Lara then drove off in her 2005 red Honda Accord as darkness settled on the now-noisy crop fields: The cicada cacophony was at full volume.

Hugo walked the three blocks back to his family's modest dwelling. His mind was as heavy as the humid air. I know that she is already screwing Eduardo. The rich boy always gets the pretty girl. I was never going to win her. Just a ridiculous fantasy. A waste of time.

Back to the present. He paid the elderly female cashier. Then Hugo caught a ride with a male friend to Rio (River) Parauapebas, 14 kilometers (8.7 miles) west of the store on bumpy route PA-279.

After jumping out of the old, dented, gold-colored Jeep, he began marching downstream with his tackle box and fishing rod. In about four hundred meters (1,312 feet), he entered a densely wooded area. The canopy was lush; its shade was much appreciated by an already-sweating Hugo. Fifty meters (164 feet) further, and he had arrived at his desired destination: a 110-degree bend in the stream. Great! No one is here. Hope the fish are biting. Maybe catch enough to sell at the market. Some extra money sure would be nice. Though, it won't be enough for a São Paulo 'investment opportunity'.

The fishing didn't go as well as he had hoped. Hugo had only landed an undersized – sickly looking – arapaima and an alligator gar, which he tossed back after cutting the line, as he didn't want to risk a finger trying to remove the hook.

When three o'clock passed, Hugo pulled out his silver flask and took his first slug of cachaça (a liquor made from sugarcane juice). With an alcohol-by-volume percentage of 62.5 (125 proof), it was considerably stronger than typical.

At a steaming-hot four o'clock hour, Hugo had downed five-eighths of the flask. He was certifiably intoxicated as he stared at the flies that were alighting on the arapaima. I'm not going to eat that stinking fish, nor is anyone going to buy it. Let's just throw it back in the water.

<Splash!> The vermilion-on-the-scale-edges arapaima slapped the surface of the dark river. It wiggled a little... and then stopped. It was soon dead, but remained floating. I should have thrown him back much earlier. So sorry, peixe duvidoso. ['fishy fish' in Portuguese]

Then, just eighteen seconds later, the recently deceased arapaima was feasted upon by over two dozen piranha. The attack was ferocious. The fish's mass was rapidly reduced to bones and fin fragments, which then sank. Wow! That was quick. Almost forgot about those little, sharp-toothed, aggressive munchers. Lost our oldest cow to them at that Araguaia River crossing last year. Such voracious eaters.

By five o'clock the whole flask had been emptied. Hugo was now sprawled-out wasted with his head peering over the ledge of the river bank. His reflection rippled about two meters (6.56 feet) below. Wow! Look at that sad face. What a loser I am. My whole family have always been losers. We're the ones who always wind up with a low income. Scroungers of crumbs. Not one person in our clan has ever become anything, or gotten anywhere in life. Ever. Uncle Miguel came the closest, I guess. He almost got that football [soccer] contract with Flamengo. [a top-tier Brazilian club] But then, the dumbass fell off a ladder and ruined his back. Why was he on that roof anyway? Looking for a better horizon? Ha! I really did hope to break our dismal streak. Was so sure that all of this would somehow work out. I would be the best fisherman ever from Xinguara. Boy, I sure had high hopes for a life with Lara. But, even if she chose to be with me, could I ever satisfy her materially? I sincerely doubt it. 'Look Lara, I caught ten fish today.' I can already see her eyes rolling. Eduardo could buy her 100 fish with a snap of his wallet. And, what's more, Eduardo can take her to the big city. With me, Xinguara will be it. It's where we would live and die. And, she knows it. With Eduardo, an exciting cosmopolitan life awaits in São Paulo. No, it was never going to happen. Wonder if those piranha are still hungry. If they ate me whole, there would be no burial expenses for my folks. Yeah, let's make this easy for those ravenous devils.

And with that grisly thought, Hugo took off all of his clothes. He then cut his arms, fingers, legs, toes, face, neck and chest with his pocketknife. Hugo spread the blood all over his body. And then he rolled like a log off the bank's edge into the eddy pool in the river's hard left turn. Floating face-down with his arms spread out, Hugo's mind darkened. Maybe I will just drown. Not sure if I can swim now. So drunk. So done with it all. So ready for heaven. Will I go to heaven? Or, purgatory? Dear God, don't condemn me to hell.

The piranha assault started in a mere thirteen seconds. Hugo wanted to scream as their teeth ripped into his flesh. But, he didn't. Ah, this pain is divine. An exquisite fatal torture. The Passion of lowly Hugo. Bye-bye Lara. Bye-bye dear family. Good-bye Mother Earth. Wonder what Lara will think when she finds out. 'Oh, how sad, but how convenient'.

Note: The preceding tale is based on an actual suicide that occurred in Brazil.
14. Yep, That was Me (Apr. 2017)

Keith Sapsford, a 14-year-old, rambunctious, hyper-adventurous, wanderlust-filled Australian lad, has just slipped through a gap in the chain-link construction fence on the perimeter of the nearing-completion international terminal at Sydney Kingsford Smith Airport. It is the early morning of February 24, 1970. And, Keith has run away yet again; this time he has absconded from a troubled-youth facility.

The daring adolescent spies a Japan Airlines DC-8 docked at the existing terminal and dashes towards it. He crouches and darts under the right wing in the predawn dim light. Once at the wheel well, he looks up. That's plenty big enough. I can easily fit in there. No problem.

Keith then hops on one of the large tires and climbs up the main landing-gear column. He uses a strut to get his body into the four-wheel storage compartment. Amazingly, his stowaway maneuver goes unnoticed.

Once ensconced in a snug yet tolerable position, he awaits takeoff for Tokyo. Keith hears the sounds of luggage being loaded into the cargo hold. And then, a baggage handler almost spots him. Whew! That was way too close. Need to reposition myself. Need to get completely out of their sight.

Keith leans back some more, so that none of the airport's runway workers can possibly see him in the wheel well. But, he still feels anxious. His mind races. Must not be seen. Must not get arrested. Have already got into enough trouble. Wonder when this plane leaves. Should I really do this? How safe – or unsafe – is this? What to do when the plane lands in Tokyo? Oh, just figure it out upon arrival. Will need to get food and drink soon after landing. Will have to enter a store or restaurant. Hope I have enough money. Do they take Australian dollars? Maybe just catch the next flight back.

Thirteen long minutes later, Keith hears the cargo doors being slammed shut. Then he hears the four jet engines coming to life. The pilot revs them for nine screaming seconds. It is extremely loud. Hope it's not this loud the whole way. Might go deaf. Darn! Should have brought earplugs. Those old earmuffs would have been perfect. Wonder how cold it will be. Probably should have brought gloves, too. Oh well, it's too late now.

When the pilot decreases the RPMs of the turbines, the noise level drops considerably. Next, the jet airliner is pushed away from the terminal. Keith sees the tarmac slowly passing beneath his feet. Soon the McDonnell Douglas jetliner is taxiing to the 16R/34L runway. Well, this is it. Wonder if it will be hard to go undetected at the Tokyo airport. Is their security tighter? Wonder if anyone knows English over there. Should have memorized some Japanese words. Guess I'll just point when ordering.

The DC-8 makes a couple of quarter-turns and stops. Then the four engines are throttled up. The plane starts rolling... faster... and faster... and faster down the runway. Here we go! Must keep a firm grip on these pipes. [hydraulic lines] Getting kind of bumpy. Woah! We're now off the ground! Goodbye, Sydney. I'm off to see the world. First stop: Japan.

As the airplane nears the end of the airspace above airport property, it is at an approximate altitude of 200 feet (61 meters). The wheels begin to retract. A horizontal landing-gear part that Keith thought was permanently stationary suddenly lurches laterally. His feet slide off as his left arm is bumped by a piston. In just two seconds he has gone from all-good secure to hanging on for dear life with his right hand. Can't hang on much longer. Must try to swing my feet up. There's too much wind. Can't do it. Should have listened to dad. Can't hold on.

Poor Keith is now in freefall. He flaps his arms in a seated position. Oh, shit! This is it! I'm dead. Why did I ever do this? Ok, maybe if I hit some tree limbs I might survive. No luck. Green grass coming up fast. God! I'm finished. <thud>

Mr. John Gilpin was an amateur photographer. This Australian shutterbug had just bought a new lens and a roll of black-and-white film for his favorite camera. On a mild Tuesday morning, he ventured to the vicinity of the Sydney airport and settled at a good vantage point for takeoffs and landings: the beach that paralleled The Grand Parade.

John snapped off a series of pics over the course of thirty-five minutes. Then he went to work, dropping off the film for processing along the way.

A routine week later, John stopped by the photo-lab to pick up his prints. He checked the first one, a photo of a Boeing 727, to make sure he had received the right set. Satisfied, he proceeded back to his domicile.

After dinner John started to examine the prints – one by one – on his light table. He wanted to see how well the new zoom lens performed – the clarity, the details revealed, the brightness and the overall enlarging. When he got to the eighth print, his mind shrieked in terror and utter disbelief. Oh, my God! Who is/was that young man? What happened? What led to this?

Just below an ascending Japan Airlines DC-8 was a juvenile male in mid-air. He was obviously once on the airplane. Did he jump out of the cabin? Doubt that. Was he a stowaway hiding in a wheel well? Oh yes, this was in the news. Need to alert the authorities. Wonder if they'll think that I had something to do with this. After all, what are the odds of randomly taking a picture of someone falling to their death from a commercial jet? Has it ever even happened? So bizarre. And so tragic. Won't be forgetting this photo. Going to be haunted by it for life. Already feel like it's me in the air, staring at impending death. Can feel myself falling. And with nothing to grab onto. No rip cord to pull to activate a parachute. Futilely grasping at thin air. Completely hopeless. Time must have stopped for that doomed teenager. Guess I should brace for the media onslaught. So many questions will be coming. 'Sir, why did you photograph that particular airplane at that exact moment?' Yeah, I'll probably get that one over and over. Wonder what that most-unlucky young fellow would say if he were somehow able to comment. 'Yep, that was me.'

John Gilpin's photo (LIFE, March 6, 1970)

15. Terminal Moraine (May 2017)

Hua is a 24-year-old, single, Chinese female from the village of Jiayuguan, some 2,000 kilometers (1,243 miles) west of Beijing on the edge of the Gobi Desert. This Gansu province town has a tourist draw: a fortressed section of The Great Wall from the Han Dynasty period. When Hua was ten years younger, she would often see middle-aged Caucasian foreigners and wonder what their lives were like. She dreamed of visiting America and Western Europe. "Someday" she would murmur to herself.

Being in such a remote area, there was no worthwhile work to be found after high school. So, Hua did what most other non-college-bound young women did: She left for Shanghai to work in a factory; hers made Barbie® dolls.

Hua worked 13 hours a day, six days a week. Sunday was her lone day off, but it was no day for relaxation, as she shared the small dormitory with five other females. Thus, Hua often spent her Sundays walking about the compound, thinking about her family 2,700 kilometers (1,678 miles) away.

The work was repetitive to the point of being mind-numbing. She often wondered if automation would replace her. And, she often wondered if she might ever get a non-assembly job – like one in the nice overhead office suite.

As she stuck the smiling blonde-haired doll heads onto the molded torso's neck pegs, she thought about Christmas Day (2015) overseas. Will this one lie under a tree in the United States? Will the lucky girl wonder where the doll came from? I doubt it.

With in-excess-of, per-piece bonuses, which were actually quite menial, Hua hoped to have her first Y3,500 (yuan) month (about $507) after over 330 hours of finger-cramping, wrist-twisting toil.

On the second Sunday in December at 8:38 AM, she got a call from her mom. One of her friends, whose mom was also a friend of her mom, who had been working at the vast Confoxx facility in Shenzhen, had committed suicide by jumping from a fourth-floor window.

Hua, in a stunned state, ended the phone call. Why did she do it? Ling said that she enjoyed making iPads and iPhones. But, she did say that it could get stressful. Maybe they pushed her too hard. So sad.

For the remainder of the day, Hua was thoroughly bewildered. She wandered over to a small park and fed some breadcrumbs to the pigeons. A young woman who looked very much like Ling caught her eye. She's not Ling. Ling is dead. 'Ling, why didn't you call me?' Why didn't I call her? I let too much time pass by. Can't even remember the last time we spoke. Was it last September? Or, was it August? Time sure gets blurred in this workaday factory life. Hmmm... Could it have been over a boy? No, she wasn't like that. I'm sure that it was work-related. I bet the pressure on the production line got to her. Ling was so sensitive. Maybe she just couldn't cope. These factory jobs aren't for everyone. Not sure if I can do it much longer. But, what else is there? Maybe Ling didn't want to retreat back to Jiayuguan in shame. Well, now she's gone. Just like that. What did her life mean? What does any factory worker's life mean? We're just robots with blood inside. And yet, we all have hope for a better life. Hope which quietly dissipates with each passing week. Need to stop with these negative thoughts. Time for some hot tea.

Once back in her cramped dormitory, Hua researched Confoxx suicides on a shared laptop computer. She saw that Ling's suicide was hardly an isolated incident. Oh, my! Look at all of these poor people who have taken their lives. They should have just stayed in their villages. Looks like 2010 was the worst year. Ling should have taken a job somewhere else. Ah, but she was so proud to be making Apple products. It was like a badge of honor with her. Was almost jealous of her.

After the Christmas production rush was over, Hua took her once-a-year, unpaid, four-day vacation to see her folks back in Jiayuguan. The town looked about the same as last January. It was frigid (-15º Celsius; 5º Fahrenheit) with an inch (2.54 cm) of fine snow on the ground.

Hua had dinner with her parents and talked about Ling's passing. Her mom told her that Ling's parents were still distraught. When Hua's dad asked her how it was going in Shanghai, she lied and told him that everything was fine.

The next morning after tea, Hua left the modest house to stroll down memory lane. She walked out of town towards the mountains to the northwest. It was a sunny, yet quite cold, winter day. Her thick coat barely kept her warm.

Soon she had arrived at the shallow, cobble-strewn, iced-over rill where she once played with the other kids. She walked upstream to what was a wall of boulders. Terminal moraine is what Liang called it. He said that it was left by a retreating glacier. Wonder if Liang ever became a geologist. I bet he did. Liang was so smart. He was going to make it. He's probably now married to a pretty girl in Beijing.

Hua took a few more steps, and there they were: the brown, somewhat square, rounded-corner pieces of plastic that she and Ling had tossed around like Frisbees on that spring day a decade ago. When the four flat pieces landed on each other in pairs, they kind of looked like eyes. And, a pothole was in the perfect location to be the mouth for an abstract face. Ling took a picture of this. Wonder where that photograph is now. It's probably still on her old phone. Such a carefree time back then. We all wanted to be done with school and enter the world of work in a big city. Should have savored those days.

A stray dog barked at something out of sight. Hua looked at the black, medium-size chow. Then the canine continued on its way. Wonder what that dog was barking at. There's no one else around. Or, is there?

Hua then looked up at the cloudless cobalt-blue sky. She was pensive. Really don't want to go back to that factory in Shanghai. But, my parents need the money. Maybe I could start a bakery in town. But, that would take start-up money, which I don't have. Gosh, I feel trapped. What kind of life is this? What am I going to do?

"Hua."

She quickly turned around, but no one was there. Hua had only imagined her name being whispered. It was just a piercing-cold Mongolian gust. And then her phone chirped. She had received a text message from an unknown number.

I want to touch the sky, feel that blueness so light  
But I can't do any of this, so I'm leaving this world  
Everyone who's heard of me  
Shouldn't be surprised at my leaving  
Even less should you sigh or grieve  
I was fine when I came, and fine when I left

-Xu Lizhi

16. The Classified Ad (May 2017)

December 1986. I was 22 and living alone in an older but by no means historic, though recently renovated, one-bedroom apartment at 235 Maryland Avenue (now razed). It was just south of the old Sunset Park neighborhood (a dicey area at the time) in Wilmington (NC, USA). I had been living there for several months. After getting settled in, I was ready to take a trip to somewhere new. When I saw the Piedmont Airlines ad in the local newspaper with discounted airfares to the West Coast, I jumped at it. A day later I had my tickets. I was now all set for my first visit to San Francisco (CA, USA).

On Tuesday morning, the 30th – the eve of New Year's Eve – I flew from ILM (Wilmington) to CLT (Charlotte) to SFO (San Francisco). I had a whopping $105 in my wallet for the three days and nights in the city by the bay. And, not a single credit card. Yes, I was astoundingly naïve and quite foolish.

At 3:13 PST the Boeing 737 landed on a wet asphalt runway. Twenty-seven minutes later, I emerged from the lower level domestic arrival area. Assorted motor vehicles were scurrying and splashing about. I had a dull headache (later diagnosed to be related to aqueductal stenosis). It was raining, cold, and already almost dark. With an occluded mind, I considered my transportation options. Hmmm... Where is that darn MUNI bus stop? Hey, there's a taxi! No, can't take a cab – that would eat up half of the money. Would love to just lie down somewhere and pop some aspirin.

Then I saw a green van for a lower-tier hotel stopped at the concrete median. My line of thinking suddenly changed. That's a free shuttle to a nearby budget hotel. Why not just 'splurge' the first night? Yeah, let's. Probably get a free breakfast, too. Then go ultra-cheap the next two nights. Maybe stay in a hostel downtown.

I walked up to the van. The front door was open. Here goes.

"Any vacancies at the hotel?" I asked the late-50-ish, rotund, African American driver.

"Plenty of rooms available, sir," he kindly answered.

"How much is the rate?" I queried.

"The cheapest room with taxes is $48.48 tonight, sir. That includes a complimentary continental breakfast." That's almost half of my loot. But, a warm, dry room with a clean bed sure would be nice right about now.

"Ok, you sold me." I promptly stepped into the van and took a seat in the back. There were only three travelers inside, all having dense, opaque, rainy-day thoughts. Did I leave the stove on?

After checking in at this frugal name-forgotten Burlingame inn, I flopped down on the queen-size bed and slept for three hours. Around eight o'clock I walked over to a convenience store and bought a jug of tea and a frozen pizza. I paid the Arab-looking man $4.52. Ok, the first day here has cost exactly $53. Only fifty-two dollars left. Must go much cheaper the next two. Have already blown over half of my wad o' cash.

The raindrops slowed on the window pane as I ate the cardboard-crust microwaved pizza. After watching the ten o'clock news, I was lights-out.

A nightmare soon engulfed me. I was completely broke with 24 hours to go. It felt so real. Too real. Prescient?

Early the next morning after a nice hot shower, I indulged – or overindulged – at the free breakfast bar in the lobby. I must have consumed over 2,500 calories in carbs and sugars. I was completely refueled now.

At noon I checked out of the hotel and moseyed over to Max's Restaurant on Old Bayshore Highway. I just had ice water and a baked potato with butter and Worcestershire sauce (still a cheap favorite). Yes, I was living it up on the peninsula. Another high roller. Ok, maybe not. Even close.

Well, the middle-aged, brown-haired Caucasian waitress was quite convivial. She told me that she had seen a lot of change in sleepy Burlingame over the past decade. Despite my bill coming to a grand total of $1.93, I left her a $2 tip. Forty-eight dollars and seven cents left to cover forty-three hours and sixteen minutes. What does that come out to per hour? [$1.11] A little over a dollar an hour. Got to be super-thrifty from here on out.

As I sipped my water, I considered transportation options to downtown San Francisco. A taxi? Nope. Even more expensive from here. The bus? Doubt there is a MUNI stop in Burlingame. Oh, let's just go for it. Add a slice of risk. Live a little, sport. Write about it later. Well, if we don't die.

At 1:11 PM my left thumb was getting wet. Yes, I was hitchhiking in a downpour in my lurid, highlighter-green, hooded K-Mart raincoat at the US 101 freeway entrance ramp. And, boy was it ever chilly. It was a damp coldness that reached the phalanges. How long until I get a ride? Will it be some homicidal nut-job? Or, will the local cops pick me up? Another red-haired freak trying to get to Frisco. Book him, Danno.

To my astonishment, a tan sedan pulled up just four minutes later. The passenger-side window lowered. The driver was a 60-ish, white-haired, beret-topped Caucasian man in a royal-blue jogging suit. Is he some old lech cruising for a twink? Hope not.

"Where are you headed?" he asked.

"Downtown," I replied.

"Ok, get in," he implored.

We made small talk as he motored north on the Bayshore Freeway (US 101). The rain ceased as we paralleled the bay, but the skies remained decidedly overcast. It turned out that Gary was an apartment landlord heading to Market Street for a lease signing. I told him that I was on a limited budget, seeking ultra-cheap lodging. Thus, he dropped me off in front of the old YMCA Hotel on Turk Street. I thanked him profusely. Gary wished me well before driving off into the gray mist. That sure was nice of him. A free ride with no hassle. Serendipity, don't run away.

I checked in at the turn-of-the-century-appearing front desk. I got two nights for a total of $22.50. I suspected that the 30-something Caucasian lady reduced the rate for me. Maybe she could sense my forlornness. Another lucky break.

Over to the old-style elevator I marched. Upward the brass-trimmed car clanked. Hope the cable doesn't snap. Or, an earthquake strike.

Room 601 had a little desk, an ancient dresser and a well-worn single bed, which I sat down upon. Excellent. Shelter is now taken care of for the remainder of the trip. Let's see... I now have $25.57 for food and drink for a day and a half. Well, no more restaurants. Just hit a convenience store. Or better, hit a grocery store. So much cheaper. Need bus fare back to SFO on Friday morning. Must not drop below two dollars.

I took an hour-long nap on the slightly lumpy bed. When I awoke my window was completely gray: The fog at 3:03 PM was incredibly dense; I couldn't even see the buildings across the street. There's your classic pea-soup San Francisco fog. Such a strange town with weird weather. Would love to live here. Well, maybe someday. [I would live there for nine months in 1992.]

My headache was long gone, but I now had a persistent cough. I hocked up a big green oyster. And then another. And another. Oh, jeez... Do I have walking pneumonia? Need to get groceries before it gets dark and rainy. Would be nice to check out Golden Gate Park, too. Maybe ask for directions.

The desk clerk informed me that I could pick up the (route) 5 on McAllister Street. The bus stop was only two and a half blocks away.

Soon I was headed west on a MUNI electro-bus. At 33rd Avenue, I got off and took a muddy path over to an eerily serene Spreckels Lake. Then I wandered by the bison-less paddock to North Lake. And then, yet another squall moved in from the Pacific Ocean. So much for this hike.

I took another footpath from Chain of Lakes Drive to 47th Avenue, and was soon back on Fulton Street. The raw rain was arriving in sheets as I walked west on the multi-pooled sidewalk. In two blocks I was at La Playa. Yey! There it is – Safeway. Just as she said.

Inside the grocery store I briskly went. I bought a loaf of dill-rye bread, three tins of sardines and a half-gallon of tea. The total: $7.57. The bus ate a dollar and will eat another one going back. Will have $16 left.

While waiting at the bus stop at Cabrillo Street, my coughing worsened. I was spitting out green mucus left and right. Luckily, I was alone under the shelter. As I looked at the plastic seats, I noticed a free weekly publication that had been left for dead. Just as the bus arrived, I grabbed the discarded SF Netherground copy. Reading material for the ride back. Wonder what the personal ads are like in this rag.

I took a middle seat and flipped to the classified ads at the back of the thin 16-page newsprint periodical. There were the usual categories. Stuff for sale, including a real Mellotron. Services available – lots of exotic massage ads. And of course, the personals. Under the 'Women seeking Men' rubric was an intriguing four-liner:

SAF, 21, seeking SWM for a rarest reality.

Unconventional lifestyle. No TV. No radio.

Income is not an issue. Questionnaire first.

Describe yourself in four words. [Box 241]

I read it again. And again. Well, I couldn't stop reading it. Wow! Too bad I don't live out here. It would be worth it just to meet this chick.

The bus stopped for a red light at Stanyan Street. The rain had now subsided, but darkness had moved in. A reflective-taped young Asian woman was jogging through the crosswalk. Is that her? Ha! Boy, you really need to settle your mind down.

I exited the bus on Market Street about 15 minutes later. My eyes immediately started to scan the dark, wet, gray sidewalks. And there it was at Golden Gate Avenue and Taylor Street: a payphone. And, even better – an available payphone. Just want to hear her voice. I can afford it. Already have food, drink and shelter covered.

I deposited 35 cents into the vertical slot. Two seconds later I heard a dial tone. Good. This phone isn't broken.

My right index finger depressed the 11 digits. I heard a recording that prompted a box number. I had memorized it.

Two seconds later I heard a young Asian lady's voice: "Please do what the ad stated. Thank you. Chanda." Huh? That's it?

And then, I heard a beep. Ok, that's the cue. Talk now, fool.

"Hello Chanda. My name is Mike. Tomorrow is open for me if you want to conduct your questionnaire over coffee somewhere in downtown. I'm staying at the YMCA Hotel. Not sure what the phone number is. Ok, describe myself in four words: Not here for long." Well, it's the truth.

I placed the black plastic handset back in the U-shaped chrome cradle. Well, I did it. Won't ever hear from her I bet. But, I heard her soft voice. Wonder what she looks like. She sounded like she is petite.

Back to the YMCA Hotel I trudged. There were some neo-hippie New Year's Eve revelers in the lobby. They were all getting ready to go somewhere.

"Where are you guys off to?" I asked the goateed, long-blonde-hair-in-a-ponytail dude in his mid-20s.

"Oakland, man," he replied with a stoned-out-of-his-gourd expression. "The [Grateful] Dead are playing again at Kaiser [Convention Center] tonight. BART [Bay Area Rapid Transit] goes right there – Lake Merritt Station. You going?"

"No. I think that I may have walking pneumonia. But, you guys have fun."

"Ok, we'll spark one up for you at intermission."

I chuckled. "Ok, thanks."

The straggly, tie-dyed octet then shipped out. I went back to my room. The sardines on rye weren't that bad.

I coughed and sputtered myself to sleep. The only dream that I recalled in the morning was that of a young Asian lady waving goodbye to me from the edge of a jungle cliff. I awoke just before hitting the ground. Whew! Those caraway seeds are strong. Internal chuckle.

Around nine o'clock I went down to the lobby for a free cup of coffee. It was vacant, save for a white guy of about 50 years who was holding his half-bald head. He's probably hungover. His new year arrived with a thud. And is still thudding.

As I was passing by the front desk, the female clerk looked at me.

"Mr. Bozart, you have a message." She then extended her left hand which was holding a small pink envelope.

I took it from her. "Thanks."

"No problem. Happy New Year! Hope '87 is better than '86."

"Likewise," I replied as I headed for the elevator. Wonder what this is. Let's keep the suspense going; read it back in the room.

I unlocked the old deadbolt and sat down at the desk. I opened the envelope with my penknife and retracted the bifolded lavender pastel note. I silently mouthed:

I will be in the back corner of the coffee shop at Golden Gate & Larkin at 11:00 AM with the questionnaire. - Chanda

Disbelief consumed my psyche. Wow! Guess I should take a shower and get presentable. Never expected this. I can afford two coffees. Hope she doesn't want anything else.

At 10:47 I left my hotel room. It was mostly cloudy, but it wasn't raining as I walked down Hyde Street. I then turned right onto Golden Gate Avenue. In just a block I was looking across the street at the coffeehouse. That was quick. Should I go in now? I'm probably five minutes early. She may not be there yet. Maybe wait three minutes.

I watched the traffic lights cycle once more, and then I crossed the street. The java joint's aluminum-framed glass door opened easily. I peered to the back. And, there she was – an elfin, red-sweatered Asian lass in the rearmost corner.

Towards her I drifted. Chanda then looked up and waved. She was attractive, but not in the classic sense. I took a seat across from her in the ¾-of-a-circle brown booth. She already had the questionnaire in front of her.

"You must be Mike," she plainly stated. What is her story?

"Yes, and you must be Chanda." Of course.

"Indeed, I am." She's cute.

"Where are you from, if I may ask?" He's inquisitive.

"Cambodia. Just outside of Phnom Penh, the capital." My Laos guess was close.

"Oh, nice." Has he been there?

"Do you know any Khmer?" [the language of Cambodia]

"I'm afraid I don't." He's never been to Cambodia.

"I won't hold it against you this time." She then giggled strangely. She's an odd one – an enticingly odd one.

"Thanks." I smiled.

"Well, are you ready for the nine questions?" Only nine? Good. This should be easy.

"Sure. Only eight to go now, right?" Huh?

"Ah, you are a sly one." She waved her left index finger. "Question one: Could you live your life as an experiment?" What?!

"Well, I guess that it would depend on whom else was in the test tube with me." Not bad.

"Question two: How much external stimulation do you require?" Where is this going?

"Not that much. My mind constantly amuses me." Good answer.

"Question three: How do you rate your imagination?"

"Fairly high if I may answer honestly." If? Hmmm...

"Question four: What would you think about a couple living in isolation from the modern world?" Primitive. Is she recruiting for some off-the-grid cult?

"With the right person, it might be just fine." Might?

"Question five: Do you want to be famous for something extremely unique?" Like making morons vanish?

"Sure, why not? As long as no one is getting violated or injured." Ok, that was a decent answer.

"Question six: Would you agree that two people will always get bored with each other over time?" She's probing.

"Um, no, not necessarily." Hmmm... He stuttered.

"Question seven: Would you consent to having a year of your life being recorded and documented?" Is this some new art-form? I bet she's an art student. Or, maybe a psychology student at SFSU. [San Francisco State University]

"Depends on the end product." Fair answer.

"Question eight: Could you live on a tiny island with someone like me?" Ok, now she cuts to the chase.

"Sure. You're not a headhunter, are you?" He's a bit paranoid.

"Question nine: Can humans transcend their evolutionary biology?" Woah! What does she have in mind?

"Let's find out together." Nice brash answer.

"Ok, that's it. All done. Not that painful, was it?"

"Not at all. Is phase two on Phnom Aural?" [Cambodia's tallest peak] He knows?!

"I'll be getting back in touch with you. What is your mailing address?"

"I'll jot it down for you. I live on the other side of this continent."

She handed me her purple felt-tip pen. I printed my address on a coaster and handed it to her.

"Oh, you're way over on the Atlantic side of North America."

"Yep. Hey, would you like some coffee, Chanda?"

"Sure, Mike. Black but extra-sweet."

"You got it. I'll be right back."

I returned with our coffee and retook my seat.

"Thanks." She turned her head to gaze out the window.

I then noticed a scar under her left ear. I kind of liked it, but wondered what had happened. Just ask her later.

"So, am I the 500th interviewee, Chanda?"

"No, you're number 501, Mike." She had a chuckle. "I disqualified 80% of the respondents right from the start. Most couldn't follow simple instructions. Your description was four words, just like I requested. So many went way over the limit. I just deleted their messages. Goodbye."

"I see. Well, by 'not here for long' I meant that I will be gone tomorrow. I'll be flying back home."

"Oh, I'm leaving, too. On Sunday I'm gone. Don't worry; I will contact you through the mail."

"Can you give me a hint about what this is about? Are you looking for someone to live in a cavern with you and then write a novel about it?"

"Oh, Mike, you are very warm." Chanda laughed again.

"You stated that income is not necessary. Who is picking up the tab?"

"My folks. They are filthy rich from export business."

"I see." Ah, a free-to-roam-and-do-whatever rich girl.

"Mike, it was great meeting you. But, I must go now. You were on time, unlike most, so you got extra points." Extra points? Yes, I'll take all that I can get.

"Ok, I'll be awaiting your letter in my rusty mailbox." Rust on his mailbox? Why doesn't he repaint it?

"I will contact you. Chanda is not a liar." Third person. Nice. She's something else.

"I believe you. Well, this has been mega-interesting. It was so nice to meet the lovely lady behind the beguiling ad. Hope we meet again in the second round. Have a splendid New Year's Day, Chanda." Lovely lady? Me? With my ugly scar? Hmmm...

"You, too, Mike." Chanda then got up and walked away. What a strange, captivating, sexy thing she is.

I would safely make it back to my apartment in Wilmington with $2 in my wallet and 41 cents in my pocket.

An off-white envelope with a Cambodian postmark would arrive on February – Friday the 13th – 1987. The embossed card had just two words:

Honorable Mention

Well, at least we didn't come in second.

17. Trinidad Head (Jun. 2017)

The date was June 4, 2017 and the temperature was 50º (Fahrenheit; 10º Celsius). After walking just .4 miles (.64 km) under an overcast sky from the Trinidad (CA, USA) RTS (Redwood Transit System) bus stop on Main Street (next to a Chevron gasoline station), Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33) arrived at a 5-star panorama of Trinidad Bay on Edwards Street (at Hector Street) that was postcard material to the max. Anchored fishing boats and erosion-defying sea stacks speckled the harbor. Yes, it was a Humboldt County Chamber of Commerce enticement all the way to Pilot Rock. Beyond that, well, it was hard to see. We savored this breathtaking scene for a few minutes, availing the wooden bench between two restaurant signs.

"It's like a living nautical oil painting," I told Monique. Hubby loves this place.

"It's magnificent," she replied. Indeed.

We then made our descent to the middle-aged-female-Eurekan-recommended Seascape Restaurant for a Sunday brunch. The mixed-race hostess seated us at a table that had a view of Little Head, a towering angular chunk of metamorphosed gabbro.

Monique noticed me studying the monolith as we waited for our waiter. "You want to climb that, don't you, Parkaar?" [my ailing alias] I just know he does. He's almost 53, but thinks he's 23.

"Well, it does look tempting, Agent 32." He's recording. / Frank [deceased Agent 107] would do it. I know he would.

"I wouldn't advise it," our short-blonde-haired, left-earringed, early-20-something, assumed college student, wry-grinning waiter suddenly said as he approached on my right. "It's even steeper and more dangerous than it looks, guys. That old rock stays damp; it's always slippery. A dude fell off it last year and got cracked-up pretty bad. If you want to do some hiking with spectacular views, do Trinidad Head, instead. It has an awesome looping trail that is much safer." Trinidad? Hmmm... That's Spanish for Trinity: The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. And, this holey toast. Sure could go for a pint of 8 Ball Stout. Wholly Lost Coast. Ah, yes, they've got it! Boss begs to boast. They have seafood chowder, too. Gus got the ghost. Looks like a largely liquid early lunch for me. Mark marked the most. Wonder what Monique wants. / Yey! They have fried shrimp and scallops.

"Thanks for the warning and sage advice," I said as I put my menu down. Ground or rubbed? Round or grubbed?

"No problem," he replied. "So, where are you guys from?"

"Charlotte," Monique blurted.

"Woah!" he exclaimed. "North Carolina. You guys are far, far away from home."

"Twenty-nine hundred miles," [4,667 km] I affirmed. "We've been staying in Eureka for the past two nights."

"Ah, Tweakerville," [sic] he announced. Huh?

Monique looked puzzled. "What is a tweaker?"

"A meth-head," [methamphetamine addict] the knit-shirted waiter answered. "Speed freaks."

"Oh, yes, we saw plenty of them in Old Town," I added.

"They're like cockroaches – so creepy and so freaking annoying," Monique opined.

"But, unlike cockroaches, they come at you instead of fleeing," I clarified.

"Yeah, the nonstop bummerama [sic] can be quite a drag," he synopsized. Bummerama? / Nice neologism. A writer?

"Bummerama – that's funny," Monique chimed. Bummerazzi.

"Most of them are opioid addicts as well," he disclosed. "They usually just harm each other. They're always getting into stupid arguments and fights with themselves. This is why I haven't gone to Old Town in years."

"It sure seems to have potential, though," I suggested.

"My Native American friend's dad grew up in Eureka," [23 miles (37 km) south of Trinidad] he stated as he gazed at my UNCC (University of North Carolina at Charlotte) 49ers patch on my green polyester shirt. "He said that Old Town has sucked for four decades. 'Maybe it gets better next year' is the semi-official mantra." Semi-official mantra? Yeah, he's a writer, too. Choose your words wisely.

We finally ordered our drinks and food. While waiting for our waiter's return, I slipped a Gold card (a cardstock coupon for a free download of my risqué, noir-esque, 2013 e-novel Gold, a summer story) through a slit in the wooden wall planks. Wonder when someone discovers it. A decade from now? Two? Will this place still even be here? Will a tsunami have washed it away? Will I be dead? Fifty-fifty odds. R-I-P, Mr. Zappa.

Monique looked at me and shook her head. "Delayed discovery may be fine if you have time, but you don't, Parkaaroni Wankeroni." [sic] She's already on her game.

"I know, I know, I know. I'll leave the waiter one with the tip, asawa." [wife in Tagalog and Cebuano]

Our drinks soon arrived. Monique had her now-becoming-customary Sprite® with ice. My chilled porter was almost as good as off the tap at the brewpub on 4th Street (US 101 South) between H and G Streets in downtown Eureka.

"This is really nice, isn't it, mahal?" [love in Tagalog] I asked my raven-haired pinay (Filipina) wife.

"I really love this cool weather with no scorching sun, bana. [husband in Cebuano] Great pick, 33!"

"Yeah, I like it, too. Nice castle weather – the kind we crave."

A Latino family of four were sitting at the table across the aisle. Their exuberant young boy squirmed up to the window sill to see something. He then pointed and muttered something in Spanish. Then his dad plucked him from the table and reseated him. Wonder what he saw. Was it that column of seagulls? / Bana is spacing out.

Our food arrived nine minutes later. The creamy soup was tasty. Monique devoured her breaded seafood.

The energetic waiter returned just as we finished eating. "Anything else? Maybe some dessert?"

"All good here," I answered.

"No more for me," Monique replied.

"Well, enjoy your day. You guys just up here for pleasure?"

"We're on a mission – a nebular mission," I told him.

"Have you heard of psecret psociety?" Monique asked him. "It's spelled with silent p's. I'm Agent 32 and he's Agent 33." Announcing Ernie the electronic earwig would be too much. Yeah, let it go.

The 5'-8" (172.72 cm) waiter looked confused. "No, I haven't."

"Trust me, man; it's not important," I said with a half-laugh.

He smiled and walked away with an uncertain-about-these-two look. Leave no coast unscathed. / Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned psecret psociety and agent numbers. Maybe he now thinks that we're part of something unsavory.

Once outside the modest restaurant, we ventured out on the almost-vacant concrete fishing pier known as Trinidad Wharf. Monique took some pics of the slate-blue bay, capturing Prisoner Rock and the more distant Flat Rock. Then she wanted to position me for a snapshot.

"Move to your right a little, Parkaar. I want to get one of you in front of Little Head." Avoid thinking with the little head.

After she snapped the photo, I pointed to the verdant Trinidad Head, which was only 200 feet (61 meters) across a small cove. "Well, mahal, that's the waiter-suggested hiking area." Kind of looks like a piece of Ireland. / Looks very strenuous.

"We're going to the top of that?!" Monique looked horrified.

"No, the very top is off-limits to interloping interlocutors like us. The tossed-down-belt trail winds around at mid-girth." He said that for the recorder.

"Ok then, lead the way, Art Z. Sportzee." She said that for the recorder.

We walked back up Bay Street to Lighthouse Road. There we made a left onto a narrow, vehicle-restricted, paved lane that passed by a loose-sand parking lot in front of a sparsely occupied, northwest-facing, finely ground, gray beach. After walking 700 feet (213 meters) and rising about a hundred feet (30 meters), there was a sharp turn to the left. To the right a hiking trail began. We took it. Well, here goes. Hope we don't have any health issues. / Are there poisonous snakes on this rock? Sure hope not.

The flora was mostly maritime chaparral. The often dense, hedge-like, mainly manzanita shrubbery was up to eight feet (2.56 meters) tall. We soon rounded the northeast corner of the massive domed prominence. And then, boy oh boy, the NNW wind was howling. It must have been about 30 MPH (48 km/h).

We took a break. Soon we were being passed by a late-50-something couple. The Amerasian-appearing man was in jeans and sweatshirt. The Caucasian woman was in a pink jogging outfit. We exchanged nods and waves. Wonder what their story is. Probably won't see them ever again. / They seem nice.

Two minutes later we started scaling the first switchback. We took another short break in the upper hairpin bend. Whew! Haven't hiked like this in ages, and my body is letting me know. / Hope Monique doesn't faint. Don't rush her. We're on no schedule. The whole day is open. At least until the last bus to Arcata. [15 miles (24 km) south] 4:29? Darn! Forgot to bring a water bottle for her.

The well-worn trail leveled out after that. We then came upon a spur trail. However, Monique wasn't interested in making the hike longer. Thus, we continued on the loop trail, passing under an arch in the lush canopy.

The next flora feature was what can best be described as a cave in the thicket. It was off to our left. I peered inside, half expecting to see a homeless person in the dark chamber. But, no one was in there. This would be an interesting place to throw down a sleeping bag and spend a night. Some surreal thoughts would surely ensue. / I bet he's thinking of sleeping in there. No freaking way!

I looked back at Monique.

"The answer is No!" She read my mind.

"Not even a nap, mahal?"

"No. Final answer."

I grinned at her. Why does he want to sleep in there? Who knows what dangerous animals live in there? Kano loko. ['crazy American' in Filipino]

In a few minutes we were looking at a carved-into-a-square-wooden-post sign for another spur off to the right. Eleven seconds later a husky, ball-capped, navy-blue-jacket-clad, caramel-brown-mustachioed Caucasian guy in his mid-40s came marching up the branch trail towards us.

"How long is this trail?" I asked as he passed.

"Maybe seventy-five feet [23 meters] at most," he replied. "It goes to a craggy overlook with an incredible view." Craggy? Is everyone a writer up here?

"Ok, thanks," I said.

He then resumed his hike on the loop trail.

"Well, asawa, want to check it out?"

"Sure, honey. I can tack on another 150 feet." 150? Huh? Oh, 75 x 2. Forgot the return distance. Wake up!

The spur trail was an easy walk. Well, until the last twenty feet (six meters). We were glad to be hands-free. Slip not.

After safely negotiating a four-point scramble, we were there. And, there was it. The view wasn't incredible; it was beyond incredible. We could see the waves below crashing into the flocks of rocks. Nearest and notably, Blank Rock was getting blanketed by marshmallow-cream seafoam, which streamed southward like Portuguese man o' war tentacles, blown by the fierce Aleutian wind. To starboard, Flatiron Rock was frenetically fending off the attacking sea and had no time for heat-transfer LFC (Liverpool Football Club) crest badges. And, way over in College Cove, Pewetole Island was getting a full facial to ease last September's forehead burn, whether desired or not. Moreover, all of their stoned-in-place cousins were getting a jolly cold splash. Then the fog bell abruptly clanged. If an 8.0-magnitude seismic jolt toppled this rock and ended it all right here and now, I'd call it a bargain – a way-more-than-fair deal for me. Actually I'd be way ahead. So very lucky to have experienced so much with my shunted hydrocephalic bean. Wonderful wife. Sly son. Yet, all those tragic lives shortened by fatal diseases. Or birth defects. And, all those accidental deaths. All those innocents murdered. How does it figure into the grand equation? So many early exits. Why? How does it fit into the cosmic scheme? Is there one? Way beyond my faulty neural circuitry. There's something about this existence. Something not to be fully trusted. An amoral merciless process. But, wow! So marvelously majestic. Yeah, this is the pictorial definition. What a place in time. The scene will look about the same tomorrow. Most likely. What does it mean to see it today – right now? What if we were here yesterday? Ok, so what? The weather was similar. It would be about the same. But, the people encountered would be different. Oh, why do I think such nonsense? Maybe I'm going mad. Ha! One sure must make a lot of loot to live in coastal California. And, wouldn't you know it, that's only where the cool, foggy, overcast castle weather is. Maybe retire somewhere on the Oregon coast. It's cheaper up there. Cheaper? Just less exorbitantly expensive. Stop kidding yourself. You'll never have that kind of money. But, what if some well-off person liked my weird ramblings enough to pay me to write just for him/her? They could have the publishing rights. What if they then paid me to write while seated on Pilot Rock? Yeah, while up in a ridiculously high chair with a seawater-resistant laptop computer. A boat shuttle. Four-hour sessions. Eight in the morning until noon. Typing in the great gray gloom. Oh yeah! That would be sublime. Piloting a pliable plot to knowhere. [sic]

"Earth to Agent 33. Hello! Anyone home?" I hope he's not thinking of diving off here.

It was Monique's voice. I had become totally immersed in my reverie. "Yeah, still here, 32. Just got lost in my thoughts."

"What were you thinking about?"

"Oh, just my usual meandering nonsense. You'll be able to read it in a week or so. I'll write it up when we get back to Charlotte." I'm sure he will.

"Ok, ready to head back to the main trail?"

"Yeah, sure, mahal."

We retreated back to the loop trail. Just before we turned right to continue our counterclockwise trek, the couple that we had seen earlier appeared. Wow! That was quick. They must be in great physical shape.

"Are you guys already on lap two?" I asked.

"Oh, no; we took the first spur." I knew it. My bana assumes the unlikeliest things.

"Oh, I see," I said with a grin. "I was going to say that you two may want to go out for the Olympics." I guffawed.

The couple laughed.

"No, we're not in that good of shape," the woman said.

Off they went. We let them open a nice gap before proceeding, so as to not crowd them. Soon they were out of sight.

We recommenced our hike. The path began to ascend again. And then, we were trudging up another switchback. Once out of the zig-zag, the trail leveled out and the wind died down, as we were now on the south side of the nearly-an-island. We then came to a sharp left turn. A few paces later, and we were staring at a granite cross. 1913. Wow! That cross was put up before World War I.

"I didn't know that there was a cross up here," I admitted.

Monique got her smartphone out and went to Wikipedia.org. "This isn't the original cross, bana. The first cross went up 242 years ago. See the 1775 engraving? That's when two Spanish naval explorers landed here." Wow! Before the United States officially began.

"It was probably even more scenic back then, asawa."

"What do you mean, 33?"

"Oh, the coastal forest was still intact. The redwoods hadn't been felled left and right. And, no seaside towns or cities."

"Oh, yes. A pristine natural scene, I'm sure."

"I wonder what thoughts went through their minds, Monique."

"I wonder what thoughts went through the Yuroks' minds, Parkaar." Grim thoughts.

"Probably, 'oh, shit – they're already here', I would venture. A dour attitude most likely suffused the tribe." He's playing for the recorder again. I just know it's still on.

We then had a few minutes of silence, seated on a bench near the stone cross. The Spanish and Christianity arrive on the North Coast. I'm sure that the Yuroks were overjoyed. / I just know that my bana is having negative religious thoughts. He's always fighting with God. He should just accept the Lord's blessings and stop questioning everything.

I stood up, looked around, and started walking back down the path. Monique followed me. We soon came to a faint, very narrow, overgrown footpath on the left. Nope.

"This can't be the right path, bana." This little trail looks dangerous. No way am I walking on it.

"You're right, asawa. I guess the main path continues up past the cross."

We then marched up the hillside. Soon we had reached the junction with an old, one-lane, crumbling-asphalt service road. We turned right and began our descent back to the sandy spit, some three hundred feet (91 meters) below.

"It's all easy walking now, asawa. All downhill on pavement from here. A gentle decline." A gentle decline: my current life story. / So glad that the inclines are over.

"Yey!" Monique exclaimed. "My calves are aching, bana. This has been an intense hikerazzi [sic] for me. My legs are not used to it anymore. I can't even remember the last time I hiked."

"I hear you, sweetie. You have some Icy Hot®, right?"

"Yes, I brought the new tube."

"Good deal. I'll work it into your legs tonight."

"You mean between my legs, Agent 33?"

"Naughty-naughty-naughty, Agent 32."

We both laughed as we made a sharp right turn. The eastern view was just as splendid. Trinidad Harbor and the overall bay could now be seen, as the fog had completely dissipated. Even the low cloud deck was breaking up; sunlight was filtering through. Darn it! The blasted sun is now out. Was hoping that it would stay gray all day. / I thought that he said that there wouldn't be any sun here today. Drats! I don't have my sunscreen.

"Asawa, we're losing our castle weather – unfortunately."

"I hate the sun!" Monique rejoined.

"I know. We both do. It's strange how some people settle here and then complain about the gray skies and fog. They should move inland or to SoCal." [Southern California]

"No doubt, Parkaar."

At a sharp left turn, Monique stopped and pointed at a slanted sea stack. "What rock is that, my geographicator?" [sic]

"That's Prisoner Rock, 32. Legend has it that an escaped convict hid on it." What?!

"That's too far to swim without a wetsuit, 33."

"An accomplice's skiff probably let him off there, Monique."

"I sure hope that they left him some food and drink, Parkaarstarveroni." [sic]

"Maybe he just stayed on it until the heat subsided, 32." Let me check.

"Or, until he sobered up."

"Surrounded by thirty-three feet [10 meters] of chilly water."

"Thirty-three feet, 33?" He's just plucking his agent number.

"It's approximately ten meters. Good for a guestimate." Huh?

"Oh, why did I have to ask? And, please don't say 'I don't know – why?', silly bana."

"Deal." Deal me an ace. / I wonder if he slipped some of those 'granules de grandeur' in his oolong tea back there.

We ambled down the remainder of the looping path, now back on the northeastern face. Trinidad Wharf was clearly visible below. Fisherman were moving to and fro. And then, I spied Seascape Restaurant.

"Well, that's where we ate about an hour ago, asawa."

"Oh, yes. The pier looks fairly new, 33. Notice how the concrete is still white."

"Good observation, 32."

We soon arrived at the beginning of the loop. We turned right and descended towards the beach. A stepped footpath appeared on the left. We took it down to the unmetered parking area. There were only eight vehicles in the sandy lot.

I looked back at Trinidad Head. "There's a short story emerging from that domical rock, Monique."

"A tall tale, I'm sure, Parkaar."

"No, I'll stick to the recording. Just a few minor embellishments."

"Just a few, huh?"

I nodded. I'm really going to enjoy writing this day up. / He's already outlining the story, I can tell.

We then walked back to the Trinidad RTS bus stop. We had some time to kill, so we moseyed into the Bergeron Winery for a vintage tasting. I ordered us a flight of nine. (They were actually pretty good, especially the Cabernets.)

While sipping a 2010, oak-casked, medium-sediment, gluten-free (smart-ass adjectival insert) Merlot, I overheard a conversation at an adjacent table.

Caucasian brunette (probably 34 to 37 years old): "Oh, by the way, I'm writing again! There's just something about this area that brings out the literary juices."

Caucasian strawberry blonde (perhaps 31 to 34 years old): "Ah, that's so great to hear! You know, I'm so glad that the sun has come out. They were predicting a gloomy afternoon. The spring sun makes me feel so alive."

I looked at Monique. She had overheard the dialogue, too. We both shook our heads.

"Check, please."

18. Mad River Madman (Jun. 2017)

Bill Monziweuk, a balding, 47-year-old, Caucasian, divorced, childless Gulf War veteran who took part in Operation Desert Storm (January – February 1991), had an old 5th-wheel camper on Airstream Avenue near the spare playground in Town & Country Mobile Villa, a neater-than-most mobile home and RV park in the Korblex area of Arcata (CA, USA). He would often watch the children playing while downing his after-dinner Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and think, sometimes aloud. Hope none of these kids has to experience what I did in Kuwait and Iraq. My God, that has to be the most forlorn slide in America. Is it even safe? What is safe? Where is safe? Hope that little girl doesn't fall off that merry-go-round. World keeps spinning. Keep your hands on the railing, young lady. And, keep your head down. And, keep your fear to yourself. And, keep yourself free from the keep. Doug. Yes, it was Doug who said that 'keep' can mean jail. Where is Doug now? In some small-town Texas keep? Maybe try to track him down later.

It was a drizzly March (2014) Monday morning. Bill was getting ready to head out the door to his electrical company's work van when his cell phone buzzed in his jacket pocket.

"Hello boss, where do you need me to start today?"

"Bill, I've got some bad news. We're going to have to lay you off, effective immediately. We have lost too many lucrative accounts. We just don't have the money right now. We're laying off Larry, too." Wonderful. Let go with lazy Larry.

"Wow! Right in the gut with a quarter twist. Mince no words, Marty. Though, thanks for not sugar-coating it."

"Listen, I'm sorry, Bill. I hate being the bearer of bad news. Your work performance has been exceptional. We may be able to hire you back in a couple of months when our cash flow improves." And, until then... exactly what? Just tell the park manager to chill out, and that I'll have the lot rent in two or three months? That should go over really well. Not!

"What about the van?" Hope Bill doesn't flip out and take it on a joyride to Crescent City [75 miles (121 km) north] to see that tramp again.

"You can drop it off today or tomorrow. No rush. Someone will be here to drive you back home." No thanks, ex-boss. I'll just take the bus.

"Ok, Marty. Will do." Bill then terminated the call. Some days it doesn't pay to wake up. Yeah, some mornings you envy the deceased.

On April 10th, while returning from a morning walk, Bill saw a white envelope taped to his front door. It was from the park office. The form letter was giving him official notice that if he didn't have the full rent payment by April 15th, he would be evicted. Oh, crap! What to do now? Can't hit up the bank of mom and pop anymore. [They died in 2013 and 2012, respectively.] Should I hit up Steve [his five-years-younger brother in Flagstaff, Arizona] for a loan? Or, maybe Sylvia? [his three-years-older sister in New York City] No. This is my problem to deal with. Just figure something out.

Bill glanced out the main window. A small Hispanic boy in the playground was trying to carry two red kickballs, but kept dropping them, as his arms just weren't long enough yet to cradle both. Then the boy left one ball on the ground and ran off gleefully with the other one. That's it! I'll sell the old pickup truck and keep the camper right here. [Kelley] Blue Book value is $3,400 for a private-party sale. Price it much lower. Maybe $2,500. Yeah, that's it; that should move it fast. A quick cash-only sale. Yes! That's the ticket. Anyway, the grocery store and fast-food restaurants are only a short walk away. Plus, both orange and gold [route] bus stops are right there on Giuntoli. [Lane] Yeah, let's list that truck online right now.

Three anxious, nearly sleepless, gray days later, Bill got lucky: His burgundy, high mileage, 2001 Dodge Ram pickup was bought by a middle-aged Caucasian man from Blue Lake (5.6 miles – 9 km – east) for the asking price. After being dropped off by the new owner on Boyd Road, he walked to the park office and paid his outstanding balance. Bill breathed a sigh of relief as he ambled down Oasis Street towards his camper. Mission accomplished. Wonder when Marty will call? Sure hope he calls by May 1st.

April turned into May with no word from Marty. Bill then began calling around for work. However, there was no electrician work to be had, except for a small company in Fortuna (28 miles – 45 km – south). But, he thought it was just too far away, and ruled it out.

And then, with hours of free time on his hands, Bill started drinking. Heavier. And heavier. By June 1st he was up to a 12-pack a day. And by July 1st, he was up another 25%. Yet, his savings were down 75%. Time was running down. But, his stress was running up. Way up.

On Friday evening, July 4th, a nine-year-old boy lit off a firecracker in the playground. It triggered a PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) episode, Bill's first since 1997. Bill immediately had a vision of a charred, still smoldering, blown-off left arm – his army buddy's – on the kitchen floor. He ran outside, somewhat drunk, and began yelling: "Get down! Incoming! Everyone, get down now! And, stay down."

The kids stopped and looked at him, all mouths agape. Time froze. A passing vireo almost forgot to flap her wings.

Then, about ten seconds later, he realized that he had suffered another PTSD event. He turned around, lowered his head, and slowly stumbled back inside his camper. It's over. I'm cracking up. I'm almost broke. What to do now? Ah, yes, I know. It's mini-storage time.

The next Monday he walked to the park office. He told the sandy-blonde-haired, 40-ish, slightly overweight Caucasian lady the truth: He was just about out of money. Bill also told her that he was willing to sell his camper for only $3,500, just 70% of its current value. She agreed to give him one month to sell it.

Bill put a For Sale sign on his camper and advertised it on a local buy-sell-trade website. In the last week of July, a prospective buyer showed up and offered him $3,200. Bill accepted the bid, provided that the 50-something, thin-mustached Honduran drive him and his belongings to Mad River Storage Center in Glendale (3.7 miles – 6 km – east). The man then replied: "Deal, señor." [mister in Spanish] And, off they went in the man's shiny, blue, 2012 Ford F-250 pickup, camper in tow. So much for this place. It's been mostly nice.

At the mini-storage facility in Glendale, the smiling, denim-clad Latino helped Bill unload the contents of his former camper into a 6' x 8' (1.83 x 2.44 meters) exterior-access storage space at the back of the property in the shadow of a tall evergreen. Perfect. Joe [an old friend of Bill] gave me the 24-hour gate code. Murphy's [a grocery store] is just across the street. That will also be my bathroom. Sponge baths here we come. Great! There's an electrical outlet for the fridge and microwave. A space heater should be enough for the winter. Living on the margins now – on the edge of homelessness. I should probably start a journal. Maybe turn it into a novel someday.

Bill thanked the Hispanic man. Then he watched his camper being pulled away. There she goes. Bye-bye, humble abode. / [English translation] Is that man going to live in that mini-storage unit? I think he is.

From August to November, Bill's 400-foot-radius (244-meter-wide) world was just three places: his mini-storage loft, Murphy's, and the adjacent bowling alley (E & O Lanes), or more specifically, the D & L Lounge.

It was at this no-frills D & L Lounge at 5:05 PM on the Friday after Thanksgiving that Bill started talking to a svelte, red-dressed, mid-40-something brunette. She had seen better times, too.

"So, what's your story?" he brazenly asked her as she took a seat at the bar, two stools to his right. She's quite attractive. Almost too attractive for this place. / Woah! When was the last time this guy shaved?

She raised her penciled eyebrows. "Oh, nothing that unusual. Got married. Had two healthy kids. They grew up and left home. Husband failed to grow up. So, I left home, too. Got divorced. Took a financial beating. And, now I'm here. Now, what's your story? Oh, by the way, my name is Charlene." Charlene, Charlene. Where is that Charlene from my army unit now?

"Nice to meet you, Charlene. My name is Bill. I'm a Desert Storm vet. Now an out-of-work electrician. Divorced, too. But, never had any kids. My living arrangement at the moment is quite unique."

"You still live with your ex, don't you?" Huh?!

"Oh, God, no! Nothing like that."

"Hmmm... Let me guess. Hold on. It's coming to me. You're renting a garage apartment in Arcata." Probably from a successful sibling.

"Ha! I wish."

"You're renting a backyard shed near the airport [ACV] in McKinleyville."

"Warmer." I wonder if he can still get it up.

"You're living in an unfinished basement." That sure would be nice.

"Cooler."

"Bill, I think you have me stumped." Man, I'd love to stump-hump her.

"Drumroll, please. Dah-dah-dah-dum. Ok, prepare for shock, Charlene. I'm living in a mini-storage unit across the street. I plan on turning the experience into a novel someday." Whew! The wacky ones always seem to find me.

"Oh, my... Well, I'm sorry to hear that, Bill."

"It's really not that bad. It's quiet. Never any loud neighbors. The space heater is more than adequate on chilly nights."

"But, it's cramped, right?"

"Space is at a premium." I'm sure.

"Excuse my bluntness, but where do you use the bathroom, brush your teeth, and take a shower?"

"Over at Murphy's." No wonder he looks – and smells – the way he does. Need to get him cleaned up. Seems like a decent guy just down on his luck. Maybe he doesn't have a family. Plus, he's a vet. I owe it to him.

"Hey Bill, the small house that I'm renting has a large, insulated shed with electricity and indoor plumbing. Could you afford $200 a month, all utilities included?" Sure could use some help on my rent. He looks trustworthy. I don't think he would rape me, or harm me in any way. Might even add some safety. That house is way out by itself. I'm an easy target out there all alone.

"Sure. When can I move in?" Bill grinned. He almost looked like Jack Nicholson from 'The Shining' when he said that. Should I really do this? / I bet she's wild in the sack.

"Well, I live out in the country. Do you have a car?"

"I had a pickup truck, but not anymore. Sold it. Are you near a bus stop?"

"No, I'm not anywhere near a bus stop. However, I have a motor scooter than you are welcome to use."

Two days later, an overcast Sunday (November 30th) afternoon with drizzle, Bill was loading his stuff into Charlene's silver minivan. They then drove three miles (about 5 km) up Fieldbrook Road to a small one-bedroom cottage off in the woods.

Charlene backed down to the outbuilding, about twenty meters (65.6 feet) behind her redwood-sided, one-level residence. She then helped Bill load his stuff into the finished shed, which was almost as big as her cabin. Eighteen wet minutes later, Bill prepaid the rent with ten $20 bills. Nice to get the money up front. He's a good guy.

Charlene then walked back to her 2007 Chrysler Town & Country minivan. Dusk was already mixing with the silent, almost-hovering mist. She stopped and looked back at Bill. "You should have hot water in about thirty minutes. Have a restful night, Bill. Please call me if you need anything, or if something isn't working. Oh, the motor scooter has some gas in it. Feel free to use it. I think tomorrow will be less rainy." She trusts me. / I hope that I haven't made a terrible decision.

Bill and Charlene would have a wild sexual romp after a wine-saturated dinner the next night in the cozy cottage. It had been a long time without for both of them. They, however, would still maintain their separate domiciles. It made the sexual forays more exciting.

But then on Thursday, the 18th of December, Bill disappeared. Charlene wondered what had happened to him, as his belongings and cell phone were still in the shed. She considered calling the police, but for some reason never went through with it. She just assumed that he was wandering around somewhere, perhaps on a long hike.

Two days later, a dank Saturday, she saw his picture on a local news website while sipping herbal tea. He looked crazy, frightened and bewildered. Apparently a McKinleyville policeman had arrested Bill on Friday for cutting out sections of fence along the Mad River. The article stated that seven dogs, five goats and three horses were now missing.

Bill, who was apprehended in the frigid Mad River while standing with a staff in his right hand and a German Shepherd at his left side (on a point bar), died of hypothermia later that day. The dog survived.

Note: The idea for this story arrived when Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33) saw a disheveled man and dog burst out from a wooded tract along the Mad River.

19. Al on Arcata (Jun. 2017)

On a showery-from-remnants-of-Tropical-Storm-Cindy June (2017) morning in near-uptown Charlotte (NC, USA), I texted my late-40-something, dark-haired with some salty patches, suave, always-quick-with-a-quip Caucasian pal, Al Niño (Agent A~O). I wasn't sure of where he was on the globe at the moment.

Are you awake?

Fifty-nine minutes later, at 11:10 AM EDT, he replied.

Hey buddy! I'm awake now.

I tried to reply to his text with a call, but for some odd reason it just would not go through. Thus, I decided to send him a terse imperative-mood text.

Call me.

He rang me three minutes later. His slightly modified name came up on my phone's tiny screen.

"Hello, is this the amazing one?"

"Al Niño here – live – not a recording."

"Well, how lucky can we be?"

"You tell me, Mike van Tryke." [my art-name]

"Well, Al, maybe not so lucky. We're off by a minute."

"What do you mean, Michael?" Oh boy, he's already on with that darn Michael shtick. He knows how it grates on me, and he relishes it.

"Al, I texted you at 10:11, and you replied at 11:10."

"Yeah, so what? I was asleep. I was up late last night, thinking about my next life-changing invention, which I certainly won't share with you at this juncture, when I realized that of the seven days of the week, only Tuesday has seven letters." Wow! I thought the same thing three nights ago, but I won't tell him. He would never believe me.

"Woah! You're getting as bad as me, Al. Anyway, the texting times could have been 10:10 and 11:11 if I were quicker and you were slower by sixty seconds." What in the world is he talking about now? / Zeros and ones: binary, too.

"Yeah, well, there are pills for that, Michael. Please tell me that you are not still sweeping leaves off the back deck, raking them up, bagging them, then dumping them back on the deck, and – " Oh, brother.

"No, no. That High Peak [near Etowah, NC, USA] daze is over and done. So, where are you?"

"Back home." [a posh penthouse condo in lower Manhattan, New York City]

"So, how was Italy?"

"Nice. We had a fantastic fortnight in old Italia. [sic] We stayed mostly in the north, in the Lombardy region."

"Ah, Al Milano." [sic]

Al chuckled. "We did a day in Rome, and trust me, that was enough." Probably suffered a gaffe.

"You weren't a roamin' Roman?" How cheeseball.

"No, just a-roamin' with ramen. Cup in hand, mon." [sic] Al's already in not-so-rare form.

"Did you get canaled in Venice?" Tryke's so corny.

"No, we passed on Venice this go-round. Too many tourists this time of year."

"How was the weather?"

"Splendid. It was your classic Mediterranean dry-season weather. Sunny, but not too hot. Low humidity. Nothing like Charlotte or New York City in June. How was the weather in coastal Humboldt?" [County, CA, USA]

"Great! Pleasantly cool and overcast for the most part. Misty mornings, but no rain. Castle weather, as we call it. Oh, speaking of Humboldt, I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about your time in Arcata." He's recording for another short story. I'm sure his graphic depiction of me will be quite bizarre.

"Sure, fire away, 33. [my psecret psociety agent no.] You've got ten minutes. I have a conference call at noon and must organize some notes beforehand." Organize some notes? On what? Maybe he's already baked.

"Ok, excellent. I have ten questions, A-tilde-Oh."

"One minute per question. Hope you don't have any three-parters." Free farters.

"No, they're all single-sentence-answer questions, Al." Good.

"Go! The clock has started, Michael." Ughhh.

"Question one: Why did you pick HSU [Humboldt State University] for your junior and senior years of college?" [Al took his first two years at Central Piedmont Community College in Charlotte.]

"My best friend's – well, at the time – brother was going there. He said that it was pretty cool. And, it being in the weed [marijuana] capital of the United States was a big plus." I'm sure it was.

"Ok, question two: When did you start at HSU in Arcata?"

"Oh, it must have been August of 1999 or 2000." He forgot the year? Yeah, he's stoned.

"Ok, moving right along. Question three: Where did you live?"

"I lived on campus the first semester. However, being an older student, I didn't really like it. Thus, I moved to an off-campus apartment at Sunset [Avenue] & Western. [Avenue] It was only a seven-minute pedal-pumper on the bike." Pedal-pumper? Perhaps Al knows that I'm recording.

"Very good. Question four: How long did you live out there?"

"Let's see... I graduated in December of 2002. So, two and a half years, I guess." He guesses? Yeah, he sparked up a bowl for breakfast.

"Ok, question five: Where did you hang out mostly?"

"I mostly hung out around Arcata Plaza."

"Oh, we stayed next to it."

"Really? Where?"

"Hotel Arcata."

"Oh, yes. Good pick. Very convenient."

"It was. We walked to Humboldt Brewing one evening. It was a cool scene."

"Ah, yes, Humbrews. Been there many times."

"Ok, question six: Did you ever go to Trinidad?" [15 miles (24 km) north of Arcata]

"Dude, I went all the way up the coastal highway to Vancouver, Canada. Trinidad Bay is very scenic. Sea stacks aplenty."

"Did you hike Trinidad Head?"

"Many times."

"I wrote a short story about our hike on Trinidad Head, Al."

"Oh, what's the title, Michael?"

"The title is – are you ready for this? – Trinidad Head. It's about 3,500 words. The tale lopes and loops." Lopes and loops? Tryke's been sniffing glue in the office again.

"You're wasting time, 33."

"Question seven: Did you ever go to Old Town in Eureka?" [8 miles (13 km) south]

"I endured it a few times. Too many spangers." [sic]

"Spangers?"

"Bums asking for spare change. Not sure who coined that portmanteau." Portmanteau?

"We stayed in a two-star motel [Town House] on the edge of Old Town for two nights. Monique [Agent 32, my wife] was thoroughly freaked-out by all of the tweakers [methamphetamine addicts] on the sidewalks."

"The new mayor of Eureka is a tweaker." Wow!

"Really, Al?"

"Yeah, there are now so many of them that they were able to vote one of their own into office."

"Unbelievable!" It's just too easy to fool him.

"Not! Jesus Christ, Tryke! You are still as gullible as ever." He's right.

"Question eight: How are the winters in Arcata?"

"One hundred and twenty-one – if it's not a Leap Year – consecutive, sunless, chilly-ass, agonizing, rainy days: December, January, February, March." Nice quick math. Maybe Al's not totally toasted.

"Exaggerating a bit, aren't you?"

"Maybe a hair. But, it's almost as bad as Seattle. Mold would grow on the walls if I didn't run the dehumidifier. It was the only place that I ever got jock itch." Lovely.

"I think I could deal with it, Al. I'm not a sun person like you. I'll take a damp, gray winter in exchange for mild year-round temperatures."

"It's only mild if you're within four miles [6.4 km] of the coast. Even Blue Lake, which is just six miles [9.7 km] as a crow flies from the ocean, is much colder in the winter and warmer – and much sunnier – in the summer. The marine-layered coastline is dank all year."

"But remember, Al, we like that castle weather."

"I like some, too. But, trust me, Tryke; the winters in Arcata will try your mind. People go batty. Everything has to be inside. It gets claustrophobic. Therefore, lots of over-medication. New addicts every May. There's a saying that I will never forget: 'Arcata winters are so drab that atheists begin to pray.' Yeah, it's that bad, bud. Believe me." I bet that he just made that up.

"Ok, question nine; it's a bit personal: Any girlfriends while at HSU? You can hit the Skip button if you like."

"I only got laid twice in twenty-nine months."

"No way! Not a hip hepcat like you. Don't underreport now."

"It's the cold, hard-on truth. Most of the women out there weren't my type. The stripper in Eureka was almost a relief. At least she shaved her legs and underarms... and, yes, her pubes." What candor!

"Ok, Al, we've somehow made it to question ten, which is: Would you ever move back?"

"I go back to visit every year. But, only in mid-summer. The place pulls at your heart and mind when you leave."

"Yeah, I hear ya, Al. I already want to go back."

"But, as for living out there year-round again... No, can't say that I would. I certainly would love to buy a small pad out there. It's a cool summer place. I just can't four-season it."

"I think that Monique and I could do the winters just fine."

"A lot of easterners say that before they actually live inside a cold, waterlogged sponge. And, hiking in 39-degree [Fahrenheit; 4º Celsius] rain is not much fun."

"I guess that my tolerance for cool, wet weather is higher than yours, Al. I'll take those kind of days over 97-degree, [Fahrenheit; 36º Celsius] sun-scorching sauna-steamers."

"Whatever, Tryke. Those limited-to-the-interior winters drive people incrementally insane." What a ridiculous remark. Oh, just let it go.

"Ok, that's it, Al. Thanks for your time, jetsetter."

"I have one question for you, Michael."

"Sure. Shoot."

"What did you think of Arcata Bay?"

"Underwhelming to be honest. I like rocky shorelines. So, how's that screenplay going?"

<click>
20. Fortunate in Fortuna (Jul. 2017)

Fortuna. Spanish for fortune. A place with a name like that surely invites a psecret psociety visit when in the vicinity. And we, Monique (Agent 32, my wife) and I (Agent 33), very much were on Saturday, June 3rd (2017).

The two of us hopped aboard a half-full RTS (Redwood Transit System) bus at 4th & H Streets in Eureka (CA, USA) at a refreshingly cool – and agreeably overcast – 3:11 PM. The 36-minute, 18-mile (29 km) ride was relaxingly noneventful; this time there were no deranged conga-drum-toting passengers.

At 3:47 we disembarked onto N Street (near 11th Street) in the log-sign-proclaimed 'friendly city', a small town of 12,321 (or so) inhabitants. We paused to survey the scene from the sidewalk. So, this is Fortuna. Seems nice enough. A bit warmer down here. / This town is sunnier than Eureka. I don't like it. I forgot my parasol. I don't want my pinay [Philippine] skin to get any darker.

"Hungry, asawa?" [wife in Cebuano and Tagalog] I asked my brown-eyed, black-haired, late-30-something spouse.

"I could go for a little something, 33."

"How about that Mexican place that the lady told us about in Eureka?"

"Sure, Parkaar. [my ailing alias] Lead the way."

After only a two-block walk, we had arrived at Taco Loco (on the corner of Main & 10th Streets). The veggie tacos did the trick: not too large, fairly tasty, reasonably priced.

"Where's an interesting place to check out in Fortuna?" I asked the mid-20-something, dark-brown-haired Latino waiter. Check out? Does he want to die today?

"Tourists?" he asked. My red hair. / Because I'm Asian.

"Yeah, bus-to-foot tourists from Eureka," Monique informed.

"Why did you guys journey down to Fortuna?" our genuinely curious waiter asked.

"It's an intriguing Spanish name and it's on an RTS bus route." And Ernie [the electronic earwig] would approve.

"You mean that you didn't come here for the Eel River?" he asked, surprised that I didn't mention the shallow-this-time-of-year, yet still wide, northwest-flowing stream.

"Well, I'm not much of an eel fisherman anymore," I replied. Probably out-of-staters. [sic]

"Oh, the name is a bit of a misnomer," he then stated. "What the early white settlers thought were eels were actually lampreys. You know, those gnarly-mouthed whale suckers." Whale suckers? Yuck! / Gnarly? People still say 'gnarly'? And way up here, a long way from the San Fernando Valley.

"I see," I acknowledged. "Wrong names often stick."

Our Hispanic American waiter wasn't phased in the least by my remark. "You can still land steelhead and even nice-size salmon. It's not completely fished-out like many think. As for an interesting nearby place to visit, there's the [Fortuna] Depot Museum. Lots of artifacts and history in there. Just walk down Main Street and make a left on Park Street. You'll be there in ten minutes max." That sounds perfect. / That's not so far. Don't want to get too far from the bus stop. Hope hubby knows the time of the last bus back to Eureka. Don't want to get stranded here for the night. It might be scary.

We thanked him for that bit of info and left him a generous tip with a Gold card (a cardstock coupon for a free download of my erotic, deceptive, maddening 2013 roman noir).

In nine minutes and nine seconds, we were on the front porch of the waiter-recommended, lapboard-sided, old railroad depot museum. An ancient caboose was moored to the right. The corner entrance door was to the left. It wasn't locked. We casually entered.

A 70-ish Caucasian couple were the only two inside. The older woman cheerfully greeted us. Then the older man stepped away from his desk and walked up beside his apparent wife.

"Want the just-for-you guided tour?" he asked us.

"Sure, if it doesn't cost an arm and a leg," I replied.

"We're frugal travelers," Monique revealed.

"No body parts need to be donated; it's totally free," the white-haired man announced with a smile.

"You'll enjoy it," the elderly woman said. "He's a walking local-history encyclopedia." We've come to the right place.

"Where are you two from?" he then asked us.

"Charlotte," Monique answered.

"Ah, North Carolina," he said. "I won't hold it against you this time." He then chuckled. Huh?

"Where are you from?" I asked, unable to specifically decipher his faint Midwestern non-accent.

"Indiana," he stated. Ah, yes; he sounds just like Wally.

"Indianapolis?" I then asked, venturing a guess.

"Bloomington," he specified. That explains his remark.

"Ah, Indiana University – bigtime college basketball rivals of [the University of] North Carolina and Duke," [University] I posited.

"Well, to be honest, [the University of] Kentucky is our biggest rival," he clarified.

"When did you move out here?" I asked.

"A long, long time ago. Way back in the '70s."

"It seems like a nice town," Monique opined.

"It is. Fortuna wasn't our first stop, but we just kind of settled here. I'd say that we're pretty fortunate to be in Fortuna, all things considered. There certainly are worse places to wind up." Indeed.

"No doubt," I added.

The old man then opened a vintage wooden door that had an antique doorknob. In the spacious yet packed room, we saw a plethora of manual tree-cutting saws on the main wall. Some of the slightly curved, large-tooth, steel blades were over two meters (6.56 feet) in length.

He noticed my interest. "You certainly didn't want to have a drunk as your sawing partner. If he didn't show up for work, you wouldn't get paid, either. A single man was worthless with one of these tandem saws."

"I know a few friends that I'd have to rule out," I said with a quick laugh.

Monique was looking at some old rods, reels and miscellaneous fishing tackle. "Was the fishing better back then?" she asked.

"Much, much better," he replied. "They say that you could walk across the Eel River on the backs of the salmon and never get wet." And never touch an eel.

"Oh, wow!" Monique exclaimed. "I love fresh salmon, grilled."

"They reeled them in by the ton," he said. "And then, they sent their haul down to fancy restaurants in San Francisco. [255 miles (410 km) south] The railroad sections were all linked together in 1903. Booming times in Slide – Fortuna's original town name – taken from the name of a nearby hill."

"Did this area get caught up in the mid-19th-century gold rush?" I asked. Mid-19th-century? This guy must be a writer.

"Oh, yes. Lots of that sought-after, soft, yellow metal was found in the mountain creeks around here. Fortuna became a service town for the miners. Well, for a while."

"Very interesting," I said.

"So, what line of work are you in?" the old man asked us.

"Writing: technical for pay; creative for folly," I answered. I just knew this guy was a writer. Wonder if he'll ever use any bits of our conversation.

"We're part of a group known as psecret psociety," Monique told him. "However, it's really not very secret, and it's not much of a society. Oh, it's spelled with silent p's." Pompous puntificators, [sic] I bet.

"You mean like p-s-e-c –," he spelled.

"Exactly," I said.

"Is there a secret handshake?" he then asked.

"I'm not sure," I said. Huh?

"What do you mean?" he asked, looking stunned.

"I'm not sure if I got that memo," I said. "But, maybe there was no memo." This boy has gone off the rails.

"Are they changing the locks while you're away?" he then asked both of us with a taut grin. A pair of loons.

"Maybe so," Monique said. "But, one never knows." She's gone off the rails, too. What a demented duo.

"Your eccentric coterie sounds like quite a surreal undertaking," he serenely said.

"Surrealism is certainly a major ingredient," I stated.

"Well, some have reported seeing a strange, translucent, claw-handed, flat-headed, elf-eared apparition on the museum's front porch, right before dusk," he disclosed. "I tend to think that it's just the redwoods' branch and needle shadows." Darn! We can't stay that long. / I hope my hubby just lets this bait go. We don't have time for this. We can't miss that northbound bus.

"That sounds like something that would be right up our alley," I told him. "However, the clock is not our friend today." If not now...

We then said our genial farewells.

As Monique and I walked over Rohner Creek on the footbridge to O Street, my mind passerelled [sic] over to knowhere. [sic] Wow and how! Those sprinkled-upon-the-taco granules of grandeur have finally kicked in. This bizarre universe is still expanding. And accelerating. The galaxies are whizzing away from our Milky Way. Faster and faster. Someday the nighttime sky will be pitch-black – completely starless, even on the clearest of nights. Maybe in five hundred billion years. But, who – or what – will experience this in Fortuna? Any sentient entity? Wake up! Fortuna and Earth will be long gone. Daniel Gabriel Fahrenheit's [inventor of the eponymous temperature scale] parents died on the same day [August 14th] in 1701 from ingestion of toxic mushrooms. Wonder what species they ate. Probably an Amanita variety. Death caps. Destroying angels. Such a nasty exit mode. Around 151,600 people die each day. Wonder if there are any magic mushrooms in these woods. Are we in liberty cap territory? A day in Fortuna in 1917. A worker yawns. Bleak sorrow. Sure would like to get a cursory look-see at the front of that museum.

"Agent 32, how about a quick glance?"
21. Lolita of Loleta (Jul. 2017) [Warning: Adults Only]

A foster-care group home in Loleta, a small North Coast community situated 15 miles (24 km) south of Eureka (CA, USA), is where one 14½-year-old, über-precocious, fatalistic, raven-haired, brown-skinned, thin but no longer flat, already-dressing-rather-womanly Laura Swauger ended up in late July of 2015, a month after her Wiyot-Mexican mother died of an opiate overdose, and four years after her Caucasian father had run off with a casino tart in Reno (NV), never to be seen or heard from again.

Laura, surprisingly, was not an in-trouble student. She was excelling in her coursework despite her young life's tragic circumstances. In fact, she had made the A Honor Roll her freshman year at Table Bluff Academy, a special at-risk high school in a repurposed warehouse near the confluence of the Eel River and the North Bay estuary. And, even though just a rising sophomore, she would be allowed to take general psychology, a course that was usually restricted to juniors and seniors. She was more than thrilled; she was elated. Laura screamed "Yey!" over and over when no one was around on that mid-June weekday in 2016.

Online research was Laura's sole consuming love. It was a tunnel-like passion that occupied, focused and protected her budding mind; it kept troubling thoughts about her parents at bay, as well as emerging postpubescent desires for older boys. She was amazed at what shocking information she could dig up with just a few strategic mouse clicks. Yes, her desired occupation was already quite clear: back-office private investigator. She could hardly wait to start.

Laura was also extremely fascinated by people's motives for executing risqué and/or illicit out-of-character schemes. The human mind to her was an endless enigma, replete with illogical inclinations and irrational thoughts; it was fascinating, frightening and always mysterious. She yearned to learn more about it, partly for personal reasons.

Way over on the eastern side of North America was one Marc Matthieuwsohn, a dark-haired, goateed, average-height, lean, 24-year-old Caucasian, who had graduated from UNCA (University of North Carolina at Asheville) in May of 2014 with a bachelor's degree in adolescent psychology with a minor in education. After teaching for two years at Brevard High School (36 miles – 58 km – southwest of UNCA), Marc decided to seek employment elsewhere, as he and his blonde-haired, blue-eyed, popular to so many in the area, almost-fiancée girlfriend, Kim, had abruptly split up due to irreconcilable differences: Kim still wanted to party eight nights a week – she couldn't let go of the bottle, nor the pipe; Marc had tired of the intoxicated dramas and wanted to settle down, get married, buy a house, and maybe have a kid. Well, this is the narrative that he told family, friends and acquaintances after that chapter-closing evening.

Marc's humble life plan for Kim and him together went up in a whiff of green smoke when he came home unexpectedly to their Pisgah Forest (5 miles – 8 km – northeast of Brevard) apartment for lunch on Friday, June 9th (2016). Kim and her red Honda Civic sedan were gone. There was no note. And, Kim wouldn't respond to his calls or text messages. He thought, occasionally aloud: Where the hell is she? Should I call the police? Has she been abducted? No, I don't think so. I smell a rat. A deceitful weaselly rat. Hmmm... No, let's just wait a few hours. Need to call the school and tell them that something urgent came up. Yeah, that's it. Let's see if my 'dear' lady shows up before my usual arrival time. Yeah, let's just wait and see. Need to park my car around the corner of the building to get it out of her sight. Surprise, honey! It's me.

Kim returned at 4:14 PM – twelve minutes before Marc's typical schoolday arrival time – oblivious to his presence in their apartment. When confronted in the bedroom, Kim said that she was just communing with nature in the woods near a waterfall with some female friends in a steep gorge that blocked all cell phone reception.

Marc didn't buy it. He then asked to see her new iPhone. It was off. A missing condom from his sock drawer confirmed his suspicions at 9:29 PM. They were over and done by the 10 o'clock news. Kim would move out the next day, presumably with her new lover.

Six lonely days later, Marc saw the Table Bluff Academy ad posted on a teachers-wanted website. He literally jumped at it. The knocked-over cup of spearmint tea went all over the old Dell laptop's keyboard. Moreover, he was on a flight to ACV (Eureka-Arcata airport) the next Monday for an interview. He would get the job. And, an apartment.

The 2016-17 Table Bluff school year began on Wednesday, August 24th. Fifteen-year-old Laura was one of thirteen students in Marc's fifth-period general psychology class. She sat quietly alone in the back of the classroom, taking copious notes and doodling. Laura maintained an A+ average through the Christmas break. The material wasn't that difficult for her. She thought Marc was an effective and somewhat handsome teacher who presented well, but she didn't have any amorous feelings for him. Well, not until the second semester, after she turned 16.

January of 2017 felt so different than last year to Laura. Whereas before she could suppress and rationalize away her feelings for the opposite sex, now she couldn't. And, it was all because of Marc. He now looked like a Hollywood actor to her. But, not a shallow photogenic-only actor – a very-wise-with-distinguished-looks thespian. Yes, Marc had become her sage Adonis. Laura's mind was already racing into the future. Gosh, he's so sexy and smart. I love him already. I want to have sex with him! Soon! I want Marc to be the first. And, only. We'll get married. We'll have a family. Yes! It's going to be great. My life will have meaning. Finally.

Laura moved up to the front of the classroom. She sat with her legs spread consciously wider than proper for a skirt. Her pellucid tan-colored blouse's third-from-the-top button was now conspicuously undone showing her 32-C bra. Laura's left hand was now incessantly twirling her silky jet-black locks. Notice me! Please notice me, Marc. I'm right here.

Marc noticed. He had dealt with such hormones-a-raging female student behavior a few times in Brevard. Marc then employed his tried and true defense: When now addressing Laura, he only looked – always solemnly – at her forehead, so as to avoid her wanton eyes. But, his stratagem would be severely tested this time. Laura was smitten. I will win him over.

Then, on Friday, February 10th, Laura significantly stepped up her attack on Marc's vulnerable psyche. As Marc was walking towards her, just before the end of the period, she pushed a small red envelope off her desktop onto the floor directly in front of him. Marc bent down to pick it up. That's when from the corner of his left eye, he noticed Laura's panty-less vulva. Oh, my! Give me strength. / I know that he just saw my pussy. I know that he wants it. Bad.

"Uh, this fell off your desk," Marc meekly announced as he handed the obviously-a-card-inside envelope to Laura. But, this time his eyes met hers. It was lust both ways. I got him. He wants me. / This girl is playing me like a forty-dollar fiddle.

"Oh, it's for you, teacher," she said with a flirtatious smile. Just for you.

Marc kept it and walked back to the lectern. The bell sounded to his supreme relief. The eleven present-today students departed the high-ceilinged, taupe-painted, retrofitted, 2nd-floor classroom. Laura was last. She turned and blew Marc a kiss from the hallway. He stared at her with a blank expression. Danger! She's trouble. Serious trouble, because she's not only sexy, but smart, too. Smart as a whip. What to do now? Remember, she's a minor. Don't want to end up in a Northern California prison. / I must have this man. Only this man. It will be Marc and me forever. It has to be. My life has had so much tragedy. This must be where I get a nice dose of good fortune. I deserve it. The cosmos owes me. Bigtime! It's amazing that I haven't committed suicide. Happy days here we come!

Back at his one-bedroom apartment in downtown Eureka, Marc ate a frozen vegetable casserole for dinner. He had saved room for dessert: Laura's card, which he now plucked from his inner jacket pocket and gazed at on his round, maple, almost-antique dining table. Oh dear, I can only imagine what this card is going to say. Well, let's get it over with.

Marc opened the 3" x 5" (7.62 cm x 12.70 cm) envelope. A Valentine's Day card was inside. It had two, conjoined, cartoonesque hearts on the front. The script text proclaimed:

Sometimes you get lucky... and find the love of your dreams. Call us lucky. Happy Valentine's Day!

Marc inhaled and opened the card. Laura's penmanship was meticulous. He read the message on the left side.

I'm so very glad – way beyond words, actually - that you took the teaching job at Table Bluff, my beau. You came 2,788 miles [4,487 km] from a small Blue Ridge town in North Carolina to meet me here in this tiny remote township in northwestern coastal California. It surely must be our destiny. Or, we can just call it fate. The word doesn't really matter, honey. What matters is that we will be a team of two from now on. I'm so glad that I waited for you, Marc. You will be my first and only. I promise. We will get married. I will give you children, sweetie. As many, or as few, as you wish. Wonderful, beautiful, smart children. We will cherish them together. Our love will be undying for each other. Let's just go ahead and consummate our relationship this weekend, since Valentine's Day is on Tuesday. I'm at the peak of my menstrual cycle, so I'm very horny and ready for it, loverboy. I want you to give it to me hard. Oh, and don't worry about any blood from my hymen rupturing. I already took care of that. Craving your touch already. Expecting your call or text. XoxoX, Laura 707-733-XXXX

Marc sighed and took a deep breath. She just had to be in my class. How did she know where I was living?

Then there was a loud thud. Someone had dropped something heavy in the apartment above. It momentarily freed Marc's troubling train of thought. He then read the pre-printed words on the right side of the card's interior.

I'm so happy to have you – you and only you – as my forever Valentine! Love always, sweetheart!

Underneath this text were Laura's lip prints in bright pink lipstick. He sniffed them; they had a rose-like fragrance. She really has it bad for me. But, why? Crazy teenage-girl hormones. Must be smart about this. One wrong step could get my ass fired. Or, worse. Probably best to just ignore her. Sure is tempting, though. No, don't even think about it.

Marc then turned the card over. A stark-naked image was immediately – and indelibly – etched onto his brain: a full-frontal nude photo of a young lady. The mirror flash conveniently obscured the eyes and most of the nose, but it was unmistakably Laura. Marc exhaled slowly and slid the card back into its tight-fitting envelope. Whew! What am I going to do? Guess I should just do nothing. Certainly must not contact her. It's too bad that she's not 18. [the age of consent in California] This girl has got my pickle in a pickle. And, she certainly knows it. Maybe she will just lose interest in me. Red-hot crushes usually flame out fairly fast. Just tread carefully. Ignore, ignore, ignore. Repeat. Ignore...

It was now almost midnight in the group home on Cannibal Island Road. Laura's roommate, a 15-year-old Asian American girl of Laotian ancestry, was already asleep. Laura was restlessly pensive. Why hasn't he called or texted me? He's afraid; it's so obvious. Does Marc think that I'm just setting him up for epic downfall? Does he think that I'm just the bait in some sting operation? Need to set his mind straight with an e-mail. His e-mail address is on the school's online directory. Yeah, let's ease my mentor's mind. No, no, no. Don't use that one. All of those e-mail accounts are monitored by the school. Need to get his personal e-mail address. I'm sure that he has a Gmail or Yahoo account. Time to get sleuthing.

Laura picked up her android smartphone and got to work. In just three minutes she had found Marc's Gmail address. She clicked on the hyperlink. And then, she began to type away.

Hello my wonderful husband-to-be – my dearest Marc,

I'm very concerned about you. I can't sleep, because I haven't heard from you yet. Please put your mind at rest. I'm not part of some entrapment setup to snare sexual predators of minors. Rest assured that you are not going to be featured on Dateline NBC. Did you really think so? I hope not.

Marc, I am now very much a woman, as evidenced by the pic that I attached to the back of that Valentine's Day card. I'm not a little girl anymore, and I'm way more mature than females my age. Well, you saw it, right? If you haven't done so already, look at the photograph, Marc. It's really me. Did you get aroused? Tell me the truth. Don't lie to me.

Anyway, I had my first period four years ago. The so-called 'legal' age of consent may be 18 in priggish California, but it's 16 in neighboring Nevada (Shall we move there? Anywhere but Reno is fine.), only 15 in France (Bon voyage à Paris, mon chéri?), 14 in most of South America, and 13 where my mother's family came from in Mexico. In some countries, it is only 12. The point is, it's just an arbitrary number, Marc. You know that I'm not a girl anymore. I'm an intelligent young woman who is smart enough to choose you over the dumb jocks and loser pill-poppers. I told them all to go fly a kite – not interested.

Trust me, I'm nothing like your faithless ex-girlfriend Kim – Miss Infidelity!

Marc, you know that I could test out of high school tomorrow. I'm not just getting an A in your class. Not to brag, but I'm not the usual, dimwitted, troubled-past chick. So, please don't say that I'm too young to know what I'm doing, saying or typing. And, don't claim that the age gap is too great. My father was 10 years older than my mom. Our gap is less than 9 years.

Now, my darling, won't you please cease with your reticence and contact me? I can't go on without you. I can't sleep with this suffocating cloud of doubt surrounding me. Marc, stop fighting our future together; embrace it!

Love now and forever,

Laura

Marc awoke at 7:49 AM. The front of his blue briefs were a gooey mess from a nocturnal emission, his first in five years. In the erotic dream, he and Laura were having sex on the Crab Park beach, just down from the high school. Right as he reached orgasm, a police car rolled up.

He took a shower, made some strong coffee, and then checked his Gmail account. He immediately saw Laura's e-mail with this subject line:

It's me, honey... waiting... just for you

He sighed. Then he clicked on the column line. Marc slowly read her correspondence, startled by her explicit candor and advanced reasoning. He pondered her alarming missive. Oh, boy! How does she know about my ex-girlfriend? She's quite the tech-savvy detective. She's certainly one mature lass. But, she's only 16. And, she's completely immersed in fantasyland. What to do now? Continue to just ignore her entreaties? Absolutely. Must never respond. Should I forward this to the school principal to cover my ass? Let's think about this for a while. Maybe come up with a plan after drinking some java.

This particular winter Saturday was very chilly, but there was no rain like the nonstop steady soaker of yesterday. Some actual rays of sun filtered through the horizontal blinds. Just as Marc switched on the small TV on the kitchen counter, there was a knock on the front door. Ah, that must be UPS. [United Parcel Service] Yes! My vaporizer has arrived from Colorado. A perfect day to lounge around and test it out.

Marc, certain of the person outside, opened the oak door without looking through the peephole. Standing right there was none other than pink-lipsticked Laura in black jeans and a black, zippered, faux-leather jacket. She had a dour look glued to her rouged face. Oh, no! She's here. How did she find my address? How did she get here? Did someone drive her here? Who? Where are they now? Are we on camera?

"Why didn't you call me?" Laura sternly asked. "You could have at least texted me. Very inconsiderate, Marc." Is this really happening?

"I'm so sorry; I, uh, was just going to," Marc said with hesitation. What in the world do I do now? Think!

"Did you not get my e-mail?"

"Yes. Yes, I got it. I just read it, but haven't had time yet to compose an appropriate reply." An appropriate reply?

"Well, are you going to invite me in? It's cold out here." She's got me in a fix. She knows it. I'm trapped. Damned if I do; damned if I don't. Oh, just let her come inside before the nosy neighbors notice her.

"Ok, yeah, sure." Yes! I'm going to capture his heart. He's Play-Doh® in my hands now. / How does this day end? Hopefully not in handcuffs.

"Thank you, kind sir," Laura said as she marched into the kitchen, which was just off the foyer. She immediately sat down at the table, awaiting Marc's arrival.

Marc closed and locked the front door. His heart was pounding. He took a deep breath and slowly walked to the kitchen. Is this my last day as a free man? Why is this happening to me? I'm no heart-throb type. I didn't solicit this. This is a tragic movie, and I'm trapped in it. I'm going to be the fall guy. I can feel it.

"What are we having for breakfast, dear?" Laura asked as Marc emerged in the kitchen archway.

"Uh, I have some frozen waffles. That's about it."

"That will be fine, honey." She's psycho.

"Laura, how did you get here?" Marc asked out of utmost interest.

"RTS. [Redwood Transit System] I jumped on the 9:14 [AM] bus in Loleta. It was only a half-hour ride. I don't have to be back at the group home until five. We've got seven hours together, darling. Our first day date." Darling? Day date? Oh, no. Better think of something quick. Need to get her out of here and back to Loleta as soon as possible. Maybe drive her back after she eats the waffles. That way she won't feel put out. Yeah, just pay her some attention and be nice to her. Humor her. Feign attraction. Maybe that will satisfy her. Hope so. Though, she sure is cute. She could easily pass for 17, or even 18, the way she looks right now. But, she's only 16. Don't forget that! Must resist temptation. Stay strong, boy. / I wonder if my man has any idea of what he's in for.

After a long pause, Marc placed the two heated waffles on a plate and walked towards the table. He set the plate down in front of Laura. They made eye contact. Wow! She's so damn hot. Resist. Resist. Resist. / Yes! He's mine now.

"Would you like any butter or syrup?" Marc asked.

"I'd like to taste your sausage syrup, Marc." Oh, my.

Marc gulped. "That's a yellow card, Laura. Do you want anything to drink?" Hope she doesn't say semen.

"I'll take a half-pint of your semen, sailor." Oh, no! Resist. Resist. Resist. She's making this so hard. And now, it's hard. She just had to be a nascent nympho. What a test case. / My lover-to-be is way too tightly wound. Need to relax him.

"Very funny, Laura. Seriously though, are you thirsty, pretty girl?" He called me pretty! But, I'm not a girl. He knows that.

"How about a cup of coffee, love doctor?" Love doctor? Maintain nonchalant demeanor. Resist. Resist. Resist.

"Sure. I think I'll have another cup, too." Marc then walked over to the coffee maker and reloaded it. Soon it was gurgling away. After coffee, we have to leave. Or, I may lose control. May not be able to resist anymore. Might give in. / I've got him all tensed-up. Need to change that.

Soon Marc was placing the coffees down on the table. Laura winked at him. He wants me, and he will get me. / What a challenge of self-control this is.

"Laura, I have to take a pee. I'll be right back." Finally. My chance has arrived. / I hope I can urinate. I think I'm already oozing pre-cum. Where is the hyperspace button?

When Laura heard the bathroom door close, she extracted a sachet that looked like a sugar packet from her purse. She sprinkled the fine granules into Marc's chocolate-colored coffee and gave it a few stirs with her spoon. This should de-stress my studly mate. Just twenty minutes until I lose my virginity. Can't wait!

Marc soon returned to the table and took his seat, which was across from Laura. He sipped his coffee. "I think I made it a little too sweet this time."

Laura quickly got up and poured the bottom of the coffee pot into Marc's mug. "That should even it out, honey."

"Thanks." Marc then guzzled a big slug. "Yep, it tastes perfect. Great job." Drink up, love!

"Thanks, sweetheart." She won't let up.

"Young lady, can we have a frank, adult conversation?" Yes! He said 'lady' and 'adult'.

"Certainly, sexy." She's not making this easy.

"Laura, you are more mature than your years. I will readily admit that. However, you are still only 16 years old. You have a great future ahead. In just two years you would probably regret having a sexual relationship with me. You would most likely regret it for the rest of your life. Your teenage brain is still growing. Your adolescent mind is still developing. Your decision today wouldn't be the one you'd make if you were 18." What prudish nonsense. Just wait a few more minutes. / Feeling drowsy. So very sleepy.

Marc yawned. Then he consumed the remainder of his coffee. "Broken sleep last night. Maybe the coffee will wake me up and get me going." I doubt that, my love.

"Did you dream of me last night, Marc?"

Laura's question would go unanswered. Marc was now slouched-over in his chair. Six seconds later he was unconscious. That Hard Asleep® [a date-rape drug for penile prowlers that combines a fast-acting rohypnol-like sedative with an erectile dysfunction medication] has knocked him out, just as advertised on that website.

Laura then dragged Marc by his feet into the living room. She removed his green Humboldt USA T-shirt and placed it on the coffee table, right next to an ashtray that had a roach (the butt of a marijuana cigarette) in it. Ah, I knew he toked.

She took a puff. Wow! My loverboy has the kind bud.

After removing his slippers, she pulled down on his jeans. However, they were hung up on his stiffening erection. She completely unzipped them and slid them off. Then she pulled down his briefs. Marc's seven-inch (18 cm) wonder worm promptly popped out. His cock quickly became rock-hard as Laura performed felatio while vigorously rubbing her clitoris. Yes! Phase two is working, too. This is going great.

Marc's member soon came inside Laura's mouth. She tasted his man goo for a few seconds and then swallowed it. Not as bad as feared.

Four minutes later Marc's bronze penis was at full-staff once more. Laura mounted him. She let her moist vagina slide down his shaft. Woah!

Laura rode him hard and fast. At the 13-minute mark, she experienced her first male-organ-induced orgasm. She tingled. Her mind soared into uncharted realms. Wow!

Marc moaned, but couldn't catch consciousness as Laura rode his joystick to three more orgasms over the next 73 minutes.

Then suddenly, at 12:12 PM, the apartment shook. It was a moderate earthquake. The temblor toppled a large clay urn onto Marc's head. He died instantly. Never saw it coming.

The sharp jolts continued for 14 seconds, and then settled into rolling waves for 21 seconds. The physical damage was limited to broken glass items that fell from the shelves.

Laura was freaked-out by what had just transpired, but kept a remarkable steely composure. She retrousered Marc. Then she crouched down beside his lifeless body for a few minutes. She kissed him, tidied up, and then covertly exited.

On the late RTS bus back to Loleta, Laura despondently stared out the window. Another tragic loss. So, what's new? That's how this life goes for people like me. Tragedy always hovers over us. I'd be foolish to call the police now. Really no need to. Eventually Marc's body will be found. Probably within a couple of days. Once he doesn't show up at school on Monday, they will notice his car at the apartment. The police will probably find his body on Monday afternoon. They will think that no one was there with him. A solo earthquake casualty. If they only knew what was going on beforehand. Will they be able to find out? I cleaned up everything pretty good. Doubt they do an autopsy. Cause of death is obvious.

Without warning the bus lurched violently to the right, as the driver swerved to avoid an aftershock-widened rift in the US 101 pavement. Unfortunately, he overcorrected. The bus then flipped over the galvanized steel guardrail and hurtled towards a muddy slough on South Bay, landing on Laura's side. Bodies got tossed about like ping-pong balls. However, most of the passengers would survive. Though, Laura would not be one of them. Her head was struck by a barbed-wire fence post.

22. The Other Manila (Jul. 2017)

On a delightfully mild – weather-almanac-indicated-typical 61º (Fahrenheit; 16º Celsius) – ovation-overlapped overcast June afternoon, a Friday in 2017, Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33) found ourselves on an RTS (Redwood Transit System) bus, headed to Eureka from ACV (the Eureka-Arcata airport) via California State Route 255. As we started to curve around the northwestern corner of Prussian blue Arcata Bay, I remembered that the little community of Manila lay just ahead. With Monique being a Filipina, I knew that she would be interested in adding this only-13-feet-above-mean-sea-level (four meters) bayside township to our nebulous North Coast itinerary.

"Want to get off in the other Manila, asawa?" [wife in Tagalog and Cebuano] I asked her. Get off?

"Sure, 33. Maybe we can find out how the little hamlet got off scot-free with that big-city name." 33? Scot-free? She knows that I'm recording. / Bana [husband in Cebuano] is already in audio-record mode. I can sense it.

At about a quarter to five, we disembarked on a desolate Peninsula Drive and walked up to the Manila Community Center. However, it was closed. Darn! / Oh, no.

"We're out of luck, 32."

"Where do we go now, Parkaar?" [my ailing alias]

"Not sure, Monique."

"When is the next bus, Lieutenant Lugnuts? [sic] Or, is there a next bus, 33?" Gosh, are we going to be stranded here overnight? There's no Uber or Lyft here. Where would we sleep? / Lieutenant Lugnuts? Ha! I've got a bad feeling about this. Could we possibly walk to Eureka? With her platforms, way too far. [3.8 miles (6.1 km) away] Don't even think they allow pedestrians on the bridges. [They don't.]

"Well, let me pee first," I said as I walked towards the free-standing restroom building. "Then maybe my brain can figure something out." Oh, boy.

"I've got to go, too," Monique disclosed. "I think I'm beginning to leak."

Fortunately, the urination station's doors weren't locked. We relieved our bladders. Once back outside, we saw an RTS bus pulling up to the bus stop. It was a northbound bus that was headed to Arcata. Drats! That one is going the wrong direction. / Darn it! That bus came FROM Eureka. Now, when is the next bus TO Eureka? Hopefully soon.

An older Asian man of slight build and an Asian boy of eight or nine years were the only passengers who stepped off the bus. They started walking towards us. Maybe he knows.

"Hello sir," I said as the gap between us shrank to ten feet (three meters). "Would you happen to know when the next southbound bus arrives?"

"There are no more southbound buses stopping here today," the venerable, still in good shape, gray-haired, brown-skinned, orange-ball-capped man said. Oh, crap! That's just great. / Why didn't my bana research this first. Probably too busy daydreaming.

"I see," I said with an overt groan. At least it's not raining.

"There is another northbound bus at 5:55," he continued. "You can take that one to the Arcata Transit Center. Then you could get on a southbound bus that goes down [US] 101. Where exactly do you need to go?"

"Downtown Eureka," Monique chimed. He kind of looks like a pinoy. [male Filipino] / She certainly looks like a pinay. [female Filipino]

"Filipina?" he asked Monique.

"Yes," Monique answered. "I'm from Siquijor."

"Ah, that small Central Visayan island province."

"Yep. Where are you from?" Monique then asked.

"Luzon – Antipolo," he replied.

"Very nice views of Manila from there," my wife said.

"And, a little cooler," I added.

"Yes, it is," the late-60-ish Filipino American agreed.

"So, where are you guys headed?" I asked him.

"Up to the sand dunes behind the playground," he divulged. "My grandson just got a new kite that he wants to fly. I think there's more wind out there." Ah, so that's what's in the young lad's hand.

"Mind if we tag along?" Monique asked. "Looks like we have 53 minutes to kill thanks to my kano." [Philippine slang for American] She laughed. Zing.

"Sure," the elder Filipino American cheerfully assented.

"Salamat," [thanks in Tagalog and Cebuano] I said.

"You know the dialects?" he asked me.

"Just a few words," I answered.

"Just the bad words," Monique clarified. Zinged again. She's up 30 – love.

We three adults had a chortle. However, the Filipino American boy had grown bored with our conversation; he was intent on getting to the dunes as soon as possible to get his brand-new kite airborne. All that grown-ups like to do is talk. Bleh!

We then all walked, single file, past the playground and main building. Then a narrow loose-sand path led us past a patch of maritime forest. Eighty-eight seconds later, we had arrived at an area of mostly vegetation-carpeted sand dunes.

The eager chap marched up a dune that was maybe eleven feet (3.35 meters) tall. We all followed him. He stopped on the crest and unpackaged his kite. It was a cherry-red dragon with indigo outlines and white eyeballs with black diamond-shaped pupils.

"Awesome kite," I said. "What's your name?"

"Keoni," he softly stated.

"Keoni, just let me know if you need any help launching it," I offered. "I have lots of experience in flying long kites off of short piers." Crickets. That attempt at humor bombed rather (un)spectacularly. / What did he just say? / Hubby with another certified klunker. [sic] I'm now up 30 – -15.

Keoni, though, was consumed by the task at hand and just nodded. He was quickly assembling the six-to-seven-foot-long (two meters) nylon kite.

"How did this American township get the name of Manila?" Monique then asked the thin Filipino American gentleman.

"It got the name right after World War II," he replied.

"For fighting alongside the United States?" Monique inquired.

"Quite possibly," the man responded.

"Was it a Philippine encampment?" I asked, completely oblivious to the origin of the name.

"I'm not sure," the jolly old fellow replied.

"Do many Filipinos live out here in little Manila?" Monique then asked.

"No, there are just five of us," he stated. Only five! / How strange.

Keoni soon had his kite completely assembled. He then walked over to a sand dune that was maybe ten meters (33 feet) away. He stuck the rear point of the kite in the sand and then walked back with the spool of twine. A future aviation engineer here. / Smart lalaki. [boy in Cebuano and Tagalog]

Keoni then waited for a strong gust. Suddenly he gave the white string a sharp tug. Up the kite shot into the gray sky. It quickly climbed to around 150 feet (46 meters). Impressive self-launch.

"Nice job," I commended Keoni.

"He's pretty skilled at this now," the older Filipino American relayed.

The dragon's tail was whipping about like an agitated snake in the brisk onshore breeze. The menacing eyes made it look like something right out of a low-budget sci-fi flick.

"Your kite looks like a mumu, [phantom in Tagalog] Keoni," Monique proclaimed.

Keoni just smiled. He was enjoying the debut of his new kite, as well the demonstration of his kite-flying skills to a pair of adult strangers. Must not let it crash.

I looked out at the nearby ocean. Not sure if I could live here. The terrain is quite low and the tsunami risk is quite high. Though, I guess that little Manila has been lucky so far. They haven't experienced anything like Crescent City [82 miles (132 km) north] did in 1964. Crescent City even suffered damage from that Japanese earthquake in 2011 – from all the way on the other side of the Pacific. That article in Slate [online magazine] said that it was the tsunami capital of the United States. Still, all it takes is one. A not-overly-massive tsunami could go right up and over these dunes and push little Manila into the bay. / Wonder what ominous, paranoid, natural-disaster thoughts my bana is having now. Guess I'll read them next month. / Wonder how these two met. When? And where?

"Do you like the climate out here?" I asked both of them. I just knew that my hubby would ask a weather-preference question. Never fails.

Keoni, still kite-preoccupied, slowly nodded.

The older Filipino American smiled. "I'll take the cooler weather here in little Manila over the steamy heat of metro Manila," he replied. "Even Antipolo is warmer now. Maybe global warming is real. It sure felt like it the last time I was there, back in 2013."

"Me, too," I concurred. "I wouldn't last long in big Manila. Granted, it's a mega-metropolis with many attractions and plenty of things to do, but the sauna-esque, never-a-non-hot-day weather is a deal-incinerator for me."

"He hates hot weather everywhere," Monique then informed.

We then quietly watched Keoni flying his dragon kite. He made it do barrel rolls with his left hand on the twine and his right hand on the spool. This kid is really adept at this.

"You're an expert kite flyer, Keoni!" Monique exclaimed. I've impressed the grown-ups.

Keoni smiled, but stayed focused on his kite. He then had it swoop down towards a distant dune, only to have it make a hard U-turn a yard or so (a meter) from impact. The dragon's head then screamed back up into the ash-colored, foreboding sky.

"You know, for a long time I thought that Manila was spelled with two l's – not one," I announced to break the silence.

"But, you realized your error once you met your cute Filipina, right?" the old man suggested with a grin. Not exactly sure when I became aware of the correct spelling. / Cute? That was nice of him.

"I guess it goes back to Manila folders," I resumed. "When I heard that term in grade school, I felt sure that there was a double-l in Manila – like vanilla. The peculiarities that one remembers." Just you, bana.

"Do you remember the last time that you were in the other Manila?" the senior citizen asked. The other Manila? Just play along. Maybe a short story precipitates.

"This Manila here – tiny Manila?" I asked to be sure of which one he was referencing.

He just smiled with a gleam in his dark eyes. What's going on here?

Monique looked at me with a most-interested expression.

"I've never been to this Manila before," I calmly confessed.

"It's ok, it's ok," he repeated. Maybe already touched by senility.

"I haven't accumulated the requisite unaccounted-for time," I declared. What?!

"We've all had our other Manila moments," he said. "It's ok." That shemale nest. That wild threesome. With her sister.

Once aboard the 5:55 RTS bus to Arcata, Monique looked at me. "About your 'other Manila' moments..."

Suddenly, without any warning, the dragon kite crashed into the bus's windshield.
23. Samoa Sam (Jul. 2017)

Samantha Wevanski, a 25-year-old, Polynesian-Caucasian, athletically fit, dark-brown-haired, tan-skinned, avid bicyclist, who now just liked to be called Sam, began her Saturday trek on a mostly cloudy, misty yet mild, May morning in 2016. Her starting point was her adoptive Caucasian parents' home on Vance Avenue in the small North Coast community of Samoa (CA, USA). Per her usual semi-weekly regimen, she was wearing no makeup, but still looked patently feminine in her elastane cycling attire.

As Sam passed forlorn Cutten Street on her left and began a short climb up a large sand mound, she thought about the dilapidated storefronts. Wonder when someone can make a go of it down there. Should I try to open a shop? Call it 'Boutique Nautique'? Just sell ocean-themed souvenirs? No, I'm sure that it would soon end up underwater. Tourists just don't come over to this part of the northern spit that much. Only the fire station seems to do well. That almost sounds like a comedy line. This corner place must have been a thriving garage and fuel station eons ago. A much different time back then. Maybe a tougher time. In so many ways.

She mounted the rise with ease. Soon Sam was passing by barren sandy terrain where it appeared that structures had been razed. Still looks the same as when we moved here. [2009] Wonder why everything was scraped off this former dirigible mooring site. Because airship use by the [United States] Navy declined after World War II? Are they planning to sell this parcel? Some great ocean-view real estate. Probably would fetch a pretty penny. Should ask dad about it later. Oh, I'll probably forget.

Then, just before a bend to the right in the old asphalt road, she glanced at the tall stacks of de-limbed tree trunks in the lumber mill yard. Sam quickly looked back at the pavement, a second before she crossed over some old railroad tracks at a 45-degree angle on her three-speed. When did I crash on these tracks? Was it 2012? Or, was it that wet morning in 2013? No, it was way back in October of 2011. 2011, 2012, 2013 – all now just quickly-passed-over four-digit numbers, sunk in the quicksand of the past. A whole year of human doings – and undoings [sic] – whispered away in a second. Like 1916. A hundred years ago. World War I was going at full throttle, but no American involvement yet. Phosgene. Chlorine. Mustard gas. Such a 'fragrant' flagrant trio. Wonder if any of those entrenched soldiers wondered about life in 2016. Wonder if any of them thought that the best thing about life is that it ends – hopefully painlessly and quickly. Whew! I sure seem to have the darkest thoughts now. Enough of war. Think about something else, girl.

Soon Sam was passing a large, metal-sided, teal-painted industrial building on her right. A mid-30-ish, somewhat husky, dirty-blonde-haired, flannel-shirted white guy inside the perimeter fence waved to her, just like he did whenever he saw her approaching. He then winked. She just stoically half-smiled. I'd love to nail Miss Fitness some fine day. Ram it right through her Spandex. Have her screaming in ecstasy. Oh, hell yeah! / I can tell that big boy would like to date me. I bet that he fantasizes about having sex with me. He wants to do me right there in the warehouse yard and unload all over my boobs, just like he sees on his porn sites. Sex. It sure leads to a lot of division, suspicion, double-talk, fear, shame and hostility. Sex. So craved. So desired. And yet, so derided. Please specify your sex. Please state how you sex. Are you an untamed – and completely unrestrained – wild animal during sex? If not, why not? If so, how dare you! Sex. Why are there even two sexes? I bet that sex one hundred years from now would freak out 80% of the adults of today – these neo-Victorians. I would bet that it will be normal for couples to have sex robots in the future. [the focus of the short story 'A Novella Idea'] Probably marriage savers. I bet bisexuality will be quite commonplace. Though, I myself seem to be sinking into asexuality. I'm done with dating, male and female. I guess I was cut from a different cloth – a solitary fabric. A lonely life awaits. Well, maybe just alone, but not so lonely. I wonder how my biological parents met in American Samoa. Was my real dad a higher-up in the United States government? Was my real mom just a menial laborer in his office who bent over to dust his desk? Wham-bam! Or, was she in some higher position herself? Was it a situation in which keeping me would have brought untold embarrassment onto both of them? Or, maybe worse – divorce(s)? Do they ever think of me? Do they think I'm still alive? Do they ever wonder whom I became? What have I become? Just a clerk at a vegan grocery store in Eureka [4 miles (6.4 km) southeast] with a useless associate degree in history. And, still living with my folks. Yeah, I really became something alright. Should I have just stayed in Shelter Cove [90 miles (145 km) south] with that living-in-a-rusting-shipping-container poet? No way! That dude was genuinely nuts, and getting nuttier with each rainy winter day. Also, his inheritance was quickly dwindling away. Though, I'll always be thankful to flipped-out Phillip for introducing me to Sara Teasdale. [an American poet popular a century ago] Ah, if only I could go back in time and meet her. Say, 1915 – the year that poignantly defiant poem ['I Shall Not Care'] was published. What a fearless poet she was. I need to start writing poetry again. It just may be therapeutic. Need an outlet for these starved-for-expression thoughts. Maybe something worthwhile becomes of it. Maybe.

Sam pedaled past LP Drive on her right, a short paved connector to New Navy Base Road, a highway that was best avoided, as she was almost run over by a not-paying-attention/too-busy-texting semi driver in 2015. No, not taking that road again.

Soon she was passing a sea-salt factory on her left. Sea salt is all the rage now. Probably quite profitable. Just let the seawater evaporate. Another nice crop. Bag it. Box it. Ship it! Cha-ching! Maybe oversimplified.

She kept pedaling, passing the old pipeline docking facility and a deserted Bay Street. At the T-intersection with Comet Street (on her left), the road changed names; Sam was now on Bendixsen Street. It looked about the same: still an old asphalt road splitting the swells of sand covered by short vegetation, interspersed with assorted tangible-product businesses.

When a soft right emerged, she took it. Sam was now on Lincoln Avenue, passing through another small residential area known as Fairhaven. There was no traffic, though. Another pleasant northern peninsula Saturday, here in non-status-symbol land. Yes, this is definitely not a place that is about putting on airs. I do like that about this elongated sandbar. So atypical of coastal California. Nothing like Venice. [CA]

Lincoln Avenue soon came to an intersection with the no-longer-avoidable New Navy Base Road; though, traffic was virtually nonexistent here. Sam turned left at the STOP sign, as she didn't want to go to the Samoa Drag Strip or Samoa Field Airport. Dad sure loves those NHRA [National Hot Rod Association] drag races.

Soon Sam was pedaling away with the North Bay Channel on her immediate left. Good, no whitecaps.

Next, she would pass the Samoa Boat Ramp, which only had one vehicle and boat trailer in the lot. Wonder where the usual crowd of fishermen are today. Is it a bad tide?

Then the road got rougher with more potholes to watch out for. Sam then forked to the right, leaving New Navy Base Road, which led directly to a gated entrance to the Humboldt Bay Coast Guard Station. Wonder how long dad will work today. I bet he's home by noon.

The unnamed paved road looped around the Coast Guard property, and then tied back into New Navy Base Road. At a just-up-ahead wooded picnic area on her left, Sam stopped and dismounted her bike. She then walked over to a thin slab of concrete next to a pool of rainwater. She slid the 28" x 28" (.5-square-meter) top off of a void. Yes! It's still here!

Sam extracted the deflated rubber lifeboat that her father had given her. It had become an expendable asset to the Coast Guard. Though the smallest size, it was still plenty big for her and her folding bike.

She then walked her bike, with the lifesaving raft and related apparatus on the seat, over to the north jetty. Sam noticed her bicycle's trip odometer hit 5.05 miles (8.13 km) as she maneuvered it up and over the riprap seawall. She looked across the channel towards the south spit. Water looks pretty calm. 9:38. [AM] Just six minutes before slack tide. Not much – if any – current now. Maybe a slight current coming in when I return. Better than an ebb tide going out to sea. I should be ok. Hopefully not infamous last thoughts.

Sam then deployed the canister of carbon dioxide (CO2); the vulcanized rubber vessel was filled in just four seconds. The plastic oars easily snapped together. After removing a cotter pin in the hinged frame, lowering her seat, and turning and dropping the handlebars, her bike was compacted to one-fourth of its normal size. She carefully placed it in the craft with the CO2 canister and stepped aboard. Here we go.

Sam quickly got a good rowing cadence going. She would make the 1,900-foot-long (579 meters) transit in 11 minutes. The crossing was surprising uneventful. A large fishing boat passed her midway, but the wake wasn't that bad; no water got in her salvaged life raft.

Once on the other side of the channel, she deflated her boat. Using an oar as a shovel, she buried it and the CO2 canister in a patch of vegetation-less sand behind the restroom building. There were two vehicles in the picnic area's parking lot, but not a soul was seen. Guess they must be hiking on, or fishing from, the jetty. Got lucky. So far, so good. Now, the adventure continues. Back to cycling.

Sam unfolded and reset her bicycle. After drinking an electrolyte-rich beverage, she was pedaling south on South Jetty Road, which started out as gravel and sand. Humboldt Hill on her left caught her eye. Up there sure would be a safe place, tsunami-wise. Though, this area hasn't been hit by a significant tsunami in ages. Such silly West Coast paranoia.

After 77 seconds of cautious riding, the road became paved in old asphalt. Ah, so much better. Glad that's over.

A 25 MPH (40 km/h) speed limit sign appeared on her right. Let's see if I can get this bike up to 25 MPH. It's flat. There's virtually no headwind. Let's do this. Burn those calories.

In 220 feet (67 meters), Sam had her bike rolling at her target speed and then backed off to 17 MPH (27.4 km/h), as an old pickup truck was approaching and she didn't want to look manic.

The low-lying maritime chaparral reminded her of Scotland, which she had seen on TV while watching The (British) Open with her dad some fifteen years ago. She remembered her mom coming in the living room and saying, "Samantha, you're not old enough to watch golf; only old farts like your dad watch such uptight lunacy." Uptight lunacy? How did my mom come up with that? Wonder if she quit teaching English at CR [College of the Redwoods, Eureka Campus] because I enrolled. Did I effectively end her career? Gosh, I hope she really quit for the reasons that she said. Yeah, my adoptive parents have been great. I'm really quite lucky, I guess. A sibling would have been nice, though. A lot of lonely times with just me and my imagination.

Sam kept pedaling, but now at a more modest pace of 13 MPH (21 km/h). Humboldt Bay was an ever so slightly rippling bed of slate on her left. No one else was on the road. Sam's mind meandered as the slight breeze brushed the shrubs. If you don't have a partner in life, you have to create your own singular goals. And, your own solitary happiness. Will I be able to do that for 50 or more years? Will it be enough? Will I crack up and go insane? Am I really now that relationship-averse? Or, am I just kidding myself? Who am I? Still not sure. And, still unsure of what I really want. Wish it would all fall into place and become crystal-clear. An epiphany or unambiguous sign by the end of this expedition would be wonderful.

Sam passed a gravel parking area on her right. There was a lone vehicle: a bronze-colored Jeep. However, no person was in view. Such an incredibly desolate road. This would make a good setting for a horror movie. A young lady on a bike being chased by a madman. Why do I think such things? Must stay self-entertained, dear. Keep practicing.

After passing another parking area on her right, which was completely vacant, a white work van ripped past her, only 11 inches (28 cm) from her left handlebar grip. Woah! That was close. Way too effing close! That jerk has the whole road. So unnecessary. This world is chock full of annoying assholes now. And, they are the ones who are multiplying like rats!

She mellowed after a few minutes. Then Sam noticed a brown Hunter Access Corridor sign on her left. They allow hunters out here? What are they hunting? Cyclists like me? Ha-ha. I guess water fowl in, or at the edge of, the bay.

Fifty-two seconds later, a tidal flat on Sam's left almost met the road. It reeked of dead crabs and rotting marsh grass. Looks like low tide. Did I gaze at the wrong tide table?

After passing another vacant parking area on her right, Sam knew that she was on the homestretch. She honed in on the dark hill just to the left of dead-ahead. Almost there. This has been easier than I imagined. It's the flatness, almost like in Clearwater. [FL]

Then Sam passed another parking area on her right. This one had a pastel-blue motor scooter parked in it. Nice ride. Looks like a Vespa knockoff.

The now-green, semi-wooded hill at 11 o'clock grew closer. Then a pair of tan-colored portable toilets appeared on her right. Sam pulled over. She had to pee. Just what I needed.

She hovered over the typically nasty opening in the foul-smelling tank. While urinating she read the graffiti that was scratched into the fiberglass wall. Between the political barbs and crude sexual quips was a line that very much intrigued Sam; she mouthed the question:

What does April 6, 2014 mean now?

Sam pulled up her cycling pants and thought about it. Did something significant happen on that date? I was in Samoa that day. The big earthquake was on March 9th of that year. There was damage, but nothing catastrophic. No tsunami. No big fires. Don't think there was a single fatality.

While astride her bike, she pulled out her smartphone and researched that date in world news. Nothing really jumped out at her. Maybe it was something personal. An anniversary? The date the lover/spouse left? Maybe a loved one died that day. Yeah, probably something like that.

Sam continued her biathlon (cycling + rowing) workout. She soon reached a hard left turn. To her right was a beach-access parking area. She saw the white foam of the breaking waves. How many waves have broken on that shore? What counts as a wave? What counts as 'that' shore? What maddening thoughts I have as of late.

Then a steep climb began in earnest in the Mike Thompson Wildlife Area. Sam shifted to first gear and stood on the pedals. She wasn't going to walk her bike up the incline; she was determined to scale it on two wheels. Hope the crest isn't much farther. What a heart-pumper!

After a hairpin turn to the right, Sam closed in on her finish line: an observation turnout on South Jetty Road at Table Bluff County Park. Two minutes later she was sitting – catching her breath – on the small bench, looking northward. Whew! What a majestic ocean view. There's where I was – the south spit. And, there's the bay. I think that's Fields Landing over there below Humboldt Hill. And, there's King Salmon jutting out way down the bay. Wonder if Lucy is awake yet. I bet she partied all night. She'll be hungover all day. Totally useless. Don't bother calling her today.

After a ten-minute rest, she walked over to her bike and looked at the trip odometer. Wow! 10.10 miles. [16.25 km] The second cycling leg was exactly the same distance as the first: 5.05 miles. Just like out of a crazy work of fiction.

Then a raindrop landed on her nose. She looked over her left shoulder. Dark clouds were moving in from the west-southwest. I better get going. Don't want to get soaked.

Sam charged down the bluff. Her rear tire slid about an inch (2.54 cm) in the hairpin turn, but she quickly had it under control. After making the hard right turn at the bottom of the descent, she lowered her head and pedaled ferociously. She had a rising tailwind to help propel her. Less than five miles until the water crossing. If I maintain 16 MPH (25.75 km/h), how long? About 18 to 19 minutes? Darn! Another raindrop.

The northern sky ahead and the eastern sky over the bay on her right darkened significantly. To her left, a curtain of rain slowly advanced over a now-whitecap-strewn sea. Vehicles going the opposite direction passed her with their headlights on. Must hurry. Let's try to move up to 18 MPH. [29 km/h]

Sam would arrive at the terminus of South Jetty Road 17 minutes and 17 seconds later. She was nearly out of breath as she dismounted her bike at the restrooms. No vehicles or people were present. She guzzled the remainder of her energy drink. Not too bad. Just a few leading-edge raindrops got me. Now to safely – and quickly – get across the channel. Time to find the oars and start digging.

Her oar segments were quickly uncovered and reconnected. The flattened and folded boat was still there. Sam had it unearthed in 93 seconds. She brushed the sand off and hooked up the CO2 canister. However, her rubber craft only partially inflated – to about 75% – before the gas ran out. Darn it! Well, it still has enough buoyancy to float.

At a previously unrecognized sandy spot on the channel's shoreline, Sam refolded her bike and loaded it into the rubber boat with the empty CO2 canister. She then got in and pushed off with an oar. Strange. The tide is so unusually low. Is this a spring tide? Need to row fast. Must beat the rain.

Off Sam went. The now-brisk breeze was still at her back; it noticeably helped. Glad the wind is blowing my way. A headwind would make this transit much slower. And wetter.

Just as Sam neared the halfway mark, she heard a roar to her left. A seven-foot-high (2.13-meter-tall) wall of seawater was charging towards her. Before she could react, her boat was literally surfing on the fast-moving wave. A rogue wave? No it's a tsunami! Holy shit!

Sam would crash into the rocky southern King Salmon jetty, flip over, get ensnared by the bicycle chain, valiantly attempt to free herself in the cold water... and drown.

24. Moonstone Moonchild (Aug. 2017)

Moonchild, a child of the moon; someone born under the zodiac sign of Cancer (June 21 – July 22). And, in common present-day parlance, a person who is a space case. Manda was both. And, yes, she had heard the 1969 song of the same name by the English progressive rock band King Crimson; in fact, she adopted it as her anthem.

On her 21st birthday, Caucasian American Manda found herself once again meandering about Moonstone Beach (CA, USA) in a beige, linen, full-length peasant dress. It was a foggy July 16th Sunday morning (2017). She was searching for those surf-rounded, alkali feldspar, pearly white, slightly translucent stones. With her head bent down, her thoughts flowed out. 'Playing hide and seek with the ghosts of dawn.' I'm the local lass who went nuts. That's what they think. I know they think that I'm crazy. I'm the girl who took too much acid (LSD) at the house party three years ago. 'She's just coo-coo, lost in her imaginary world, aimlessly wandering the beach.' Yeah, just let them think that. Today is a full moon. It's out there, pulling on the ocean. And, pulling me along. Need to play up the insane woman bit to the max. Most guys like an easy score.

Manda lived in the nearby, mostly affluent, Westhaven community with Bruce, her now-hardly-ever-home, 52-year-old father. Her dad had received their modest, secluded, 1,111-sqaure-foot (103-square-meter), three-bedroom house in some kind of real-estate swap, which Manda was very suspicious about; she wondered if it had something to do with illicit drugs. Her soft-spoken mom, Alice, had passed away from ovarian cancer four years ago. Her two-years-older brother, George, was now living in Sunnyvale (CA), working for a specialized software startup.

Crouched down with her long brown hair drooped over her face, Manda dragged her right hand through the cool wet sand. If I find the right moonstone, it will be so irresistibly alluring. And, things will align. Just need some lunar luck.

"Excuse me," a male voice suddenly announced. "Did you lose something?"

Manda looked up at the stocky, rusty-blonde-haired, mid-20-something, well-tanned Caucasian gentleman. "Oh, I'm just searching for moonstones."

"Having any luck?" the young man asked. His light gray sweatshirt had a big, red, bold Stanford University S on it.

"Not yet, but the day is young."

"Care to take a short break and join me for a coffee or hot tea at the Moonstone Café? They are having a special once-in-a-blue-moon early opening today." Was I too forward? / Blue moon? Is it one? He'll get the special alright.

"Ok, sure," Manda replied. Yes! I know that I can get in her pants – or up her dress – if I play my cards right. She'll be eating out of my lap. / Stanford. I bet he's from a rich – and über-smart – family. Did he ace the SAT? [Scholastic Aptitude Test] No, he's probably not 'that' smart.

"Great. It's my treat." We shall see about that.

They walked, side by side, over to the little beachfront restaurant that was only 35 yards (32 meters) away. They were seated at a two-top next to a large picture window.

Manda and the fairly handsome young man gazed at the beach. It was low tide. The nearest sea stacks were not even touched by the Pacific Ocean at the moment.

Then Manda looked across the table at her impromptu admirer. "So, what's your name?" I bet he was a frat boy in Palo Alto. [CA] / She certainly has a nice rack. Hopefully I'll be feeling it and more before too long.

"Oliver, but you can call me Ollie," he stated in a businesslike manner. A jolly Ollie by golly. I bet he had sex with a cheerleader. Or, wished he did.

"Oh, my name is Manda." So mandacious. [sic]

"Tell me, Manda, are moonstones worth a lot of money?" Ollie eyed her cleavage.

"They're just classified as semiprecious, and on the lower end of the scale at that. But, I don't sell them." Hmmm...

"So, what do you do with them?"

"I arrange them," Manda answered as their coffees arrived.

"Arrange them?" She's even more whacked-out than I thought – a real space cadet. Wonder who looks out for her. Anyone? Does she have a boyfriend? Doubt it.

"Yes, I arrange them in a special, secret garden." She's certifiably bonkers. Though, she sure is cute. Sexy body. Need to make myself become her moon god.

"A moon garden?" Ollie asked.

"Yes, a moon garden," Manda replied. I bet she's all into astrology and the zodiac. Probably into tarot cards and mysticism, too. I'll just pretend to believe. / I can tell that he thinks I'm just another Northern California frosted flake. That's fine.

"Does this moon garden exert any supernatural powers?" What a ridiculous question.

"No supernatural powers, Ollie. But, it does lend clues."

"So, at some time in the future, the clues must be returned, right?" Huh?

"What?" Manda had no idea of what he was talking about.

"You said that your moon garden lends clues."

"Oh, a stickler for meanings, are you? Say, would you like to see my secret, semi-sacred moon garden tonight, Ollie? Maybe glean an insight into your life's trajectory." Semi-sacred? Insight into my life's trajectory? Oh, this is going to be too easy. Just like taking candy from a baby.

"Why, sure. Where and when?" And then, how and why.

"Meet me here at 11 PM, and I will lead you to it. That's not too late, is it?" I do have some spreadsheets to review before Monday morning, but I can't pass this up. Easy casual sex doesn't come along that often.

"No, that's fine," Ollie enthusiastically confirmed. "But, this restaurant closes at 10 tonight, Manda."

"Ok, I'll be in the beach parking lot at 11 sharp. It's safe to park there after hours. The police won't ticket you." Good.

"Ok, whatever you say, mysterious moon lady." Ollie smiled at her... a little too long. He's quite winsome. But, he's a wee cocksure. / This young lady is in for it. I'm going to wear her ass out. Can hardly wait.

The bill for a whopping $4.48 arrived. Ollie promptly paid it, leaving an overly generous $10 tip. They then went their separate ways: Ollie via an expensive Porsche 911 Carrera; Manda by hemp-fiber sandals. He's probably already making six figures. Probably an IT [Information Technology] whiz. / She's very trusting. So naïve. And, so in for it.

Ollie headed directly to a costume shop in Eureka (20 miles – 32 km – south) near Bayshore Mall. He would find a white, whole-moon-shaped, pull-over-the-head, glow-in-the-dark adult mask that even had craters on it. Manda's going to love this. 'Meet manic Máni, [the Viking moon god]... and his moonstone-hard lunar dong, Manda.'

As Manda walked along a densely wooded Scenic Drive towards Westhaven Drive South, her mind wondered about the night ahead. I hope that he's not a violent type like the last one. No, I don't think so. Ollie seems like an all-American, red-blooded, basic-as-sliced-white-bread kind of guy. Probably still prefers American cheese. I know that he wants to have sex with me. He thinks that I'm an easy lay. Quite typical. But, he's never going to forget my moon garden. He'll never doubt its power. Never. Ever. Again.

At 10:59 PM on a now-clear night, Ollie rolled into the Moonstone Beach parking lot. He parked his red sports car facing the ocean. Hope she didn't chicken-out on me. Viagra single pack? Check. Condoms? Check. We're good to go. Don't be a no-show, Manda.

Manda, who had been sitting on the front porch of a closed-up and shuttered, wood-sided, one-story, former-restaurant-appearing structure, walked up to Ollie's door. She lightly tapped on his side window.

Ollie, startled, snapped his head around. He smiled at her. She winked back. I bet that we're having wild sex by midnight. Make that 11:45. / I can sense his lusty thoughts.

The sleek car door opened. Ollie stepped out with his moon mask in an opaque plastic bag. He was immediately awestruck by Manda's black lace dress that was almost see-through. This is going to be a great night. I'm going to piston-pump her into a new orbit. / I know that he craves my body.

"Hello again, handsome," Manda said with a flirtatious smile. "Shall we proceed to my moon garden?" Yeah, she wants it, too. Most excellent. This is going great.

"Sure, lead the way, moon goddess," Ollie replied. Moon goddess? So sweet of him.

"Ollie, may I ask you to leave your cell phone in your car?" Am I being set up? Am I going to be rolled by her moon goons? Oh, just relax.

"Sure. No problem. The damn thing annoys me anyway."

"Why allow unnecessary distractions on this magical night?" Magical night? Oh, yes! We're in like Flint. Or, did my grandad say 'In like Flynn'?

"Precisely," Ollie concurred.

They then started walking northward up the beach. The only sound was that of the crashing waves on their left. After about 600 feet (183 meters), they reached a rivulet that cut across the sand and drained into the sea. Now, what? / Yeah, I feel it; good, I've got it.

"Time for the blindfold, Ollie. I'll carry that bag for you. Remember, it's a secret garden. Don't worry; it's a short walk from here. And, it's not up the creek; your feet will stay dry. And, I promise not to lead you off a cliff." What!

"Well, that's mighty nice of you," Ollie retorted. He then put the black blindfold on. What am I in for now? / Glad he's compliant.

Manda then led him by the hand up an incline through the maritime forest. They walked towards Mawby Lane, where Manda and her dad lived, for about 170 feet (52 meters). Ollie felt the redwood needles as they occasionally brushed against his hands and face. Where in the world are we going? Hope this isn't some kind of bizarre robbery-murder. No, I don't think she harbors such malice.

Then Manda stopped. "Ok, you can take the blindfold off now, Ollie." Thank God! Glad that no one whacked me in the back of the head.

"Thanks," Ollie replied with a sigh of relief.

"My moon garden is right over here," Manda informed him.

Ollie then followed Manda to a small, level, cleared area. There was an oval of moonstones, about a meter (yard) in length, glimmering under the full moon. In the middle was a circular, bone-white, convex object. So, this is it. Poor thing. This isn't even a fair contest. This is going to be like balling a mentally incompetent ward of the state.

"So, what does your moon garden do?" Ollie asked.

"Remember what I said, silly? It lends clues." His mind is just focused on my body. It's so obvious. The male brain is so easily distracted by a seemingly ready and willing female.

"Oh, yes! Yes. Now, how could I forget? So, what do I have to do to be lent a clue? How much does your little racket cost, Manda?" Racket?

"Oh, it's no hustle, Ollie; it's totally free. All you have to do is jump from the outside of the oval onto the center stone with your hands at your side while looking up at the full moon." Piece o' cake.

"Broad jump?" Ollie asked for clarification.

"Yes, a broad jump is best for getting the whole effect." Whole effect? Boy, this chick must have ate some bad [San Pedro] cactus. It's really kind of sad. But, I can have pity for her later. After I ball her for three hours. Glad I remembered to bring the Viagra reinforcement. All set for a long pounding.

"Can I do it as Máni the Norse moon god?" He did some research. Very impressive. More esoterically curious than I thought. I underestimated this one. Still, the moon makes her request. Must not disappoint her.

"Why, sure!" Manda exclaimed.

"Bag, please," Ollie requested.

Manda handed Ollie his cobalt-blue shopping bag. He then extracted and donned the moon mask. Wow! What a visage.

"Bravo! Splendid! Lady Luna [Spanish for moon] will love and cherish you even more, Ollie. She will never forget you." Just play along. Just play along. Just keep her happy. Fun times are merely minutes away.

"Do you like it, Manda?" Wish I could snap a pic. But, I can't.

"Very much! I love it, Ollie. Are you now ready to take your leap of lunar faith? Ready to see where your life is going?"

"I'm as ready as I'll ever be. Yes, I'm all set, Manda. Ok, here goes!" Hope I don't have to step on his fingers.

Ollie then leapt and landed right on the centerpiece. And immediately fell into a dark void. He dropped 13 feet (four meters), landing feet-first on cool, damp, soft, loamy earth. What the hell just happened? Where the fuck am I? Am I in an abandoned well? [reference short story 'The Well'.] Think I sprained my left ankle. But, nothing broken. Thank God.

"Welcome to my oubliette, monsieur," [mister in French] Manda announced from above. Her facial expression was now deadpan. "Always room for one more. And, we're always in need of one more. The moon, well, she is very demanding. Pulling those tides around the Earth night and day is oh-so-tiring." Oh, crap! She's a psychopath – a psychopathic entrapper! Am I going to be a lunar sacrifice due to this lunatic? Think of something. Fast!

Ollie's last image of the above-ground world was Manda's moonlit head. As she screwed the round hatch back onto the narrow opening of the Cold War-era bomb shelter, Ollie frantically screamed for help. However, no one heard him.

25. The Vision (Aug. 2017)

Nick awoke bemused. After arriving home from work (commercial plumbing), he had taken a late Friday afternoon nap in his rented single-wide mobile home near Clam Beach (CA, USA). In a very-real-feeling dream, he was walking along the in-the-vicinity Little River, when he suddenly found himself in a lush-and-emerald-green-like-Ireland meadow. A Caucasian farmer then came up to him – seemingly from out of nowhere – and handed him a sheet of paper. Nick, a thirty-four-year-old Dutch American, zoomed in on the image. It appeared to be a detail of a USGS (United States Geological Survey) topographic quadrangle. For some unknown-to-him reason, the farmer then began to gesture with his hands as if he were perplexed, but he didn't say anything. Nick thought: Is he mute?

Then Nick looked back at the unlabeled physical map. The contour lines started to pulsate. The shading intensified. A voice – was it in his head? – spoke up. "This is where a gold nugget weighing almost 49 troy ounces [1.524 kg] is not-so-deeply buried. It's on this map, right at the confluence of two streams. Now, go out and claim it before someone else does!" Troy ounces?

Nick turned to the left, as he thought that the farmer might have been the one talking, but he had vanished; the old man in faded, oil-stained, holey denim overalls was nowhere to be seen. And then, the hill off to his right seemed to be smiling. A dipping gully then winked at him. The dream ended with a ferocious gust of wind that swept across the field, creating surface waves. What a strange, surreal dream that was. Did Dietrich sprinkle something in my weed? [marijuana] If so, hope it's nontoxic.

His cell phone, which was on the oak coffee table, then rang. Nick grabbed it. "Hello, Ed. What's up?"

"Want to go out for a few beers tonight, Nick?"

"Yeah, sure. Where?"

"Clam Beach Tavern." [2.8 miles – 4.5 km – south-southwest in McKinleyville]

"Ok, let me guess, Ed: You're angling for the new brunette."

"How did you know?" Ed chuckled.

"I know your weaselly ways. No need to be coy, Roy." Just listen to me?

"See you at nine, Nick?"

"You got it. Later."

At a regulars-starting-to-pile-in 9:19 PM, black-haired Nick and blonde-haired Ed were playing a game of 9-ball on a billiard table in the back of the bar. The solid-purple 4-ball fell into the near side pocket. Wow. Ed finally made a delicate cut shot. He seems really focused tonight.

"Nice shot, Ed," Nick said.

"Thanks, man," Ed replied.

"So, when are you going to make your move on Veronica?"

"Probably just before closing time," Ed said as he took another shot. However, the solid-orange 5-ball rattled out of the corner pocket.

"Pretty risky strategy, my friend," Nick countered. "V-ron [Veronica] may no longer be available by night's end."

Ed just grinned.

Nick sank the 5. And then, in rapid succession, he knocked in the 6 and 7 balls. The solid-black, white-eyed 8-ball was left on the lip of the far corner pocket. "Darn!" Nick exclaimed. "Could we please have a minor temblor right about now?" What?! / Temble-tumble. [sic]

"Never joke about earthquakes – not in California," Ed warned as he bagged the essentially-a-gimme 8-ball.

"Do you really think that my remark will increase coastal Humboldt County seismicity, Ed?" I sure hope not.

"Nick, it's just not wise to tempt fate – the calamitous kind of fate, that is." Ed then pushed the yellow-striped 9-ball just wide of the side pocket. However, it came to rest a centimeter (⅖ of an inch) off the rail. It's safe there.

"Ed, do you believe in visions?" Wonder what Nick ingested this time. Or, has he gone wacky-religious? Is a recruiting pitch coming next?

"Did you eat some [mescaline-containing] peyote buttons and join a cult, Nick?" Ed had a laugh. A few nearby patrons looked at him.

"No, nothing like that, Ed. It was a vision in a dream." Nick then missed a long and difficult corner-pocket shot.

"A vision in a dream? How about a vision in a dream wrapped around a real-life hallucination? Something like that Waking Life animation film." Ah, that moment on a Gulf of Mexico oilrig when Richard Linklater had that filmmaker-is-my-true-calling epiphany. Wonder when that was precisely. Should I tell Nick that I'm writing screenplays now? Nah, not yet; just sit on it for now.

"Ed, I'm serious."

"Ok, what was the vision in the dream, Nick?"

"It was a section of a topo map – a very detailed section – somewhere along Little River. I think it was up near Crannell. [3.4 miles – 5.47 km – north of the tavern] When I looked at it in the dream, a voice said that a nice-size gold nugget could be found at the confluence of two streams, and at a shallow depth". Oh, dear. He's coming unglued again.

"Ha! Not only a vision in a dream, but a vision with a voice in a dream. My dear pal, I think you now may be schizophrenic. There's medication for it, Nick. My cousin in West Virginia is schizoid to the max. But, when he's on his meds, he's perfectly normal." Ed then sank the 9-ball in the far side pocket. "Game, set, match." He sure is feeling his oats.

"Ok, thanks for humoring me, Ed. I've got to roll. Here's a fiver for that last beer."

"So early? Don't you want to see me put the smooth moves on our new bartender?" More like drunken pestering.

"Uh, no; that's ok, Ed. Message me the highlights tomorrow."

"I bet that you're going to get a new 9-volt battery for your old metal detector?" How did he guess?

"Hey, good luck with V-ron." I know Nick. He's up to something.

"Thanks, buddy," Ed said.

"See ya later."

Nick exited the pub. He stopped at a convenience store on his way home. At 10:22 PM Nick was back in his pea-gravel driveway. The September (2016) night air was cool. Some moonlight tried to pierce through the overcast sky as he finger-pecked his smartphone. Let's see... $1,447/troy ounce x 49 = $70,903. Wow! $71K. Time to go inside and examine topos on a larger screen.

Soon Nick was on his semi-ancient desktop computer, honing in on enlarged topographic images along Little River. He sipped on a local dark beer and took a puff from his pipe. Then he advanced the zoomed-in area to the west. He was amazed at what he saw. There it is! That's the junction of the streams! The exact angle! Those are the streams. The confluence mentioned in the dream is where Raccoon Creek merges into Little River. That's got to be it! No doubt about it. A perfect match – identical. Now, when is the best time to look for that nugget? Not sure if I'm going to be able to sleep now. Maybe slip out after midnight. The sky will be clearer then. Will have more moonlight. But, still bring a flashlight. And, don't forget the metal detector! Nor, the earphones. Can't take the truck, though. Nowhere to park it on Crannell Road. The cops would have it towed away in ten minutes. Let's see... A mile and half [2.41 km] away. That's a little long – and would be very suspicious-looking – for a walk toting a metal detector. I know – I'll use the old mountain bike! Yeah, it will be perfect. I can stash it in the woods, just off the road. The bankside walk from there to the 'golden Y' is only 725 feet. [221 meters] Yep, we've got this.

After consuming a microwaved frozen burrito, Nick strapped the metal detector to the top tube of his 15-speed bicycle frame. He let the earphones wrap around his neck like a scarf. The flashlight holster was clasped onto his belt. We're all set. Fingers figuratively crossed. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Plus some other clichés. 'And, he's off.'

Nick pedaled hard. Only one vehicle passed him: a loud dually pickup truck. He would arrive at his bike-drop spot in 5:05. He then expeditiously tucked his green bicycle under some brush, about 20 feet (six meters) off the two-lane road. First phase completed. A success. Next, a little riverside walk. 'Little River. Big winner.' Well, let's hope so.

There was a faint fox path on the bank's edge. The walk was not difficult; the only obstacle was a fallen sycamore tree. Three minutes later Nick was staring at the sandbar that was created by deposition from Raccoon Creek. It's in that sandbar. I know it is. Looks like we may have to get wet. A pair of chilly feet will certainly be worth it.

Nick began splashing his way across the calf-deep stream, utilizing slightly submerged boulders. But, he slipped into a hole and the water level rose above his kneecaps. He managed to keep his metal detector dry by holding it horizontally. Soon he was standing on the spit of sand, gravel, and sundry pebbles. Woah! That water is cold!

He donned the earphones and clicked on the metal detector. Nick began sweeping the coil back and forth just above the sandbar. No beeps. But then, 29 seconds later, a bold low tone. That's it! That's got to be the nugget. The depth meter says that it's 20 inches [51 cm] down. That's deeper than expected. Damn! Forgot to bring a spade. Just use a stick.

Nick noticed a fallen branch on the bank. He grabbed it and snapped it over his right thigh. Nice tapered edge. Yeah, this should work just fine.

After digging to a depth of about one foot (30 cm), he heard a dog barking. The hound was getting closer. Wouldn't you know it! Just my luck – or, lack thereof. Guess I need to abandon the digging and hide. Where? Or, should I make a run for the road across the field? It's only 200 feet [61 meters] to that big curve. Yeah, let's get the hell out of here before we get charged with trespassing.

Nick would safely make it to Crannell Road. He would also safely make it back to his bicycle, and back home.

While lying in his double bed, he thought about his next move. I'll just go back there tomorrow night. Only this time, I'll bring that short shovel. I know where to dig, so I can leave the metal detector at home. Yeah, that's it. I'll have that nugget unearthed in two minutes max. I'll be in and out before Fido gets a whiff of my scent. Yeah, we've still got this; we're still bringing home the jackpot.

Sleep finally overtook Nick's restless mind at 3:33 AM. He would not awake until noon. And, even then, Nick still felt groggy. He yawned and switched on the local TV news. An attractive, 30-something, Asian female reporter was interviewing an older Caucasian man who looked very much like the farmer in yesterday's dream. They were standing in a verdant pasture. That field looks familiar. Eerily familiar.

"And, exactly how much does it weigh?" the reporter asked as a gust of wind blew her long black bangs across her face.

"After it was all cleaned up, the nugget came in at 53.2 ounces," [1,508 g] the farmer answered, brimming with pride.

"Now, what made you think to dig in that specific location?" Oh, no. What's this? No, don't tell me...

"I had a vision; it was in my dream last night," the beaming farmer replied. "I saw my good-luck canine, Leprechaun, digging down by the river where a tributary flows in from the north. I saw his claws scratching a yellowish rock. The rock was soft; his intense digging was leaving marks on it. Then I recognized the exact spot. After breakfast I headed out to the site. And, sure enough, Leprechaun had dug all the way down to a kidney-shaped three-pounder. All I really had to do was pluck it out." All 'I' really had to do was pluck it out.

As a close-up of the gold nugget appeared, Nick disgustedly turned off the TV. Un-focking-believe-a-bull. [sic] Why did this have to happen to me? Face it, dunce; you blew it. Spectacularly. Won't ever forget this. A once-in-a-lifetime chance. Is gone. Came up eight inches [20.3 cm] short. Just short of the goal line. And, eight minutes wanting. If I just would have had eight more minutes. If bad-luck Leprechaun would have just stayed asleep. If the wind would have blown east. If, if, if ... 'Sorry, no grand prize for you, Nick van Pech.'

Then Nick's cell phone chirped. He had received a text message from Ed.

V-ron and I hit it off. Early and often. All night long. She's one fine lady. She moved here from Portland – the other one – Maine. Oh, did you see the big local news story – the gold nugget found by the farmer? It was just on TV. If not, Google it. Now, get this – V-ron said that her friend sold the sheepdog to that farmer last year. Crazy, right? Any luck finding your gold nugget? Call me when you get a chance, prospector.

<bang>

Note: Other tales involving buried/hidden gold include Gold, a summer story (a deceptive, suspenseful, X-rated, noiresque novel), Gold, the short story (PG-13 rated), and The Mound (a G-rated short story).

26. Columbia Eclipsed (Aug. 2017)

At 6:32 AM in the predawn of Monday, August 21st, 2017, I parked the old grey ghost (our 2005 Kia Rio hatchback) in the middle of the unexpectedly-still-vacant asphalt lot off the western end of Laurel Street in Columbia (SC, USA). There would be an eclipse-viewing event later in the adjacent Riverfront Park. Without prior notice, a middle-aged female Caucasian jogger in a USC (University of South Carolina) Gamecocks tank top passed by our front bumper. She's certainly not lazy. Dedicated to her regimen, even in this sauna-like weather. / What discipline.

Monique (Agent 32, my adventure-loving Filipina wife) and I (Caucasian Agent 33) had left east Charlotte at 4:44 AM, as we feared a traffic jam after seeing the images from Oregon. Surprisingly, traffic wasn't too bad on the 101-mile (163 km) trek down Interstate 77 in the dark; we had beat the stampede from points north.

We got out of the car and walked down to the trailhead, curled around the restroom buildings, and then walked onto a steel pedestrian bridge. I looked down midway across and saw a water snake slithering up the distant muddy bank of the 1891 hydroelectric canal. Should I tell Monique? No, snakes freak her out. She'll want to leave. / What lies ahead today? Hope we don't have to walk too far. It's already hot, and the sun hasn't even cleared the trees.

At a T-intersection the infernal sun crested the tree line. We turned right, as the paved trail to the left was locked-off for some reason. About 800 feet (244 meters) down the Three Rivers Greenway, which ran along a slender island for 2.4 miles (3.86 km) between the Columbia Canal and the Congaree River, an overlook appeared on the left. We walked on the elevated deck, spying the river 30 feet (nine meters) below. I saw a large snapping turtle blithely swimming with the current for a while, and then it dove out of sight, down into the depths of the dark green water. Boy, that one was a monster. Maybe even bigger than the one I saw in Little Sugar Creek [in south Charlotte] a decade ago. / It would suck saggy balls to fall off this. Hope hubby doesn't do anything foolish. No place for a medical situation.

Suddenly a 60-ish Caucasian guy appeared. He was in jeans and a logo-less yellow knit shirt. As he started peering over the railing, I wondered who he might be. Is he here for the eclipse? Or, is he just another local out for morning exercise? No, if he were a local, he wouldn't be looking around the way he is. It's obvious that he's never been here, either. / Hope this man isn't buang. [crazy in Cebuano]

"Hello, are you down here for the solar eclipse?" I ventured.

"Yeah, sure am. The last one that I saw was in the Marshall Islands out in the Pacific on March 9th, 2016. It lasted over four minutes. I got some great pics and video, which I sped up to make a nice 20-second clip."

I then noticed his camera bag. "So, you're an eclipse chaser," I said, stating the now-obvious.

"Yep, an umbraphile – the 50-cent name," he replied. Umbraphile? That's right: Umbra means shadow. Is his significant other an umbrellaphile? [sic] / Wonder if he's a rank-and-file logophile.

"Where did you come from?" Monique then asked. Earth.

"Charleston," the gentleman stated.

"South Carolina, right?" I asked just to be certain, as his accent was hard to place.

"Yes, the Charleston by sea. However, being near the ocean is not so ideal today. The outer bands of an Atlantic storm are forecast to send in a lot of clouds and even some rain today. That's why I decided to drive to Columbia. Better sky conditions. I got here in just two hours." Not 2:02? Why do I think such numerical nonsense? / I bet that my husband wanted an oddly exact time. He's such a numerician. [sic]

"I hear ya," I said. "We drove down from Charlotte. Traffic was mostly light. No real issues." Except his ungodly morning breath. Hubby must have skipped the mouthwash in his haste to get out of the house.

"A buddy of mine from Charlotte is supposed to meet me here later," the light-brown-hair-fading-to-silver man said. "I hope that he doesn't wait too long to leave. I've sat in Charlotte morning rush-hour traffic before. I imagine that today could be horrendous with all of the eastern Ohio, western Pennsylvania, West Virginia and southwestern Virginia traffic funneling through; it could be a real bottleneck." Maybe so. / He sure knows his geography. Maybe he's a map-freak like my bana. [husband in Cebuano]

"Plus the Triad and Triangle traffic," I added.

"Yeah, those North Carolina metros will be coming down [Interstate] 77, too," the possibly one-time scratch golfer concurred.

"I'm just glad that we're already here," I conveyed. "It's a big relief. We've got the car safely parked in a free lot with no time limit. We'll be on foot from hereon. We can find things to do to fill the intervening time." I certainly hope so. We've got over seven hours to kill. / This red-haired guy is not going to do any more driving in Columbia? Weird. That's off-the-charts parking phobia. Almost as bad as Marty.

"Will you be videoing and taking photos from here today?" Monique then asked him. She's the one with more sense.

"Not here exactly," he answered. "Those trees may be in the way – just a tad too tall. But, probably around here." He then looked down at the river again. "Hey, I just saw the biggest alligator snapping turtle in my entire life. And, I've seen quite a few in my time." Wow! Another one? Or, the same one? This area must be Snapperville [sic] central / Yikes! No way would I even touch that water.

"Ah, another toe clipper; just saw one down there a few minutes ago," I disclosed. Why didn't he tell me? Is my bana making this up for the audio recorder?

"This one looked more like a whole-hand remover," the older gent stated. "Toes would just be the hors d'oeuvres."

"Swimmers beware!" I announced and then chuckled. Do people really swim in this river? Ew! He's just making conversation. I just know that he's recording this. I smell a short story in the offing.

"So, what do you two do?" he then inquired.

"I work in safety and write meta-real short stories," I replied. Meta-real? I bet that they're littorally awful – literary offal.

"Occupational-accident-inspired vignettes?" the seemingly interested man asked.

"They're always OSHA- [Occupational Safety & Health Administration] compliant," I assured. What? Pass.

"And, what about you, young lady?" he asked Monique.

"I keep our ship off the shoals," my wife divulged. "Someone has to pay attention to imminent danger. I'm now at the helm. I review the recordings and drafts before we stamp the psecret psociety logo on them." A secret society? Recordings and drafts? Are they recording this conversation now? Time to leave these two to their own devices.

"Well, nice meeting you two," he said. "Let's hope for a cloudless hole in the upper southwestern sky at 2:43."

"Fingers crossed," Monique replied.

"Toes, too," I added. What a nutter.

The man then tipped his khaki-colored, long-billed, no-team baseball cap and walked back towards the main trail. He turned left and continued north towards Interstate 126. We're off to a lucky start. He was perfect. Good material. / I just know that hubby is already sizing up a short story. Glad that guy was nice, and not a creep or a thief. / Wonder where those two wind up. God only knows.

We then started to walk back to the parking lot, as I wanted to get my wide-brimmed Australian field hat out of the car. The sun's unobstructed rays were already roasting my fair-skinned, 53-year-old face. Man oh man, it's already an oven. / Hope I don't faint. Don't think I can walk too far in this heat.

At the restroom area, there was now a young African American gentleman. Monique noticed that he had a box of eclipse glasses. She briskly walked up to him, as we didn't have any (none to be had in the Charlotte area).

"How much are the eclipse glasses?" she asked.

"They're free," he stated. "How many pairs do you need?"

"Just two for me and my husband," Monique replied.

"Here you go," the amiable man said as he handed the folded, very-dark-lensed, cardboard glasses to Monique.

"Yey!" she then exclaimed. "Thank you so much!"

"Let me give you a tip," I suggested to the very-dark-skinned park employee. "Is $10 ok? Or, how about 20?"

He shook his head and his hands. "No, I'm not allowed to take any money." An honest man. He's certainly not politician material. I bet that he does well in life. Hope so.

"Are you absolutely sure?" I pleaded, wanting to at least pay for his lunch. So very nice of him. Was expecting to pay $40 for a pair, and we got them for free! Amazing. Credit Monique for asking. I'm sure I would've walked right on by.

"Absolutely," he firmly answered. "Enjoy the eclipse."

"Ok, big thanks," I reiterated.

"We will be able to watch it directly now," Monique added. "Thanks again, sir."

"You're most welcome," he replied.

Two minutes later we were at our humble automobile. I got my desired hat out of the hatch as Monique got some drinks and treats out of the cooler in the back seat.

"Got everything, asawa?" [wife in Cebuano and Tagalog]

"I think we're all set, Agent 33." Agent 33. Yep, she knows that the switch is on; she knows that the little red light is lit.

"And, we're off, Agent 32!" I broadcasted. Hope we get inside an air-conditioned place as soon as possible. I'm already sweating like a carabao. [Philippine water buffalo] / Hope we can avoid the bummerazzi. [sic]

We then began our pedestrian journey towards Lady Street by exiting the parking lot onto Gist Street, walking south, making a left onto Blanding Street, rounding a right curve and finding ourselves on Williams Street. Williams Street. That's the outfit that did 'Space Ghost Coast to Coast'. / What in the world is my bana thinking of now? 'Adult Swim'?

At Taylor Street, which was already a bit busy, we had to stop and wait to cross.

"I wonder how much of this traffic is eclipse-related. What would you guess, Agent 32?"

"Probably 55.55 percent, Agent 33." Why did she pick that repeating-digit percentage? / That should get his marble spinning for a few minutes.

We safely crossed Taylor and continued walking down Williams for a block, arriving at a very busy downtown-bound Hampton Street. We turned left and walked beside a disused field up to Huger Street. There we crossed the wide one-way street. Wow! Seven lanes. Can't remember the last time I crossed a seven-lane, one-way, city street. / Bana is taking mental notes; I can almost hear the clanking of his old gears.

Once across the thoroughfare, I pushed the little crosswalk button inside the yellow box on the silver post. It worked. We then traversed a fairly busy, six-lane, two-way Huger Street to get in the shadow of the three-story Congaree Building. Next, we took a much-needed beverage break.

"No shortage of heat," I said, attempting some comic levity.

"How much farther?" Monique asked. "I'm already steamed."

"Lady Street is just up that hill. Then it's only 999 feet [304.5 meters] to the door, epic all-leaguer Agent 32." I'm too hot and tired for crazy numerical distances and psecret psociety agent-number nonsense. / She's running on fumes. Just let her have a nice break here in the shade.

"Ok, just give me five minutes, bana."

"Sure, asawa. No rush. We're way ahead of schedule."

Seven minutes later we were marching again. We soon passed a young, white, male, uniformed parking-lot attendant who was standing guard over a coned-off Traffic Court tarmac. However, the sidewalk soon ended and there was no way to walk on the grass, as it was a 50º sideways slope. Oh, no. / Crap! Stopped with just a block to go.

"What do we do now, Parkaar?" [my ailing alias]

"Maybe we can cut through the parking lot to the side street, Monique. It goes right up to Lady Street."

"Let's just talk to that man down there to be sure, dear."

"It's probably ok to just cut across, 32." But, maybe not.

"Well, let's just make sure, bana." Don't want to get in any trouble in this town.

"Ok, ok," I relented. She's a little paranoid. Can't imagine getting arrested for walking across an empty county-government-owned parking lot. / Can't trust his bad luck.

We walked back down to the 20-something man in silence, sweating profusely and smelling undoubtedly ripe. My deodorant failed an hour ago. / This place is hot!

"Hello," I said to him, staying 10 feet (three meters) away to spare him my lovely aroma. "Is it ok if we cut across the parking lot to Pulaski Street?"

"Sure, no problem," he replied. "Are you guys here for the big solar eclipse?"

"You guessed it!" Monique exclaimed. "Do we look like eclipse tourists?"

"To be honest, yes, you do," he answered.

We all had a chortle. Then Monique and I cut across the heat-reradiating, asphalt, almost-completely-devoid-of-vehicles parking lot.

"Wonder why they don't open up the lot and charge eclipsers [sic] for parking spaces, Monique. I bet they could reel in a tidy sum of money." His brain must be parboiled now.

"Probably because Traffic Court is in session today, and they want to keep it just for the parties in the cases."

"That sounds about right, 32." Of course it does.

We then walked over a grassy area and alighted on Pulaski Street. Up the hill we went. We were soon on Lady Street.

"Now, which way?" Monique asked.

"To the left, 32. It's just past that bridge." Hope he's right. My head is aching from this heat.

After glancing at the twin railroad-track pairing below, we crossed the two-lane, planter-lined, quaint street. A few more strides later we had arrived at our intended destination: Carolina Ale House. Yes, we're here. / Thank God we finally made it. The heat has sapped my stamina. So freaking hot!

I walked up to the thick wooden doors, hoping that maybe they opened early for the eclipse. No such luck. All locked. The posted hours stated that they would open for lunch at 11:00 AM, like it was just another ordinary Monday. I then looked at my cell phone. It was only 8:31 AM. Jeez! Two and a half hours before they open. What to do?

We sat down on a long bench next to the main entrance that was in the required shade. We didn't say anything; we were exhausted. Then, several minutes later, a minivan and a sedan pulled into the parking lot – a parking lot that had many open spaces. We could have just parked here. What was he thinking? I bet that he just wanted to see that canal.

The people who got out of the red Honda Odyssey knew the people in the silver Nissan Sentra. They were from Maryland and Virginia, respectively (going by their license plates). The middle-aged Caucasian crew of six walked over to us.

"I guess that you guys must be first in line," a jolly, rotund, brown-haired lady said.

"Not by design," Monique riposted.

"We got here much earlier than expected," I informed.

"I heard that they will open early," a bespectacled, nearly bald, 50-ish man said. Yes! / That's great news.

"How early?" Monique asked.

"10:45," he replied. Darn! Was hoping for 9:00 AM. / Drats! That's still a long, long, long time from now.

The party of six then started talking amongst themselves. They were debating going somewhere else to observe the eclipse, like to the State Fairgrounds. Then, after maybe five minutes of discussion, half of them took off in the van to do some reconnaissance of other viewing sites in Columbia.

Restaurant employees began showing up. They entered through a side door. Soon a black employee was sweeping the parking lot. It was now 9:05. One hundred minutes on the wall. If one of these minutes should accidentally fall...

"Hey mahal, [love in Tagalog] how would you like to walk over to Starbucks?" I asked. "It's only two blocks away. We'll order a pair of caramel frappuccinos and relax in the A/C. [air conditioning] What do you say?" More sun, more heat, and more walking = more sweat, more body odor, and more fatigue. I'm already soaked, smelly and spent. No way.

"No, that's ok, 33. I'm just going to wait it out right here. We may lose our spot in line and not get a table." Monique looked exhausted, and maybe slightly dehydrated.

"Ok, just an idea, my prescient princess." Ah, if I could only foresee the future... We wouldn't be sitting here right now.

Then the front doors were being unlocked. A young, slightly short, slim African American male stepped out. "Hey, you guys are welcome to come inside," he said. "But, you won't be able to order any food or drinks until 11 o'clock." Most excellent! / Serendipity strikes again!

"Thank you so much, sir," Monique said. "It's so freaking hot out here. We arrived way too early. We miscalculated."

"I understand. My name is Troy. I'm the general manager. I want you to have a good time today. Now, just follow me."

Troy then led us up the wooden steps to the upper level. He told us that we could sit anywhere, except for a few reserved tables on the concrete deck. We grabbed a four-top table inside near the bar and thanked him profusely again. Then he rushed off to prepare his crew for the onslaught of eclipse viewers. We could hear talk of a zone strategy.

For the next 90 minutes, we and three other patrons-to-be sipped ice water and watched ESPN on the flat screens. A Little League World Series game was on one of the TVs in the corner. The players and spectators were showing off their wacky eclipse glasses in South Williamsport, Pennsylvania. Wonder how much of the sun will be blocked by the moon there. [74%]

Then at 10:45, the doors below were opened. People started to stream into the poster-lined tavern. At 11:01, Daryl, a young, über-courteous African American dude, took our order. I bet he's a college student. / Yey! Food is on the way!

Soon were eating and drinking as the upstairs began to populate. I was chomping on a veggie flatbread pizza and Monique was contently eating her island tacos. The local dark beer wasn't half bad. My wife nursed a Bailey's on the rocks. All in all, I think we chose a pretty good venue. / If dear hubby just would have parked here, we would not now be encrusted in sweat residue.

An African American DJ began to set up on the west end of the deck. Monique then noticed him giving away eclipse glasses. She promptly went up and snagged another pair for souvenirs' sake. When she returned to the table, I decided to chide her, playfully.

"Honey, you're being greedy." I had a guffaw.

"I'm not being greedy; he has a stack of them. Anyway, I only asked for two." She had a totally serious look.

I smiled at her lovely naturally tanned face. "Ok, Miss Memento." He doesn't know how to seize an opportunity.

Soon the DJ was pumping out a mélange of eclipse-related pop music. At 1:11 PM he made an announcement: "The Great American Eclipse of 2017 has begun in Columbia."

I then went outside with a pair of ISO 12312-2 eclipse glasses in hand. I found a standing spot near the railing of the 15-feet-above-the-street (4.6-meter-high) terrace. After a slow-moving, pregnant-with-future-raindrops cumulus cloud passed, I noticed that the moon had taken a tiny slither out of the right side of the sun. And so it silently begins...

Then Monique went outside to check it out 22 minutes later. However, she promptly returned.

"Someone bumped the back of my head, bana."

"Well, it's pretty crowded out there, asawa. Some bumping of body parts is to be expected. Did they apologize?"

"Yes, she did."

"How does it look now, 32?"

"Cookie-moon monster has taken a big bite, 33."

At 2:20 a milk-white, middle-aged lady excitedly came up to our table. "Oh, you should go out and see it now. The sun is now three-fourths covered by the moon."

At 2:24 I went out on the large balcony one last time. I looked north up the Gadsden Street hill, but couldn't make out the Governor's Mansion. Then I peered through the pitch-black lenses at the dark moon that had now claimed 80% of the tangerine sun. The recorded music blared. Pink Floyd's Brain Damage/Eclipse then started playing to a spattering of applause, howls and cheers. Very close now.

I then went downstairs at 2:39 PM to experience totality, but Monique stayed to watch it from above. She was still tired and said that she wanted to guard our belongings. She was suspicious of a certain lurker.

Once in the parking lot, I noticed crescent-shaped shadows from the maple trees' leaves. I saw some photographers who had already set up their cameras on tripods. Then I overheard one of them say that he was going to insert a toy spaceship in front of the eclipse. Ecliptacular [sic] idea, dude. Astronomical wig-out! Score!

At 2:42 I held the eclipse glasses up to my eyes. In a matter of seconds I watched the orange crescent totally disappear. The crickets were now going crazy. Then there was nothing but blackness – no light of any kind. Was the solar eclipse cancelled for nonpayment? Hope I remember that line.

I removed the singular-use glasses to see a black moon blotting out the sun. There was a ring of radiating white light (the sun's corona) around it. It was such a stark, ultra-high-contrast image. Never will forget this sight. Almost feels evil.

Then I looked around. Twilight-level darkness pervaded the Palmetto State's capital city. It got less hot. People were hooting and hollering. 'Party like it's 1999.' Was there a total solar eclipse in 1999? [Yes, there was one on August 11th in Europe and southern Asia.]

And then, it was all over so quickly. A blinding arc of the mad-as-hell sun reappeared. I took a final look. All these roundish objects whizzing around in space. Millions of them. Make that billions. I bet there are super-intelligent entities out there. Probably too smart to waste time with us.

The traffic on the way back to Charlotte was atrocious. It was mostly a crawl. We saw numerous wrecks on I-77. Ambulances were flying by us in the emergency lane every five miles (8 km). At this rate we'll be home at midnight.

We decided to bail on the interstate and took US 21 North from Ridgeway. The massive swell-like hills of the Midlands brought back memories of a family trip from Charlotte to the Isle of Palms (SC) in 1975 in a 1968 Dodge Polara station wagon. I remembered my dad's proclamation: "We're gonna have fun, goddamit! Starting right now." We all laughed three seconds later. Back then, Interstate 77 wasn't yet completed from Charlotte to Columbia, so motorists – including the 18-wheelers – were forced to use the dangerous, hilly, two-lane, mostly median-less highway. This area of South Carolina sure has some giant hills – almost like the foothills of North Carolina in some of these stretches. Though, the highway is as straight as a line here. Wow! That hill must be two miles [3.2 km] ahead. Whew! A long way down on the right. / Wonder when the next total solar eclipse is in America. [April 8, 2024] Hopefully not in summer.
27. Pass-Through Paradox (Sep. 2017)

Front Range International University (FRIU) had decided to move its universal waste storage area from a leased warehouse near downtown Denver (Colorado, USA) to the basement of its new IT (Information Technology) Building in Arvada (11 miles – 17.7 km – northwest). Donald, a 36-year-old Caucasian, eight-year veteran in the Facilities Services Department, had been assigned the task of preparing the vacated 409-square-foot (38-square-meter) storeroom for incoming blown fluorescent lamps of various lengths and types, burned-out incandescent light bulbs, used batteries, empty aerosol spray cans, unused/recalled pesticides, and spent printer cartridges.

After working on the project for the better of three days, blonde-hair-receding Donald had all of the metal shelving assembled, the forklift pallets strategically placed, and the cardboard boxes made. His supervisor then inspected it, and was satisfied. After the boss left, he thought to himself: Mission accomplished. All done. Well, this sure is a nice place to disappear and take a nap. Or, have a sip. Or, something else. I'm the only one – with the exception of Ted in Maintenance and Campus Security – who can open the door. Will definitely make the most of this private space.

Two weeks later on a crisp October Monday in 2016, Donald was in the new universal waste storeroom sorting through a box of assorted batteries that had just come in. After placing the lithium-ion ones safely in their designated box, Donald's eyes noticed a ventilation pass-through duct high on the far wall. He could tell by the glow that the light was on in the adjacent bunker: the e-waste (outdated/broken tower computers, laptops, tablets, printers, scanners, etc.) storage room. Hmmm... Never noticed that before. Wonder who works over there. Probably some IT nerd.

He walked towards the pass-through vent. Donald then began to hear noises that sounded like items being placed on pallets. I guess some Dell desktops finally bit the dust. I guess he – or she? – hears me knocking around in here, too. Glad I haven't done any of my bad singing.

Due to the labyrinthine layout of the basement, Donald and the employee who worked in the e-waste storeroom never crossed paths; their respective entrances were on different corridors.

As the weeks went by, Donald noticed a pattern: The light in the e-waste storeroom would be switched off around 3:00 PM. After that time he would sometimes hear noises in there, like someone was bumping into things due to the darkness. And then, eight to ten minutes later, the door would slam shut. It was perplexing. Why in the world is he or she working in the dark in the late afternoon? Working? I sincerely doubt that.

The very next day, Donald decided to do a little experiment. After hearing the worker in the e-waste storeroom at 2:54 PM, he turned off the overhead lights in the universal waste storeroom and exited. Then he very quietly re-entered the storage room at 3:03 PM, but didn't switch on any lights. He sat down on his makeshift chair of crates. Donald noticed that the pass-through vent was dark; the light in the next room was off again per the usual routine. Then two short minutes later, he caught a whiff of an unmistakable odor: marijuana smoke. It was wafting through the open vent in the wall. Ah, so my fellow coworker on the other side of this four-inch [10 cm] sheetrock wall is a burner. [marijuana smoker] Well then, I guess it's ok to fire up my little bowl, [marijuana pipe] too.

While marijuana was now legal in Colorado, it was against college policy to smoke it on the job, whether on or off the clock on campus.

Then at 3:12 PM, Donald heard the sound of an aerosol spray can being discharged in the e-waste storeroom. The light came on. But, it was switched off just three seconds later. Then he heard the door shut. I smell a pine scent. Must have been an odor neutralizer. Damn! I don't have an odor neutralizer in here. What to do? Lucky for me, no one will be dropping off anything. Oh, let's just get the hell out of here. It was a dumb idea to smoke weed in this room. Dumb – very dumb. Mustn't do it again. Need to buy some odor killer and come in early tomorrow morning – before anyone can smell this room. No, wrong; must go right NOW and buy some. Just can't chance it. Can't afford to lose this job.

At 4:44 PM, Tim, the 27-year-old Amerasian e-waste coordinator, returned to his storeroom to make sure that the weed odor was gone. He still smelled marijuana smoke. What the hell?! This room still reeks! It's like I didn't even spray in here. I used the last half of the can. Damn! Now I need to go out and buy some more. And, pronto!

Tim then headed to a nearby Walmart – the same one that Donald was already in. They would actually pass each other in the store, mutually oblivious, as Broncos-jacket-clad Tim was looking down and winter-coat-covered Donald was looking up.

Donald would arrive at the IT Building first. He quickly sprayed the universal waste storeroom with a store-brand odor neutralizer that had a citrusy scent. Soon the storage room smelled like a ripe Florida lemon. Perfect. Weed odor completely masked. If anyone asks, I can just say it was the scent from a floor cleaner. But, what if someone asks to see the cleaner? Why would anyone ask that? Man, I'm still high.

Tim would arrive at the e-waste storeroom at 5:25 PM, seven minutes after Donald had left the employee parking lot. He immediately noticed that the marijuana odor was gone, and had been replaced with a lemon-like odor. That's not the air freshener that I use. What the hell is going on here? Did someone discover the smell and spray the room down (for me)? Obviously. But, who? Who knows about the weed odor that was in here? Did James [an IT coworker] cover my ass? Was it reported to the higher-ups by someone else? Crap! Probably so. The shit is going to hit the fan tomorrow. Time to tune up the résumé tonight. I bet I get canned tomorrow morning.

The next cold morning, Donald arrived in the universal waste storeroom at a quarter to seven. The lemon fragrance had dissipated. And, there wasn't a hint of marijuana smoke odor. Good deal. I think I got away with that one.

Donald soon began boxing up some blown four-foot-long fluorescent tubes. Then at 8:14 AM, he heard someone in the e-waste storeroom. Wonder if he or she is going to get high again. The marijuana smoke could come in here again, and I'd look like the culprit. Don't want to get them fired, but I don't want to get fired, either. Would be nice to just close off that vent. Yeah, just tape some cardboard over it.

Donald then laid a pallet up against the wall on a 61-degree angle. He carefully climbed up to the pass-through with a roll of duct tape in his left hand and a 7" x 13" (18 x 33 cm) piece of cardboard in his right hand. Soon his hands were at the level of the pass-through. I'd really like to see who works over there. Just one more slat up. Just one more step.

Donald soon saw the blue glow of a computer screen and the back of a black-haired 20-something man. Ah-ha! So, that's my next-door weedhead. [marijuana smoker]

Suddenly the forklift pallet started to slide. Donald jumped backwards. The wooden pallet kicked out from the wall and came to rest flat on the floor just before his work boots landed on – and cracked – a wide slat, resulting in a loud double slam. Fortunately for Donald, he had only slightly sprained his right ankle. Jesus H. Christ! That could have been a lot worse. Sure made a lot of noise. What is that guy over there thinking now? Is he going to call Security and have them check on me? / That dude over there sure is clumsy. Wonder if he got hurt. Time to get out of here.

The e-waste storeroom door closed. Tim promptly exited the basement area. His mind was racing. I think that I've been spied upon. For how long? That employee knows that I smoke weed. Will he turn me in? Why hasn't he already? Is he just some voyeuristic weirdo? This college sure has quite a few of them. Time to look up Mr. Universal Waste on the college's e-directory.

Tim got out his smartphone and quickly found him on the university's organization chart. Donald Rossingtone. Looks like this white dude smokes. [marijuana] Did he spray that lemon-scented odor neutralizer through that wall vent after smelling the weed odor? Was he looking out for me? Or, just himself? Such a strange situation: our presences are known; but, our motives are unclear.

Eleven minutes later, Donald reset the pallet against the wall, but this time at a steeper – and safer – angle of 72 degrees. He also placed some no-skid rubber strips on the floor-contacting edge. The former Wyomingite had the pass-through covered and taped-off in a mere 83 seconds. All done. No more marijuana odor entering my space. Wonder what Mr. IT will think. 'That guy over there is uptight and skittish' 'Whatever, man.' Don't want to get him fired, but I've got to protect my job. Hard to get these benefits anymore in the private sector.

The next week, on a chilly Wednesday morning, Tim was sitting in the e-waste storeroom when he turned and looked at the pass-through vent. He heard Donald working in the neighboring storage room. We're both headed for obscurity. No one will remember either of us in 100 years; strike that – make it 50. Must use those lines. Yes, type them into this chapter right now – lest me [sic] forget. [Tim was writing a dystopian novel with the working title of 'Oblivion +1'.]

Tim then got up to get some more piping hot coffee in the upstairs lounge. But, just as he flipped the light switch and turned the door handle, he noticed that the pass-through vent was dark. He paused. Then he quietly stepped back into the room and gently closed the door, leaving the light off. That's odd. Is that guy now working in the dark? No way. Something's up.

Then Tim switched the overhead light back on. He walked over to the pass-through vent, which was about nine feet (2.74 meters) high on the white-primer-painted wall. Why, look at that! Mr. Rossingtone has covered his side of the vent. Neighbors these days. Well, that's fine and dandy. Actually, it's ideal. Issue solved. So glad that he didn't turn me in. Maybe he's an ok guy. Just a bit on the paranoid side.

The two FRIU workers went about their business in their separate storerooms for the next three weeks with the pass-through vent covered on Donald's side. But then, on the first Monday in November, Tim arrived to find a big change in his e-waste storeroom: The pass-through vent was gone. It had been removed and the void had been dry-walled over. Well, look at that. I wonder if Donald did that himself. No, he couldn't have; he doesn't have a key to this room. But, I bet that he requested it. I bet that he invented some safety reason for it.

Donald noticed the same thing in his storeroom five minutes later that morning. His side was already painted. It looked like the pass-through vent had never been there. So, Mr. IT pulled some strings with Maintenance and had them wall off that vent. I bet that he fabricated some security reason. Those IT types are quite crafty. Maybe he gave the guy in Maintenance a free used computer for doing it after hours. He's probably burning a fatty [a distended marijuana cigarette] right now. [Tim was.] Guess I could safely do so, too. I've still got the air freshener. Oh hell, why not?

At that same time, the district fire inspector was talking on the phone with the university's fire safety specialist, a 39-year-old Navajo American male who was in the Maintenance Building.

"Sani, did your guys get that basement pass-through vent removed and walled-off?"

"We did, Harvey. We just need to paint one side."

"Excellent. Good job, Sani. Now, how about those alarm-system-linked smoke detectors for the storerooms?"

"They were installed and tested late last Friday. We went with that small, inset, nearly invisible model that you approved."

28. The Toothache (Oct. 2017)

Forty-nine-year-old John was out the door at dawn. It was a chilly 48º (Fahrenheit; 9º Celsius) morning. Low gray clouds and mist hovered over the Richmond District of San Francisco (CA, USA) on this date of November 21, 1954. Once on the 15th Avenue sidewalk, the sweater-clad, dark-haired Caucasian gent of average build thought: No rain is forecast today. The fog should be gone soon. A good day to do some walking. Clear the mind. Maybe burn some belly fat off. Don't want to have to buy new pants. Sure could go for some hot coffee. Yeah, let's hit that joint on Lake Street. It's not that far away.

Three long blocks later, John was at his intended java joint. It had just opened. The owner, an immigrant from Zadar (a city in present-day Croatia), was still taking the chairs off the red with gold speckles, Formica-topped, round tables.

"Good to see ya, John," the curly-brown-haired, thin, 50-ish, mustachioed café owner said. "A black coffee with just one lump of sugar?" Wow! He remembers. Haven't sleepwalked in here in months. Does he not have that many customers?

"Sure," John replied. Wonder why Ivan emigrated from Yugoslavia to America. Probably to escape [Josip Broz] Tito and Soviet hegemony. Hell, I'd want to leave, too.

"What brings you out so early on a Sunday?" Ivan asked.

"Oh, exercise, I guess," John answered. "Didn't want to sit around all day again." And drink.

"That's a good reason," Ivan concurred. "This new television thing is very passive. Just sit, watch, and eat."

"So true, Ivan."

Soon Ivan was placing a white porcelain cup of dark coffee down on the saucer in front of John. "Drink up," Ivan implored. "Don't let it get cold; that brings bad luck." Must be some Eastern European superstition.

John inhaled the coffea arabica aroma and took a big gulp. And then another. This will wake me up and get me going.

"How is it?" Ivan asked from across the small sitting area.

"Perfect: hot and strong. Good job, Ivan."

"Thank you, sir," Ivan said as he slid behind the counter.

"Ivan, I have a question for you," John announced.

"I'll answer only if it's off the record," Ivan replied with a compressed grin. Off the record? Surveillance back home.

John laughed for a few seconds. "Ok, here it is: You see a discarded commode on the curb. You could use one. It looks fine and still has all the parts intact. Do you take it?"

"Are you low on cash, John? If so, the coffee is on me."

John chuckled. "No, I could go out and buy a new one. I just thought, well, if it's still good, why not grab it and save some money?" What a tvrdica! [miser in Croatian] No wonder he's alone.

"No, I wouldn't advise it, John. There could be a rat or a snake hiding in it." Ouch!

"Ok, thanks for your answer, Ivan. I'll pass on that toilet." John scratched his scalp as he took another swallow. Suddenly the pang hit with full fury. Ferociously. His misaligned wisdom tooth was raging again. Yow! God Almighty it hurts! Did the hot coffee set it off? Darn! My dentist is closed today. All dentists in the city are closed today. What to do? Should I just get drunk to kill the pain? But, I'll be hungover tomorrow morning and have to miss work again. No, that's out. What about aspirin? Take half a bottle and start bleeding again? No, that's out, too. Damn, that tooth hurts. Satan has occupied my mouth.

Ivan saw John grimace. "Are you ok, buddy?"

"I've got a bad toothache, Ivan. It's a back molar."

"I have some clove oil," Ivan offered. Clove oil? Must be some Old World folk remedy. No thanks!

"Uh, that's ok, Ivan. I think the pain will subside once I start walking. Thanks anyway." He doubts its effectiveness.

"Ok, suit yourself," Ivan stated. Another stubborn American.

John then got up and paid for the coffee. He managed to force a somewhat normal facial expression as he said farewell to Ivan. This guy is in some kind of severe pain. Well, I tried to help him.

John continued walking north and was soon on the grounds of the Presidio (an old US Army fort). He continued trekking northward on Wedemeyer Street and then on Battery Caulfield Road. There was hardly any automobile traffic. This damn toothache seems to be subsiding a little. Let's just keep walking. Try to think of something else. Anything.

At a eucalyptus-canopied Washington Boulevard, he turned left. Wonder if Ike [President Eisenhower] can get the North Koreans to sign a peace treaty. Wouldn't expect any help from Russia. Wonder how the world is in the 21st century. Still an unsettled mess, I would eagerly bet. Wonder if World War III has occurred by 2020. Ow! The pain is back with a merciless vengeance. What did they do for toothaches in the old days? Ether and pliers? This pain is unendurable. Have to do something. Soon. Very soon.

John stopped at a west-facing overlook. He faintly heard the surf and could occasionally see the Pacific Ocean through the wispy fog. If only saltwater cured toothaches...

After a brief stop, John continued his agonizing northward journey. He was lost in thought. That little café/souvenir shop is less than a mile [1.6 km] from here.

Eighteen throbbing minutes later, John was in a small, window-walled, round building. He quickly found and bought a pre-stamped postcard from the 20-something female Chinese American clerk. After borrowing her pen, he scrawled a short message on the back. Then he dropped the Greetings from San Francisco postcard into the cast-iron mailbox. Done with this toothache. Done with it all.

John would jump from the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge's main span nine minutes later, and die almost instantly from impact trauma sustained from the 243-foot (74-meter), 70 MPH (113 km/h) fall. During the four seconds of freefall, John thought about another jumper. 'Well, Harold Wobber, [a World War I veteran who was the first Golden Gate Bridge suicide in 1937] this is where I got off, too. This is where I get permanent relief. This is where...' <splat>

The single sentence that was written on the postcard: Absolutely no reason except I have a toothache.

Note: This fictionalized vignette about John Thomas Doyle's last day is in memory of the late Russ Newsom, an original NoDa visual/video artist, sci-fi savant, and cogent contrarian.
29. The Locked Door (Oct. 2017)

Karen, a 31-year-old single Asian American, arrived home at her one-bedroom, one-bathroom, second-floor east Charlotte (NC, USA) apartment at 5:55 PM. It was a tranquil fall evening, but this particular late October Thursday (2015) had been anything but at her uptown trend-analysis office; she was completely exhausted. She flopped on the couch, flipped on the local news, and exhaled. What a day! Need a glass of Merlot. Sleep is going to feel oh so good.

Halfway through the international news, Karen arose and stumbled into her old ottoman. She looked at it. I don't really use that thing anymore. It's just in the way. Better put it up before I trip over it and do a nasty faceplant. [frontward fall]

Karen then grabbed it and walked over to the storage closet. She put the well-worn, brown leather, two-seams-ripped footstool down on the beige carpet. Then she grasped the door handle. But, the door was locked. This puzzled her. That's strange. I guess that I accidentally turned the switch to horizontal again, just like I did a few weeks ago. I'm way too tired to deal with this right now. I'll use a flathead screwdriver to open it later. Why does a storage closet door in an apartment have an inside lock anyway? I bet that the contractor only ordered handlesets with locks. Probably a volume discount. If the lock were on the outside that would be crazy – and quite dangerous: a tiny solitary confinement cell. One could accidentally get locked in there. Wonder if I can disable it. Or, maybe just tape the thumbturn in the vertical position. Well, that's a project for another day. Don't even have any duct tape. Time to eat and lie down. I need a goodnight's sleep like a parched rice paddy needs a long soaking rain.

At an already-dark 7:37 PM, Karen was in her queen-size bed reading a spy novel. She had forgotten all about the locked storage room door. At 7:58 she was sawing logs; she was out like a lamb.

He quietly unlocked the closet door at 8:02 PM. He turned the pewter doorknob and slowly pushed the lightweight foam-core door open. He stepped out and quietly reclosed the door.

Then he silently tiptoed across the living room floor to her bedroom door. He looked through the crack. He saw parallel blanketed ridges: her legs at the bottom of the bed. The low-wattage nightstand lamp was still on. The same book was lying on the red coverlet, off to her right. It was just as he remembered.

He then opened the bedroom door some more. He saw the left side of her tan face and remembered their times together in that very bed. It was now five months since they had broken up.

Without any forewarning, Karen turned her head towards the door. She was starting to awake. He quickly pulled the door back to its original slightly open position. She resettled; she never awoke.

He then soundlessly made his way over to the front door. He unlocked the deadbolt as quietly as possible and let himself out. From the dim, 1960-ish, brick-walled corridor, he relocked the deadbolt and doorknob lock. Then his 32-year-old, lanky, Caucasian American body slinked away. It was the third time that Jack had secretly entered and exited Karen's apartment – with her in it.

Down in the parking lot, blonde-haired Jack prepared to enter his car, a 2009 silver Ford Mustang. Just as he touched the door handle, he was struck on the back of the head by a truncheon. He was knocked-out instantly; his body slid down the side of the car and onto the asphalt parking lot.

The late-20-something Hispanic male attacker then dragged him over to his green minivan and handcuffed him. Then he placed Jack, facedown, in the back of the seats-removed 2006 Dodge Caravan. Next, the attacker tied bandanas over Jack's mouth and eyes to gag and blindfold him. Then he got in the driver's seat and promptly drove off.

At the crossroads township of Red Cross (28 miles – 45 km – east of Karen's apartment) on a now-quiet four-lane highway (NC 24/27), Jack started to come to; his consciousness was achingly returning. He groaned and moaned. Gosh, my head hurts! I'm all bound-up in a moving vehicle of some kind. What's going on? Why me? Why me!

"Take it easy there, pretty boy," the gruffish Mexican American shouted backwards from the driver's seat. ¡Qué escoria! ['What a scumbag!' in Spanish]

Jack growled indecipherably. What in the world has happened? Apparently I've been abducted. But, by whom? Who is this guy? He sounds Hispanic. Where are we going?

"Listen here, gringo, [Latino slang for a non-Hispanic American] if you don't shut the fuck up, I'm going to put a bullet right through your goddam cutie-pie head! Right here and right now! Just try me, dickhead!" Oh, crap! He's an insanely violent type. He must have whacked me in the back of the head in the apartment parking lot.

Jack quieted down. He lay motionless on the carpet that reeked of motor oil. What a fix I'm in. But, why? I've never crossed any Hispanic dudes. Why didn't he just rob me and leave me? Need to try to talk with him. Must try to get this damn cloth out of my mouth. Maybe then I can reason with him. Maybe I can cut a deal to save my life.

Using a nodding motion against the carpet while sucking his lips inward, Jack tried to get the lower bandana partially free from his mouth. But, it was to no avail. It's useless. It's way too tight to move. I'm fucked.

Eleven contemplative minutes later, the driver turned on the radio. Soon he was humming along with the songs on a Spanish radio station. What a bad seed this hombre [man in Spanish] is. From crass violence to saccharine love songs.

Quite suddenly, the assailant-abductor-driver turned the radio off. The only sound was that of the worn-out tires. Guess he didn't like that tune. What a nut-job. Damn, these handcuffs are on so tight. Fucking sadist!

Sixteen minutes later the vehicle stopped in the emergency parking lane. The portly, still enraged, dark-haired Hispanic man got out of the van and walked around to the side door. He slung it open and ripped Jack out, setting him atop the concrete rail of the bridge over Lake Tillery (Pee Dee River).

"You fucked my Juanita," the driver snarled. "She told me that it was a golden-boy gringo. Now you get to go for a swim." Who is Juanita? [She lived across the hall from Karen.]

"Nooooo," Jack pleaded through the bandana.

"Oh, sí," [yes in Spanish] the vengeful driver retorted as he forcefully pushed Jack in the upper chest, causing him to topple. Oh, no! What's behind me? Anything? / Athios, bastardo Americano. ['Goodbye, American bastard' in Spanish]

Jack fell backwards over the guard wall. Two seconds later he splashed into the cool water. Holy cow! I'm in a lake. Or, is this a slow-flowing river? Must stay afloat using my legs. Which way to go? No idea. Kick harder.

The minivan pulled away under a moonless sky.

Karen got her desired night of restful sleep. She awoke refreshed and recharged at 5:58 AM. I feel much better now. So much better. What a difference a night makes.

After a medium-hot shower, she alighted in the kitchen for coffee, a banana, and a slice of toast. It was her usual workday breakfast. After buttering the hot bread, she looked at the silver knife. This could open that door. I'm not sure where that flathead screwdriver is. Maybe Jack took it. Oh, why not give it a try? I've got some time.

Karen then walked over to the storage room door. She deftly placed the curved side of the butter knife on the door's brass tongue. I'll never forget dad showing me how to do this little trick. Gosh, I still miss him so much. Why did he have to get colon cancer and die at the age of 45? Only 45! This tragic life: It's just not fair. And, it never was, or will be. That's just how it is. That's how it goes, I suppose.

Next, Karen pushed down on the door lever. It went all the way down easily. The door immediately opened. Huh?! That's odd. It's like the door wasn't locked. What the heck is going on here? It was most certainly locked last night.

Karen then peered into the storage closet. There was a yellow baseball cap with a cryptic indigo logo lying on the carpet. That's Jack's! What the hell! So, my sneaky ex-boyfriend was in there. Why did he hide in there? How long was he in there? Did he steal anything? How did he get in my apartment? Oh, that's right; he still has the duplicate keys. I need to have the locks changed. Immediately. Must call the office when they open. Should I call Jack? No, nothing good would come from it. He would just go into his Prince Charming act and try to get back with me. I'm done with him. He's obviously a psycho. Should have listened to Suzie. [her best friend] She was right once again; she really knows men.

Her Friday at work was much less fatiguing than yesterday; it was a breeze.

At 6:03 PM, with new keys in her left hand, Karen nervously opened her apartment door. It looked ok. She relaxed and considered going out with some female friends later.

Karen switched on the local news. The white male reporter had a lake behind him. Then Jack's face appeared with his full name below. A morning fisherman had found his bound body floating near the western shoreline.

She gasped. Oh, my God! That's Jack! My ex is dead! But, why? Who did that to him? Was he really in my apartment last night? Of course he was – that's his cap. How horrible!

After dolefully eating a bowl of rice and tofu, Karen disconsolately walked over to the storage closet door. It was locked.
30. The Bunker (Oct. 2017)

Epic Prepperazzi (EP) was an upstart dry-food supplier for preppers (people who believe that a catastrophic disaster or apocalyptic emergency is likely to occur in the near future, and therefore stockpile food, water and goods accordingly). Being a latecomer to the mushrooming hoard-for-survival milieu, the Canadian-American company decided the best way to increase sales and carve out market share was to have a unique, attention-arresting contest. The nondescript online text ad read:

How long could you live alone in a 70º Fahrenheit (21º Celsius) underground bunker in central Colorado with a surfeit of food, drink (including beer/wine) and marijuana, but with NO Internet, NO e-mail, NO phone, NO texts, NO TV, NO radio, and NO clock/watch? We'll pay a special someone $100 a day. Do you have what it takes? Text YES to EP999 for more info.

Doug, a widowed, childless, retired, healthy, 61-year-old Caucasian Manitoban, had to read it again on his laptop. And then, another four times. He smiled and thought: This is me! I could do this. I'll finally write that novel before I croak. My experience down there could figure into the plot. I bet that I can go at least a month in that underground flat with no problem. Probably two. An easy $6K. Or more! For sure. They may have to extract me from that bunker.

He received the digital prospectus on his smartphone two minutes after texting. Doug mused over the details. Nice logo. Oh, so the bunker is deep inside a Rocky Mountain. Hmmm... 700 square feet [65 square meters] of living space. Not bad; bigger than my studio apartment in Toronto. Nice bedroom and bathroom. Decent kitchen. Laundry facilities. A small home theater with over 15,000 film titles, including adult selections. Ah, porno is included. Definitely a male behind this crazy idea. Over 40,000 video-projected e-books are available, including steamy romance novels. Maybe a female is involved, too. Over 80,000 song titles in every genre. Wow! Better have some Ravel and Mussorgsky. Over 2,000 video games. I'd have to be really bored. Though, computer chess might be ok. Or, maybe Go. Wow! That's a nice rowing machine. It even has a 400-foot-long [122 meters] circular track in an old tunnel for walking, running or cycling. Final decision on winning candidate to be made by EP on September 30, 2014. Deadline for entrant forms is September 15th. That's just three days away. If chosen, notification will be made on October 3rd. Must be able to begin bunker habitation on Friday, October 10th at noon. There will be media coverage and fanfare. And, last but not least, the hold-harmless agreement – the waiver of the right to sue. Ah, the lawyers probably spent months crafting the language for this bizarre, potentially dangerous, publicity stunt. Should I really sign up for this? Ah, why not? There's no application fee; it's totally free. Anyway, I'm sure that I won't get picked. My age will disqualify me; I bet that they think I'm too old – too much of a health risk – a liability. They're probably looking for an ultra-fit, manic, 30-something survivalist type. Oh well, here goes. One never knows.

It was a chilly, cloudy, forlorn first October (the 3rd) Friday in Winnipeg. Doug was sipping on some tomato-basil soup in his seniors-only apartment when he heard the text alert on his smartphone. He clicked on the message icon. The new text was from EP. I guess that's the 'thanks for entering, but we chose someone else' text. Oh, well. It was a longshot after all.

Doug, completely stunned, read the first line aloud:

"We have chosen YOU, Douglas Henry Martinvale!"

He laid the phone down on the table and looked out the window. An American crow zipped by as his breathing stopped for nine seconds. Wow! I won. I actually got chosen. They picked me. I wonder why. Doesn't matter now. Guess I need to book a flight to Denver. Who should I tell? Only Steven. [his younger brother in Edmonton] No one else. Don't want to be talked out of this.

Doug arrived at Denver International Airport with just one duffel bag at 2:02 PM on a cool and rainy Thursday, October 9th. He took a hotel shuttle bus to a nearby 3-star 12-story. Once settled in the sixth-floor room, he looked at the gray clouds hovering over the Rockies and thought: Well, this will be my last night above ground for a while. For how long? Wonder how long I can go. Wonder what the record is for a human living underground. Didn't some woman live in a cavern for four months? Who was she? Where was that?

The white-haired Canadian then did some research on his smartphone and saw that an Italian lady, Stefania Follini, stayed in a cave in Carlsbad, New Mexico for 130 days in 1989 as part of a circadian rhythm experiment. She fell into a routine of 48-hour wake-sleep cycles. Once back on the Earth's surface, she thought that she had only been underground for two months. Gosh, will I lose track of time to that extent? At least the time underground was going by faster than it felt. The reverse would be agonizing.

After calling room service, Doug's sliced roasted turkey, mashed potatoes and string bean meal arrived 26 minutes later. He ate while watching the evening world news. My last normal dinner for a long, long time. Savor every bite. It won't taste like this in the bunker. Get ready for powder-and-water gruel. Oh, the culinary joys that await. Not! Ah, maybe it won't be so bad. Might even get used to it. Maybe.

The middle-aged Caucasian American news anchor then said that Thomas Eric Duncan, the first person diagnosed with Ebola in the United States, had died the day before. Well, no Ebola down in the bunker. A great place to avoid viruses altogether and remain disease-free. What if a deadly plague swept across North America while I was down there. Yikes! What a terrifying thought! The effects of reading way too much science fiction.

Doug soon felt drowsy. He lay down on the bed and fell asleep within ten minutes. The air travel, even though not a very long flight, had taken it out of him; he was spent.

The next morning he awoke at 6:36 AM and jumped into the shower. After eating a light breakfast in the lobby, he walked out the door. The black limousine was already there. He got in the back seat with his sole piece of luggage.

"So, are you ready to go down in the hole?" the late-40-ish African American driver asked. Down in the hole? So, he already knows about it. Who told him? Someone from EP, I guess. They've already started the PR [public relations] machine. They just couldn't wait.

"I guess so," Doug said. "If not now, when? I'm at the perfect phase of my life to do something like this." The crazy phase.

The drive to Silverthorne took 91 minutes. It was largely sans conversation. Doug had grown pensive. He noticed that there was already snow on the upper slopes of the mountains. Will I ever see these mountains again? Am I going to die down there? Is this where it ends for me? Why such grim thoughts?

After a 22-minute photo-op, replete with handshakes and a series of short – though quite bombastic – EP speeches, Doug boarded an elevator that went 620 feet (189 meters) down into a mountain. Well, this is it. Hope I don't crack up.

Twenty-seven seconds later, a now-not-so-optimistic Doug; a very-much-ebullient Marcus Q. Weizenstien, the 55-and-still-quite-suave president of EP; and an-almost-deadpan Juan Lopez, a 37-year-old, pencil-mustached, Latino security guard, stepped off the elevator into a concrete-walled corridor. Forty-nine feet (15 meters) farther, the sparsely lamped, slab-quiet, curving, industrial-looking hallway was interrupted by a steel door on the inner wall. This must be the front door to my new apartment for the indefinite future. I bet that it's the only door: one way in – and one way out.

Juan unlocked the massive metal door with one of a dozen silver keys on his belt-tethered ring. He then pulled the door open to reveal a very ordinary foyer with a 7'-9" (2.36 meter) ceiling. The recessed overhead light was on. It was indeed at room temperature inside, some seven degrees Fahrenheit (four degrees Celsius) warmer than the corridor. Not bad. I can do this. I can live here.

The three of them began to tour the furnished bunker. Once in the kitchen, Marcus stopped and pointed at the stove.

"It's an all-electric Medallion Home," the EP president proclaimed with a charitable chuckle. "You are old enough to remember those heavy, little, round, gold-and-black plaques, too, Doug. It's ok; it's safe to admit it down here." He laughed again and then recomposed. "Our safety consultant said – well, he actually screamed, 'No natural gas, no propane – way too dangerous – too much of a fire hazard.' And, I agreed with him. No, we don't want our intrepid Canadian guest to become a charred subterranean marshmallow. By the way, there are fire extinguishers in every room. There's also a hose under this sink that you can connect to the threaded faucet." Yeah, an out-of-control fire down here would suck... infernally.

"So, no candles or matches?" Doug asked, anticipating the likely negatory answer.

"Nope, and no lighters and no smoking," Marcus stated emphatically. "If a smoke detector goes off and we find out that it was from smoking, you'll get yanked out and forfeit all of your earnings. If you're wondering about the weed, it's under the coffee table with a vaporizer. Vaping is ok. Just pace yourself." I bet that he's a pothead. [habitual marijuana smoker] He probably moved to Colorado just for the lax marijuana laws.

"Ok, I'm not really a pot smoker, but after a week I may be taking a puff," Doug said and then laughed bashfully.

No reaction form Marcus. Juan just smiled.

"Are you a drinker, Mr. Martinvale?" Marcus asked with a raised-higher right eyebrow. Hope this old sod isn't a fish.

"Light to moderate," Doug answered. "Hope I don't become a full-blown alcoholic down here." But with not much to do, and all day and night to do it, who knows? Hope that I can commence, continue, and complete that novel. I'll start it off like my situation: an older guy living underground, completely oblivious to the surface world. It may just write itself.

"We certainly hope not, too," Marcus added. "Once again, just pace yourself." That must be their mantra: Just pace yourself. Just place yourself. Just replace yourself.

"I will. So, where's that great-tasting Epic Prepperazzi food stashed?" Doug asked. Great tasting? He's pulling my leg.

"Right around this corner, kind sir," Marcus matter-of-factly answered. "Five bins of freeze-dried and millstone-pulverized carbs, sugars, vitamins, minerals, protein, amino acids and some unsaturated fats – just a little. Each one of these powder bins is twenty feet [six meters] tall; one for each taste: salty, sweet, sour, bitter and umami. Dispense and mix as you like. Be creative. Experiment with the proportions and consistency. Find your form factor." Find your form factor? Too much. Must suppress the urge to guffaw.

"Well, I'm no chef, Mr. Weizenstien." Especially with powders.

"Oh, I'm sure that you'll come up with a winning taste, Doug." Yeah, right.

"So, there's even umami," Doug repeated.

"Quite savory of us, huh?" the president proudly replied with another self-satisfied chuckle.

"Say, how many total calories are locked-up in there?" Doug inquired. With a total calorie count, I could calculate how many days I could stay down here.

"Ah, now wouldn't you like to know? Already thinking of beating the underground, living-in-isolation record, Doug? Just a rhetorical question. No need to answer. You know, I like you already, Mr. Martinvale. I'm going to let you in on a little secret: I cast the tie-breaking vote for you. Yep, I sure did. I just didn't trust that one-time hacker, that super-tech-savvy millennial. I could see him establishing a prohibited link to the surface world. We old dogs need to look out for each other. Don't you think so, Doug?" Wow! Was it really a tie? I think he's just blowing smoke up my ass.

"Why, certainly. And, thank you so much, Marcus. Can I call you Marcus?"

"Hell, you can call me Al. Remember the Paul Simon tune?" He's a bit nutty. One too many bong hits. [inhalations of marijuana smoke from a water pipe]

The tour continued to the small bathroom, which had a tub-shower combination.

"You'll never run out of fresh, clean, bacteria-free Rocky Mountain water, Doug," Marcus attested. "It comes down from an internal spring in this mountain, and is stored in a 350-gallon [1,325 liters] tank just above us. The spring's flow rate has never fallen below a half-gallon [1.9 liters] a minute, even in the driest of times." So, an endless supply of water. Very nice.

"That's good to know," Doug said as he looked at the white porcelain toilet. Well, there's my new epic crapperazzo. [sic]

Marcus noticed Doug's gaze. "As for waste water, it all goes down into the bowels of this mountain. There's enough capacity in this natural septic tank to last for a thousand years. As for trash, you just place it in the compactor in the hallway. It then drops down a chute into a sealed-off basement holding area. Once again, there's plenty of excess capacity; you wouldn't fill it up in 50 years." Well, that covers my lifespan. I know that I won't live to be 111.

The trio then made their way to the bedroom. The double bed already had linens on it. Hope the mattress isn't too soft.

Marcus continued. "You've got an over-under washer-dryer combination in that closet with enough detergent for at least 5,000 loads. Assuming two loads per week, enough suds for 50 years." Hmmm... Will others live down here after me? Sure seems like it. Am I really the first?

The procession then stepped into the small home-theater room. Ah, this is where I'll mostly be.

"No shortage of movies, tunes and games," Marcus barked. "Our number cruncher added up the total time of all the entertainment. You'd have to live to be 203 to see and hear them all, assuming something was playing all the time and you never slept." I could write factually critical reviews on every paranormal movie that I watch down here. Maybe call my series: 'The Debunker in the Bunker'. Post them all online when I get out. My own website. Well, maybe. We shall see.

"How many cameras?" Doug asked out of utmost curiosity.

"Just one above the stove," Marcus informed as they marched back into the tiny kitchen. "Relax! We're not Epic Voyeurazzi, Doug! This isn't some spy-cam deal. You're free to run around naked down here, if that suits you. The only thing that you must do is check in at the camera on the range hood whenever you see the little red light flashing next to the tiny lens and mini-mic. We just want to make sure that you're doing ok." They just want to make sure that I haven't bought the farm or cracked-up and gone 'Looney Tunes'.

"Ok, no problem," Doug consented.

"Well, I believe that wraps it up," Marcus said, now seeming anxious to leave. "Oh, rest assured that the air quality is constantly monitored, and will be kept at an oxygen level of 21% with a relative humidity of 42%. Now, any questions?"

"Uh, no, I think I'm good to go," Doug replied. "Or stay, I mean." Doug let out an awkward half-laugh.

"Very good," Marcus chirped. "All the best, Doug. Set a record for Canada." Why would he say that?

Marcus shook Doug's hand and then he and Juan walked toward the door. They then stopped. Marcus held his right hand up. Juan gave a subtle grin. Then the duo exited and the door closed. And now it begins.

Doug looked at the closed, vault-like door. I wonder if it's locked. Maybe better if it is. Give them five minutes to be clear of here, and then check.

After what Doug assumed was 300 seconds, he walked over to the black door. To his supreme surprise, it was not locked. He opened it and looked at the vacant corridor. Then he stepped back inside his new abode and shut the door. Doug saw a lever. He pressed it down. A deadbolt extended into a mortice. Ah, so the door can only be locked from the inside – since I don't have the key. Safety must have demanded this.

The first day went easier than Doug imagined. Though, the food was a challenge. After two craft beers, he saw the red light flashing in the kitchen. He checked in with someone named Dave of the EP staff. Apparently, the small speaker was behind the hood's vent. After the cursory chat was over, Doug went to the bedroom at what he thought was 10:00 PM (but was really 11:11 PM local time) and quickly nodded off.

Doug awoke at what he assumed was about 6:15 AM (really 7:49 AM). He decided to just watch movies all day to meter the time. After breakfast, he watched an old film noir and then a 1990s spy flick. After a mushy lunch, he watched a documentary on tunneling. Then Doug opted for a pornographic video compilation. He found the sex toys in the cabinet below the 60" (152 cm) flat-screen TV. Marcus and company thought of everything. Living down here aint that bad. A newfound sinecure. Another $100. Cha-ching.

The next morning (actually the afternoon), Doug indulged in some marijuana. It was premium grade. He decided to start his novel while he was quite high. After three mind-meandering hours on the internet-neutered laptop, he had one paragraph:

An older ordinary man. An older ordinary man who was seeking clues. An older ordinary man, who was seeking clues, while trapped underground. An older ordinary man, who was seeking clues, while trapped underground with an inexhaustible supply of good air, tolerable food and clean water. 'What could possibly go wrong?' Timothy wondered aloud as the refrigerator compressor kicked on. 'And, what could possibly go right?'

On what Doug believed was the morning of day 5 (actually late evening), he went outside to jog around the circular track inside the HVAC-ductwork-overhead service tunnel. Halfway around he came to a door that looked like his. Is this another bunker? Am I not alone down here? Should I see if the door is unlocked? What if I open it and someone is standing right there?! Maybe just put my ear to it first. Yeah, that's it.

Doug quietly walked up to the door, cupped his right hand, placed it to the door, and listened intently. There was no sound. Ah, no one home. I always assume the improbable. That's why I'm 61 with no real property or savings to speak of. Should I try to open the door for a quick look-see? No, let's leave well enough alone. Entering might set off an alarm and get me tossed. I want to rack up a tidy sum of loot down here. Don't want to fuck this up. Let's just move along.

The virtual days went by. Not unpleasantly. Doug's novel gained momentum. The mild-mannered Manitoban felt that his story had some traction after 41 pages, which was how far along he was on the 13th actual day (which he thought was day 12).

Doug would slyly ask – in a roundabout way – for the date at check-in, but never was a mote of a hint relinquished. He once asked Dave if he was going to a Halloween party, but the staffer's answer was ambiguous. Moreover, Doug remained unsure of the exact date, and began to wonder about his sense of time. Has Halloween already passed? No way.

And then on what he thought was day 22 (actually day 24), Doug heard something fall outside in the corridor. He opened his door to find an aluminum pipe-insulation band on the smooth concrete floor. It had snapped off. Did that steam pipe get too hot and expand? Is the HVAC system still working properly? The temperature in my bunker seems fine. Oh, it's probably no big deal. Just gather it up and put it aside. Just don't want to step on it if out here in flip-flops.

Doug became engrossed in his novel-writing endeavor. He stayed inside for the next six days. Then on day 31 (which Doug thought was day 28), he ventured outside to do some running. The insulation band that he had placed against the wall had been moved slightly. Ah, there must be rodents down here. Definitely need to keep the door shut and locked.

Doug would do fifteen laps (6,000 feet; 1829 meters) at a moderate pace. Then he moseyed over to his door. He pulled on the handle. It was locked. What the hell?! I can't lock this door once I leave. It can only be locked from the inside. Did it somehow lock itself? Or, is someone else down here? Did they slip into my bunker while I was running?

He looked down the curving hallway. Then Doug took off running. He stopped at the other door. His left hand pushed down on the handle. The door was not locked. Doug cautiously pulled the door open to see a bunker almost identical to his. Woah!

Doug stepped inside and locked the door. It was dead quiet. The kitchen light was on. So, there was someone in here. And now, they're in my bunker. Does EP know about this? I'm sure. This must be a wrinkle in their experiment. 'How will Doug react?' That's what they want to see. Maybe this bunker has cameras. Does it have a check-in station above the range?

With certain expectation, Doug walked over to the electric stove. But, there was no camera, microphone or red light on the range hood. However, there was a note on the countertop.

Just thought it was time for a switch, partner. I've been down here for nine weeks. I am/was an EP employee (the guinea pig). The company is a scam. My food is already getting moldy. The president is insane. He's not letting us out. He is telling everyone on the surface world that you are loving your time down here and never want to leave this underground 'nirvana', and that the EP food has sharpened your mental faculties. Just last week (before I had my secret connection discovered and severed), he said that you were inventing new problem-solving methods for 'underground issues'. I know that your bunker has a connection to company staff. I'm going to try to play some head games with them. Need to get them to reactivate the elevator for us. Maybe I'll have some success. I'm going to tell them the truth: The food sucks and is going to hell fast. Well, keep your fingers crossed. I'll knock three times. Thanks, Marvin

Doug then checked out the powder in the bins. All of the flavors looked ok, except for the umami one. There were some tiny green specks in it. Is that really mold? Almost looks like the laundry detergent. Well, let's not eat any of this one.

Doug laid his old frame down on the bed that was essentially the same as his. The linens were clean and fresh. He finally fell asleep after wondering about the next day for two hours.

The waking hours went by with no triple-knock on the door. In fact, there was no detectable sound of any kind outside. After what he felt was nine hours (actually eleven), Doug opened the door and ventured into the corridor. It was dead quiet. He paused. Should I bring some kind of weapon? Wouldn't that be wise? I have no idea who this 'Marvin' cat is. Still unsure of his veracity – not convinced that that was mold in his umami bin. The guy is up to something. Maybe something nefarious. Must stay on-guard. Must prepare for the worst case scenario: an attack.

Doug retrieved a long-tined fork and walked towards his original bunker. He soon saw a vertical line of light; the door was cracked open. Now, what? How to approach?

Small silent steps. Stopping just before the threshold, Doug threw the door wide open and yelled: "Hello! Anybody home? Marvin, it's me, Doug."

There was no reply. There was no sound at all.

Doug über-cautiously checked his bunker apartment, going from room to room SWAT style. It was all clear of humans. He sighed. What a relief!

To the door he sprinted. He locked it. Then he popped open a craft beer (a Boulder porter) and sat down. He switched on his laptop and opened his story in Word. Doug was shocked to see a paragraph tacked onto his text.

And then, the air got progressively worse. The oxygen level began to drop while the carbon dioxide concentration increased. Marvin figured that his only chance was the elevator shaft – the last resort for escape.

Doug hurried to the elevator. The silver doors were partially open. He squeezed into the gap and saw a 40-something, stocky, brown-haired, Caucasian male lying facedown in the bottom of the pit.

"Are you ok?" Doug shouted.

Marvin groaned. He's alive.

Doug utilized the wall-mounted ladder to enter the 11.5-foot-deep (3.5 meters), cube-shaped well. He grabbed Marvin's right shoulder and turned him over. There was a nasty gash on his forehead. Blood was all over his face. Upon closer examination, it appeared that his skull was fractured. Oh, dear! This aint good. Not at all. Wonder how it happened. Did he fall while trying to climb the elevator shaft?

"Save yourself," Marvin uttered. "Exit now!" he gasped with his final breath. Then he lost consciousness... and died. Holy cow! He's dead.

Suddenly there was a whirring mechanical noise above. The elevator car was rapidly descending. Faster. It was now plummeting 33 feet (10 meters) every second. I bet this elevator hit Marvin in the head. Maybe there's a sensor down here that activates the elevator to prevent escape. Must get out of here now.

Doug's left shoe slipped on the fifth rung. He panicked and then restarted climbing. However, he had lost critical seconds on his egress. Must hurry! Oh, no!

His torso would be cut in half.
31. Starring in Roanoke (Oct. 2017)

On a much warmer than normal, sun-drenched, cobalt-blue sky with wispy cirrus clouds, mid-October, late Saturday afternoon, Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33) found ourselves atop Mill Mountain (Roanoke, VA, USA) at the main overlook. The imposing, though not yet illuminated, 88.5-foot-tall (27-meter-high), steel-frame-supported, neon-tubed, five-pointed star was behind us, and the city that was first known as Big Lick was 1,045 feet (319 meters) below. A gathering of some two dozen tourists, many from overseas, were taking photos and videos. Four foreign languages were overheard. My woozy, somewhat-hungover-from-last-night-at-the-Mellow-Mushroom (on Franklin Road SW) brain thought: This certainly is a must-see. Wonder how many knuckleheads have climbed onto that star. No wonder they've installed video cameras.

"An impressive view, isn't it, Agent 32?" I asked my forever-fascinating Filipina wife. Agent 32? I sense a short story in the offing. I bet that he's already recording.

"It's wonderful!" she exclaimed. "I'm so glad that we came up here, Agent 33." She knows that this segment of today will get written up later.

Monique then started taking her own pics and vids from different angles and elevations. She really likes this place.

Then there was an impromptu question from a North African fellow: "Sir, could you take our picture?"

"Yeah, sure," I replied. I wonder if they're from Morocco.

The young man then handed me his Samsung smartphone. His presumed fiancée pointed at the dot that controlled the virtual shutter. Then the quite charming, mid-20-ish, shiny-black-haired, very-much-in-new-love couple posed in front of the mammoth metal star that was erected in 1949. Quite a photogenic duo, they are. / I bet that they were all over each other last night.

I snapped two pics on his sleek, slender, silver-edged phone. "Ok, a pair of photos of the pair of lovers starring in Roanoke," I announced. Starring in Roanoke? / Huh? / Hubby is already saying ridiculous things; he's already pontificating for the mic. / Hope they liked my remark.

"Thanks so much," the content, well-groomed, spruce suitor replied with a slight nod.

"Have you checked out the [Roanoke] Pinball Museum yet?" Monique asked the all-smiles duo.

"No, we haven't," the cute, dimpled, young lady answered.

"Oh, you really should," my wife insisted. "It's really cool, and it wasn't crowded at all."

"It's on the second floor of the Center in the Square Building in downtown," I indicated. "There are lots of vintage machines that you can play for as long as you like – until your index fingers cramp up or fall off. We just spent three hours in there." A pinball museum? In this town?

"How much is it?" the curious, athletic, white-tank-topped man asked. Wonder if they'll think that the price is too high. If you're not into pinball, it probably is.

"I think that it was around twelve dollars apiece, but it's for the whole day. You can come and go as you please. We will be going back this evening after an early dinner." This red-haired guy must be addicted to the silver ball.

"Ok, we may do that tomorrow," he said. "Thanks for the sightseeing tip."

"No problem," I replied. "I hadn't played pinball in two decades. And, trust me; it showed, early and often." I chuckled. "A lot of bad flipper play. Strikeouts and side-outs aplenty. I've lost my touch." Failed flipperazzi [sic]

He let out a slight laugh as she grabbed his hand. They then walked over to a paved trail that led down to a small zoo. Wonder where they are in a decade. Might they be back here? On this very date? Still married? With a child? Or two? Or, never to return to America? Or, happily settled in America? Might a terrible accident be in their future? Hope not. Or, might a propitious windfall be headed their way, landing right in their joint bank account. Will they live to be what they would call 'old'? Ah, the mysteries of this life.

"You look like you are lost in your thoughts, Agent 33. What are you thinking about, Parkaar?" [my ailing alias] my inquisitive wife asked. Lost in lost thoughts.

"Oh, just thinking about how you encounter random people – like that young couple – at random places, and how you never see or hear from them again, but you wonder what will become of them, but you know that's none of your business, and so you just stand back and wonder as the west wind blows another weekend away. Yeah, those kinds of thoughts again, mahal." [love in Tagalog] Oh, brother. Did he secretly ingest some of those damn magic crystals again? But, where? He hasn't been out of my sight today. Did he stir them into his coffee in the bathroom at that Starbucks? [on Old Whitmore Avenue in Roanoke] That would be just like my sneaky kano. [Filipino slang for American] But, this pinay [Filipina] is onto his mind games. He is not as sly as he thinks he is.

Monique cleared her throat. "I just had to ask," she retorted with a shade of exasperation. "Congranulations, [sic] Agent 33." Congranulations? Maybe she thinks that I consumed some of those 'granules de grandeur'. Sure would be nice. Think I ran out of stock over two years ago.

Then a short, rotund, late-50-ish, white guy in a navy-blue T-shirt walked up to us. "Sturdy construction," he proclaimed. "This overlook isn't sliding off this mountain anytime soon. No sir-ree. This one was planted real good." Planted? Maybe he's a deck builder. Maybe that's common argot in the trade. He kind of looks like an outdoor contractor. Such a lousy stereotypical thought. Scratch that. / Did this guy build this?

"Yeah, it looks pretty solid," I affirmed. Now, what does this guy know about decks? I bet that he doesn't even know what Trex® is.

"I knew the guys who put the north arrow on this deck," he then stated as he glanced down. (There was a four-cardinal-directions-of-the-compass-rose inlay in the earth-tone composite planking.) He 'knew' them? Does he not know them now? Are they all dead? Maybe he's a tall-tale teller.

"Nice design and excellent execution," I opined. "Looks like they got the angles right." Of course they did.

"You know that the magnetic north pole is moving, right?" Monique quizzed him.

"Oh, I'm sure that they got the declination right," the now-getting-sweaty-in-the-bright-hot-sun craftsman replied. "They were not idiots. Not at all. Smart guys. They knew trigonometry backwards, forwards and sideways." High, pot, noose.

I looked back at the star. "They say that the star's slight southwest-northeast orientation is parallel with the southern façade of the Taubman Museum," [in downtown Roanoke] I casted to see if he'd bite.

"An azimuth of zero-six-nine," he barked off. "Twenty-one degrees north of east." Wow! He sure knows this star. / Hubby has met his match.

"That's close enough for government work," I relented.

"Hey, let's not bash everything public sector," he riposted. "The majestic Blue Ridge Parkway that is just a mile [1.61 km] or so south of us wouldn't be here today without the WPA, [Works Progress Administration] ERA [Emergency Relief Administration] and the CCC." [Civilian Conservation Corps] He's probably right. Another legacy of FDR. [President Franklin Delano Roosevelt]

"Yeah, I know; I'm just busting your chops," I said with a chuckle. "I actually have a public-sector job in Charlotte." Wonder what he will think of that. Hope I can remember all of this – or most of it. Sure picked a bad time to forget the DAR. [Digital Audio Recorder] / I bet this guy is an associate professor at a college in North Carolina. What universities are in the Charlotte area? Not Duke [University] – that's in Durham. Not [the University of North] Carolina – that's in Chapel Hill. Not Wake Forest [University] – that's down the road in Winston-Salem. / Bana [husband in Cebuano] just can't stop babbling to strangers. I'm certain that he has that darn audio recorder going. I just know that this will all go into a future short story. Wonder when it will be posted online. He better let me review and edit it first. Who knows what he'll have me thinking? The wrong thoughts again, I'm sure.

The corpulent man then gave me a curious look. "A lot of dead weight in your organization?" he asked furtively. So clandestine acting. Maybe he works in the public sector, too. Should I ask? No, let's just let him divulge if he wants.

"We definitely have some professionals who would never cut it in the for-profit, no room for slackers, commercial realm," I admitted. "Yes, we have some employees that those public-sector jokes certainly apply to; some who couldn't make it anywhere else, yet survive through latent accountability. But, I guess I shouldn't complain too much; for if I'm so great, why am I where I is?" [sic] Where I 'is'? Why did he use the wrong verb conjugation? I bet that it was intentional for some reason. This guy is weird. It's time to move along. / Hubby is speaking incorrectly on purpose again. Time to end this. Feeling hungry.

"Well, it's been most interesting talking with you two," he summarized in closing, seeming anxious to be done with us. He's heard enough of me. / I've heard enough of this insane redhead. / Wonder what bana and this man are thinking? I've heard enough from both of them. Gosh, I'm so hungry. Need to eat some rice. Soon! That Thai [Continental] place would be great.

"Likewise," Monique chimed.

"Have a nice evening," I added.

The man waddled down towards the parking lot. Wonder what becomes of him. I guess that he's actually already become – what he is. And, what have I become? A short-story writer who too often resorts to transcribing trivial conversations. Not much drama. No violence. And, no sex. Well, not in most of them. Though, I think my readers know where to find the salacious selections. Sure would be nice if some publisher read some of these, and then e-mailed me. 'You're the next contestant on The Advance is Right. In this round the grand prize is $60,000, which will be awarded to one lucky winner, who then must write a total of 60,000 words in one year. It can be a novel, two novellas, four novelettes, x number of short stories, or a combination.' If I were to win, I'd write thirty 2,000-word short stories. Or, maybe twenty-five 2,400-word vignettes. A story a fortnight. 'Ok, ready to play the game, literazzi?' [sic] / I can tell that his mind is somewhere else. He took something. I know it.

"Earth to space cadet no. 33, do you copy?" Monique shouted.

"Copy what?" I asked, stunned.

"Copy me to an Asian restaurant, Parkaar. I'm HUNGRY!"
32. The Race (Nov. 2017)

John Z. Halpersham III, a 5'-10" (1.78 meters tall); balding; still very much in shape; 44-year-old; often overly demanding; hypercompetitive; currently going through a nasty, lawyer-inflamed, child-custody-involving divorce; salt-and-pepper-Van-Dyke-bearded, bespectacled Caucasian American mid-level project streamliner, just couldn't stop talking about his idea for a team-building cycling race with his early-30-something work unit of five, four males and one female. He was waving his hands as he spoke and paced to and fro in his 23rd-floor, uptown Charlotte (NC, USA), faux-marble-finished, strategic planning office. When John switched on a ceiling-mounted projector, a crude map appeared on the wall next to him, which looked like this:

"The track for the race will be the New River Trail," Mr. Halpersham boldly stated in his Queens [the borough in New York City] accent. "How many of you know where that is? Could I see a show of hands? Now, don't be shy."

Two of the men, both white 31-year-olds, Bob and Richard, nonchalantly raised their hands. They respectively thought to themselves: He must have drunk at least five cups of coffee today. / What is he on about now? Did he make that map?

"Ok, for you other three that don't get out much," John continued, "it's in southwestern Virginia – only two short hours from ye olde Crown Town. [a rarely used, somewhat uppity, nickname for Charlotte] Well, maybe not right now." (It was 3:53 PM on a Thursday; rush-hour traffic was already clogging construction-pinched Interstate 77 North.)

Mary, a svelte, 30-year-old Asian American, coughed. She had the omnipresent late-summer cold that had infiltrated the Queen City in the third week of September 2016.

This didn't escape John's attention. "Mary, as a female, you will be exempt from racing; you will be in charge of team encouragement," John stated in a patently matter-of-fact manner. "Is that ok?" How sexist! Just a cheerleader for the boys? He knows that I ride my bike to work three days a week. What a bastard! No wonder his wife is divorcing his chauvinistic ass. What a complete jerk! I should start looking for another job. I just know that if I file a complaint, it will just get worse for me. Wonder what the guys think.

After several seconds had passed, Mary looked up. "Sure, Mr. Halpersham," she resigned. "That's fine." God I hate him. Why did I ever take this job? I was too desperate. Should have been more patient. More persistent.

The four male employees were also taken aback by his remark. Woah! / Unbelievable. / Can't believe that he just said that. Surely a reprimand is coming. Should I file a complaint? No, Mary should be the one. / It's only a matter of time before HR [human resources] rips him to shreds, or puts the axe to his neck. How has he lasted this long? Maybe he has something on the HR manager. Has he slept with her? Wouldn't be surprised.

John restarted his pitch with unrestrained gusto. "The nicely restored, century-old Jackson Park Inn in Pulaski will be the finish line. You'll each have your own room there, and I'll foot the bill. To give you guys more of a chance, I will start in Galax, which, as the graphic plainly shows, is 51.8 miles [83.36 km] from Pulaski. And, you guys – well, one of you; the other three will be positioned downline – will get to take off from Fries [spoken like 'freeze'] – and, yes, that's the correct pronunciation. You guys will only have to collectively go 45.2 miles [72.74 km] – 6.6 miles [10.62 km] fewer than me. A nice discount, huh? Hey, I want to give you guys a fighting chance to beat me. Just pretend like I'm the ruthless leader of the rival evil empire." Pretend? / No need to pretend. / Is he serious? / The divorce is taking its toll on him. / A bad joke. / I'm starting to think that he is seriously losing it. All.

"What is the trail's surface made of?" Pablo, the 32-year-old, dark-haired, semi-portly Hispanic American asked.

"Finely crushed stone," John quickly answered. "The trail used to be a freight railway owned by the Norfolk & Western Railroad. It has two tunnels and trestles galore. It's a fairly easy grade – no steep hills." That's nice. / Thank God. / We just may have a chance. / Beating him at his own, crazy, off-road cycling contest would be sweet, but I bet that he wouldn't take it well. / I hope that he crashes out in the first mile [1.61 km] and ruptures a sac.

"Shall we bring our own bikes, sir?" slim, brown-haired Richard asked in his distinct Liverpudlian accent.

"No," John barked. "I'll provide and transport the bicycles, which will all be identical three-speeds with 38-millimeter [1.5-inch] tires – not too skinny, and not to too fat; decent speed with the necessary footprint for traction." What a soft lad! / Boss has gone overboard with the cycling. / Wonder if he's one of those MAMIL [Middle-aged men in Lycra®] types, sporting a chub. [slang for a curled, semi-erect penis] Totally effing gross!

"When will this race start?" a now-more-curious Bob asked in his relaxed San Fernando Valley (CA) accent.

"The race will commence at sundown – when the trail has been vacated of all the recreational non-hard-chargers – on Saturday, October 15th," John answered and took a short pause. "It will be an ides of October that none of you will ever forget. Even thirty years from now, way out in 2046, you will all remember our character-building, bonus-chance-enhancing, bonding-under-pressure experience on the 15th of October in 2016. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you: All of the bikes will be outfitted with ultra-bright, LED, [light-emitting diode] 8,400-lumen, see-all-the-way-to-Portugal headlamps. Light won't be an issue." He's gone mad. / I need to get out of this somehow. / What else does he have in mind? / This Yank [British slang for American] is completely bonkers. / He's coo-coo – lost in a male mid-life crisis.

"So, each of us will only ride a fraction of the whole distance, right?" the wide-eyed, intrigued, 32-year-old, male, Senegalese work-visa employee asked.

"Yes, Babacar, each of you guys will only ride predefined segments. Since there are four of you racing, you would each only have to ride, on average, a little over eleven miles [17.70 km] each – probably only fifty to fifty-five minutes in the saddle as we cyclists say. A piece of cake. You will pass a special coin to the next rider – like handing off a baton in a relay-type footrace – who will then hand it to the next one, and so on."

Babacar caught the logistical dilemma. "But, boss, let's say that I start off first from Fries. What happens to me and the bike after I am done with my segment?" Wow! He's got a point there. Must not let them think that I didn't consider this.

John continued without a hitch. "I'm going to have my older son, Harry, the newly unrestricted-licensed 17-year-old, drop off and pick up you guys, along with the bikes, one after another, in a rented cargo van. You guys just need to designate your start-stop hand-off points at or near public roads. Excuse me for just a second. Let me look at a detailed trail map on my smartphone." Hope the road crossings are spaced fairly evenly. Don't want to have to cancel this epic crucible.

"Is this mandatory?" Mary asked while John studied the display on his cell phone's screen.

"Completely optional – just strongly encouraged for professional development, departmental-unit camaraderie, and career growth," John rattled off without lifting his eyes. What a non-disclaimer of a disclaimer. / I guess that I should go. / A free night at a posh historic hotel. Oh, why not? / Hope I can bring Judy. [Richard's Caucasian American wife] She would want to go. For sure.

"Can we bring our special someones?" short-blonde-haired Bob then asked. Just more witnesses to the humiliation. / Bob read my mind.

"Oh, most certainly," John answered. "Yes, you can all bring your significant others... if you have one." He knows that I'm single and that all the guys have a wife or girlfriend. Such a prick! Wait, does Pablo have a girlfriend? / Oblivious boss still doesn't know that I'm gay. Certainly won't bring Freddie. [Pablo's Latino boyfriend] The homophobe would totally freak ... and get me fired somehow. I'm absolutely sure of it. / Judy will want to do some riding, too. Yeah, we could ride to Draper or even down to Claytor Lake on Sunday. / Jenny [Bob's Caucasian American girlfriend] may be up for this. / Linda [Babacar's Jamaican American sometime-companion] may not care to be around John. Probably better to just not mention it to her. She would think that this is utterly ridiculous anyway.

"Excellent!" Bob gleefully responded. "I'm in." Brown-noser!

"Ok, I got it now," John suddenly broadcasted. "The first hand-off spot will be where Trestle Road crosses the trail in Ivanhoe. That's 12.1 miles [19.47 km] from you guys' starting point in Fries. Babacar, you should be able to knock out the first leg in under sixty-five minutes. Ok, maybe seventy." John snidely chortled. "You want it? Rest assured that we're all headed downstream; it's mostly downhill." Literally and figuratively.

"Sure, why not, boss? I'll bat – or pedal – leadoff." Babacar beamed. "You won't ever see me on the trail, Mr. Halpersham." He sniggered contentedly. Well, look here – a cock of the walk has sprouted. Babacar is going to be a car without axles compared to me. It will probably take him well over an hour to do his dozen-mile [19.31 km] segment. 'No, Babacar, you won't ever see me, because I will have already beat you to Fries Junction.' [where the Fries and Galax paths join] Yeah, the race will already be over for all intents and purposes. Though, I must not tell them that. Just let them think that they have a chance. Don't crush their spirits in the first quarter.

"Hey, I like that self-confidence, Babacar," John eventually said. "But, don't be surprised to hear 'on your left' as you near the end of your run." That's not happening.

Babacar demurely chuckled some more. John's not going to make up those half-dozen miles [9.66 km] on me. No how. No way. He's in for a big surprise. I'm going to start riding again. Shave some pounds off. Build up my endurance and speed. I'll get my stamina back up. / I'm going to humiliate all four of these amateurs in front of Mary. I'll win by at least ten minutes. Minimum. She'll be impressed. She'll start falling for me. She'll see that I'm more virile than these 30-nothings – the true, well-seasoned alpha dog amongst meek sheep.

John recommenced his speech. "The second transfer-of-the-special-commemorative-coin location will be the Baker Island Road crossing in Barren Springs, an 11.2 mile [18.02 km] segment. Maybe that's you, Bob? You want it?" John guffawed. A commemorative coin for an insane, nighttime, ad hoc bicycle race? / Boss needs to see a shrink. / Gosh, he's wacked. Totally.

"Sure, put me down for the second leg," Bob requested. Hope that I can catch a second wind by then and put this race to bed. I'll take some of that stimulant that Jay gave me. I'm going to blow their chains off. / I hope that this isn't the leg where John passes us – me. Hope Baba[car] doesn't give up too much time. He's not in the best of shape. I don't want to see that smug asshole going by me in the night.

John then continued. "The third and final transfer spot will be the Julia Simpkins Road crossing in Hiwassee, an 11.3-mile [18.19 km] leg. Is this you, King Richard?" King? I'm sure that he said that because I'm from England.

"Sure, I'll take it," Richard replied. I'll be way ahead by this point, cruising to victory over my cast of schleppers. / Gosh, I hope that John doesn't pass me during my segment. Oh, he's probably already rolled past me before I even start the penultimate leg.

"That leaves a 10.6-mile [17.06 km] homestretch to the hotel's patio in Pulaski," John concluded. "Pablo, this is you. Are you ok being the closer for your decidedly underdog squad?" He'll only see me passing him as he waits for the coin in Hiwassee. The race winner will be evident: me. An academic exercise from thereon. / I bet that John passes me way before Richard gets to me. I'll just ride leisurely for 50 minutes and crash in a nice, comfy bed.

"Sure," Pablo vocalized. Nothing to sweat.

"Ok then, I believe that we are through here," John declared in closing. "You guys are free to make changes to the order and segment lengths. Just make sure that all of the segments begin/end at public-road crossings. We have to have vehicular access. And, don't forget to solicit Mary for moral support." What a turd! Grrrr... No, don't say it.

The next week went by with no mention of the race in the office by John or anyone else. The five employees concluded that it was just a what-if scenario incisively invented by John; it had to be yet another ploy in which he gauged their reactions to a hypothetical competition.

But then on Monday morning, October 3rd, a best-foods-for-cycling e-mail landed in each one of the five employees' inboxes. Later that day, John went by each individual cubicle and informed with a manic expression: "A dozen days 'til a dozen miles. Get ready. It's on!" He departed each time with a beguilingly grin.

The five employees had a secret meeting during their lunch half-hour on Friday, October 7th at an eatery in the Epicentre (a mixed-use complex two blocks away). They discussed possible changes to some segments. Mary demanded to ride, too, to cut down the average segment length to nine miles (14.48 km). She was persuasive. After seventeen minutes of discussion, they unanimously agreed to add her to the lineup. As the third cyclist, Mary would ride the middle 8.1-mile (13.04 km) segment. When such was presented to John, he begrudgingly agreed to it and thought: Whatever, folks. Whatever.

Friday, October 14th finally arrived in uptown Charlotte. Though, Pablo didn't; he had come down with the flu yesternight and would have to be scratched. At lunch the trio of men suggested three new segments, each divided by road-rail intersections: Fries to Austinville (16.3 miles; 26.23 km), Austinville to Allisonia (16.4 miles; 26.39 km), and Allisonia to Pulaski (12.5 miles; 20.12 km). However, Mary dismissed it and requested to just use the original four-segment plan, and assume Pablo's final leg. The males tried to talk her into taking a shorter, to-be-created mid-segment, which would either be in the second or third position. But, Mary would have none of it. She reminded the guys that she rode more miles each week than any of them. The three men acceded to her demands. When this substitution was shared with John at 3:13 PM, he just smirked. Mary and her little lambs are all going to slaughter. Maybe I'll ride right alongside her as we approach Pulaski. Should I let her win? No way! I'll power-pedal it, and sprint away from her in the last 500 yards. [457 meters]

At 2:52 PM on an autumnally splendid, mild, sunny Saturday (the 15th of October), Bob, Babacar, Mary, Richard and Judy motored out of Charlotte in Bob's silver 2013 Buick Encore. Jenny had decided to pass on the trip; she surmised that it would be massive ennui. Mary agreed to join the carpool once she learned that Judy was going. Babacar rode shotgun; Mary, Richard and Judy took the backseat.

On the way up to Statesville on Interstate 77, the four employees explained the race in detail to Judy. She was at first flabbergasted. But then after quietly thinking it over, she deduced that what this race was really about was who would get the next promotion. However, she kept this psychological analysis to herself.

At 4:54 they were disembarking from the crossover SUV in a large Walmart Supercenter parking lot off US 58-221. John had picked Appleby's as their five o'clock dinner rendezvous. Harry would pull the white van into the asphalt parking lot four minutes later.

The seven of them sat together at a table in the back of the American chain restaurant. It wasn't yet crowded. Surprisingly, John was not his usual braggart self. Maybe it was because his son was sitting next to him, having a subduing influence. Or, maybe it was because auburn-haired Judy, whom he really didn't know, was sitting directly across from him.

"Sunset is at 6:47," John announced after all the orders were taken by the mid-20-something, tart-like, bleach-blonde, Caucasian American waitress. "Harry will drop me – and my just-the-same-as-yours bike – off first at the Galax trailhead, which is just three miles [4.83 km] down the road from here. Then you guys will follow him over to the Fries trailhead, which is only a fifteen-minute drive. We'll start the race at seven sharp – right on the nose. I plan on being snug in my bed at the inn in Pulaski at eleven o'clock, watching the local news."

"So, after dropping Babacar and his bike off in Fries, we will proceed to the first coin-transfer point in Ivanhoe?" Bob enquired.

"Exactly," John confirmed.

Richard noticed a potential quandary. "But, who will drive Bob's car when Bob is riding his segment?"

"Any of you could drive it," John replied, relieved that this wasn't an overlooked, race-threatening, logistical issue. "You all have driver's licenses, right?"

"I'll be glad to advance your car to the next stop, Bob," Judy offered. There's the solution. / I can trust her driving.

"Problem solved," Bob plainly stated. "Thanks, Judy. I'll drive it again after my segment is done."

"Ok, are we all good now?" John asked, sounding ready to get going at 6:09. "All clear now on the details?"

The adults all nodded. Harry kept eating.

"Oh, the coin... do you have it on you, John?" Richard asked. Of course.

"Thanks for reminding me, Richard. I have it right here." John then handed what looked like a poker chip to Babacar. "If Mary gets this coin to the Jackson Park Inn before I do, you guys won't only win, but will receive something unforeseen."

The four employees had the same thought: I wonder what in the world that could be.

John picked up the tab. Everyone thanked him except Harry, who now sported a sullen look for some unknown reason. Mary thought: For a first-class ass, he sure is generous.

Soon Bob's silver Buick was following the rented white van that was being driven by Harry towards downtown Galax as the sky grew dusky. After crossing Chestnut Creek and a red caboose on permanent display, the vehicles turned right into a now-vacant gravel parking lot.

John swiftly got his bike out and checked the tire pressure. Satisfied, he waved for Harry to go on. As Bob made a U-turn to follow Harry, John yelled: "Don't start before seven o'clock, Babacar. No cheating!"

Babacar nodded as Bob made a left out of the parking lot to follow Harry back northeast on US 58-221. At a forking Glendale Road, Harry made a soft left. Bob followed as the sun slipped to the tree line on the horizon. Then the white van's left turn signal was flashing again. Harry turned onto Cliffview Road. They weaved through forests and fields to arrive at Fries Road. Harry turned right this time. He didn't go very far before making another left. It was mostly dark woods on both sides of the road for five minutes. Then there was a long bridge over the wide-but-not-so-deep New River. The two-lane road then paralleled the broad stream and trail into the tiny town of Fries. They pulled into the gravel parking area. We made it. / So, this is where it begins. / This little Blue Ridge town has seen better days. / It feels so eerie here. / Hubby's boss is nuts.

Harry then unloaded a bicycle for Babacar. It was a refreshing 59º Fahrenheit (15º Celsius) at 6:48. Twilight was settling as Babacar switched on the headlamp. Wow! That's as bright as the [Las] Vegas strip!

At 7:00 on the dot, the two vehicles drove off and Babacar started pedaling down the gray trail. He settled into a 15-MPH (24.14 km/h) cadence on the packed stone chips. Soon it was pitch-dark. His headlamp was more than sufficient, though. He pedaled a little faster as he looked at the languid surface of the now-almost-black river on his right. I feel good. This isn't a problem. No way is John making up that deficit on me. Not happening.

John was already 3.2 miles (5.15 km) down the Galax spur at seven o'clock, as he had started pedaling along the two-meter-wide (6.56 feet) path that followed Chestnut Creek at 6:49 – insouciantly disregarding his own race's prescribed start time. He was cruising in high gear on the mostly smooth, flat to descending, off-road path at a brisk pace of 18 MPH (28.97 km/h). Wonder where Babacar is right now. Wonder if I'll beat him to Fries Junction. Maybe overly optimistic. Plenty of time to catch and pass one of them later. Yeah, no need to kill the suspense so early.

Babacar would arrive at Fries Junction first. He looked to his right down the 1,089-foot-long (332 meters), diagonally aligned trestle over the tranquil river. He didn't see a light. I'm sure that I arrived here first. I'm certain that I'm ahead of John. Just need to keep up the pace. No letup. Need to finish strong.

Just then John entered a short, curved tunnel. He thought that he saw a dark animal pass by the exit portal. Holy shit! Was that a black bear? Damn! Forgot the pepper spray. Those bears can run up to 33 MPH. [53.11 km/h] I can't achieve that kind of speed on this bike on this trail. Hope my headlamp spooked it away.

John emerged from the tunnel. He then looked back. Nothing was chasing him. Whew! Got lucky there.

After passing through a stretch of dense woods, way out of sight of the river, Babacar started to cross a short bridge over the mouth of Brush Creek. He again saw the New River, which was making a slow, lazy, wide-right (eastward) turn. There was no sign of John. Still ahead of the boss. Must hold onto this lead. Getting passed in the first segment would be beyond awful. I'd never hear the end of it. 'In just a measly 5.8 miles, [9.33 km] Babacar lost the race for you guys.' That would be horrible. Must pedal harder.

In the middle of the bridge to Fries Junction, John stopped, dismounted his bike, drank some water, and texted Harry.

Has Babacar arrived yet, son?

Eighteen seconds later he got a one-word answer from his increasingly bored teenager.

No.

John popped a couple of Jay's quasi-amphetamine pills. Then he got back on his bike and charged across the old, single-track, level, chain-link-fence-added-to-the-railings-for-child-safety railroad trestle. Kayaking at night on this river would be exciting. Maybe too exciting for my troupe. Wonder where Babacar is. Guess I'll find out soon enough. No need to panic. I'll soon be zooming past one of them. 'Hello Richard, it's me; I'm on your wheel; you've been caught by your Yankee-Doodle-Dandy boss.' No, that's wrong; it's Bob who is going second. Mr. West Coast is going down to his East Coast daddy-o.

Babacar raced onward under the luminous, nearly full, post-harvest moon. Soon he was passing Byllesby Dam on his right at 13.7 MPH (22.05 km/h). He noticed the river's surface lapping over the lip of the old concrete spillway. So, that's why there was no current. Wonder how far I'm ahead of John. Am I really ahead? Surely. Hope so.

Buck Dam was just 2.4 miles (3.86 km) downstream from Byllesby Dam. It was here that a rapidly pedaling John (now ripping it over the minced gravels at 19 MPH – 30.58 km/h) first caught a glimpse of Babacar's flashing red taillight. I've already reeled in the first fish. This race is over. I'll ease up. Don't want Babacar to detect me. I'm now the killer whale playing with the to-be-eaten-later seals.

Babacar soon saw the white van, and then Bob's car, both down on the right, just before the short bridge over Trestle Road. His leg was done, and so were both of his legs at 7:57. Yey! I made it. Barely. Glad that's over.

"Good job, mate!" Richard yelled. "You didn't get overtaken."

"Toss me the coin," Bob implored as he mounted his already-lit-up bike.

Babacar obliged.

"Charge!" Mary cried as Bob took off on his tri-speed.

Harry said nothing. He continued to play a video game on his smartphone as he sat in the driver's seat of the 2014 Dodge Ram van. Dad better really pay me $100 for this boring-as-hell nonsense.

John pedaled onto the bridge over Trestle Road at 8:01, just as the Buick's taillights disappeared around a curve. Should I go in for the kill now? Should I roar past Bob? Let's just see how fast he's riding.

Due to the alignment of the roads, Bob actually saw the white van and his Buick pass by three minutes later on the adjacent highway on the left (VA 94), which briefly ran parallel with the trail as he crossed the short trestle over VA 764. He thought that he saw a thumbs-up gesture from Richard in the back seat, but wasn't sure. Maybe I just imagined that. Don't think they even saw me.

After rounding a sweeping left bend, John, now riding at a less manic pace of 16 MPH (25.75 km/h), spotted Bob's rear light far ahead on a long straightaway section: the planked-over Ivanhoe River Bridge. Bob was almost at the end of the trestle, proceeding at a modest pace. I bet that Bob is only going 14 MPH. [22.53 km/h] I feel like going on a burst.

Bob continued pedaling through the dark forest. His mind was in a trance. Such a crazy thing this is. Bicycling on an old Appalachian railbed at night. So many bad things could happen. John's really taking a big chance. If someone gets hurt – or worse – his job is toast. Smoldering burnt toast.

Suddenly, while in a curve, Bob heard the sound of another bicycle's tires on the crushed stone. It was John. He gave a brusque, wrist-flick wave as he zipped past on the left. Crap! The boss caught me. I'll be the one who lost the race.

John continued his torrid pace of 20 MPH (32.19 km/h). He soon opened up a sizeable gap. In 84 seconds he was out of Bob's sight. I bet that Bob never saw that coming; he never saw me gaining on him. Wonder if he'll try to give chase. I'll ease up. Let's see if he has anything in the tank. Jay's pills are like an additional 100 watts of power in each leg. I bet that it's banned in USA Cycling-sanctioned races.

Bob did indeed pick up his pace. He was soon within 60 feet (18.29 meters) of John, who noticed the additional light. Maybe John's spent – shot his wad. He's considerably slower now. Maybe he overexerted his 40-something body. I can take him now. I'll get the lead back for us. 'Sorry, boss, but it looks like your batteries are dying. Please move aside. Bob is coming through.' / Mr. California is in for a stunning surprise. 'Get your Kleenex® ready, Bob; crying time is nigh.'

John could hear Bob closing in. He let him pass unchallenged, feigning exhaustion. After Bob was 220 feet (67 meters) ahead, John turned on the stimulant-fueled jets. Mouse free. Mouse caught. Mouse wriggles away. And now, cat finishes off mouse.

Bob heard John charging back as he neared the at-grade crossing of highway VA 636. Bob slowed to check for traffic; however, his boss didn't.

John would be struck and killed instantly by a northbound, slingshotting-out-of-a-descending-right-curve, overspeeding, left-headlight-out, drunk-driven, flat-black Ford F-150 pickup.
33. Zap (Nov. 2017)

At 2:49 PM on a sweltering, steam-pot-hot, mid-August (the 15th) Tuesday in 2017 in uptown Charlotte (NC, USA), I opened the massive portcullis-esque wooden door and entered RíRá, an Irish pub on North Tryon Street. The air conditioning felt great. I glanced up at the nearest flat-screen TV. The score was still nil-nil (Hoffenheim – Liverpool) in the 5th minute. Good deal – haven't missed a goal.

I made my way over to the bar and alighted on a stool three-fourths of the way down. Soon I was looking once again at the statue of St. Patrick. Ah, he's still scaring the snakes away from the beer taps.

Then in the 10th minute, Hoffenheim were awarded a spot kick, due to Lovren tripping Gnabry in the penalty area.

"Come on, Dejan!" I yelled to a nearly vacant back section of the tavern.

However, my outburst found the 30-ish Irish bartender's ears. Joey, a West Ham United fan, began chatting with me.

"A tough call for you guys," he stated.

"Lovren can't be that reckless in the 18-yard box," I retorted. "So foolish, and probably so costly."

"Think Mignolet can save it?" he asked.

"Wouldn't bet on it," I groaned. Maybe if I think negatively...

But, Simon did. It was a poor penalty kick by Kramarić. Mignolet didn't have to move his feet. It worked!

"Zap!" Joey shouted. Zap?

"We got real lucky there," I insisted. "Got away with one."

"Your team killed off a bigtime Hoffenheim scoring chance," he commented. "A major confidence boost for you guys. I bet that Liverpool now scores a goal."

"That would be nice," I replied.

Then, about 25 minutes later (the 35th minute of the match), an 18-years-young Trent Alexander-Arnold curled a 28.5-yard (26 meters) free kick into the lower-right corner of the goal. One-nil for the Reds. Sweet!

"Hope they can hold onto the lead," I wished. "They have a knack for allowing goals right after scoring."

"Hey, that was very Coutinho-like," Joey contended. "You guys may be fine without him." [Barcelona would be rebuffed in the 2017 summer transfer window.]

"Joey, let's not talk about our pouting, petite Prince Philippe right now. It's become a sore subject – kind of like an open, pus-oozing, festering wound. How about your Hammers match against [Manchester] United?" [their Premier League season opener]

"Four-nil. It was awful. They killed us. Totally outclassed us. No two ways about it." Joey sighed. "Not sure how this season will turn out for us. I'm not very optimistic."

There was a late scare, but the first half ended with Liverpool up 1-0. So far, so good.

Then a stocky, dark-haired, middle-aged Latin American man walked up to the bar.

"A Liverpool fan, yes?" he asked me, suspecting the answer.

"Even after all the heart attacks," I answered and tittered.

"Mignolet is a good goalkeeper," he then proclaimed. "People are too hard on him. That penalty-kick save was major. Oh, my name is Tyler Durden." That sounds familiar.

"Pleased to meet you, Tyler. My name is Mike." No need to use a 'psecret psociety' alias in this setting.

"Have you been here before?" he enquired.

"Ah, yes – many times. This was the official LFC [Liverpool Football Club] bar for Charlotte, but we got tossed; red-carded in June of 2016. We're now housed at Valhalla Pub on South Church Street, right at the corner of the Latta Arcade alleyway. I didn't have enough time to make it over there today."

"Oh, yes; I know the place." Tyler seemed interested.

"We'll be there until someone plays Frisbee® again with a porcelain plate. Oh, by the way, I wrote a short story about a time in this bar last year. [RíRá Ruckus] The setting was almost exactly where we are right now. The protagonist was a prosthetic limb salesman from San Diego."

"Was he on his last leg?" Tyler deftly linked.

"That's funny as hell, man!" I exclaimed. "Score! Superb delivery. I'll have to use that one somewhere someday."

"So, you're a writer?" Tyler then solemnly asked.

"Not professionally – at least not yet," I replied. "I pay the bills with my safety gig." Safety gig?

"A safety gig, huh. Would that be with three or four prongs?" Or five?!

"Another goal! Wow! You're not missing any today, Tyler."

"Thanks. You left that one right out over the plate, Mike."

"I tend to do that a lot. My brother and I played Little League Baseball. Rest assured that I was not the pitcher."

We both had a chuckle.

"Tell me more about your job in safety," he then requested.

"Well, it's not exactly the sexiest or most lucrative field. Inspections. Reports. Code enforcement. Advisement. I'm like an internal referee. And, who likes a referee? Anyway, what line of work are you in, Tyler?" I bet that he's in sales.

"IT [information technology] at a big bank."

"Ah, an office with a view."

"Not for me."

"Say, are you up for a round of eight questions?" I asked. Wonder what he'll ask.

"Sure, fire away, Mike," Tyler broadcasted excitedly. Record light: on. Commence interview.

"Question one: When did you start working for this big bank?"

"March 13th of this year, after getting laid-off from another big bank."

"Damn. That sucks."

"It's ok, Mike. That's how they all operate. Slice and dice every quarter."

"Question two: How is the culture there?"

"They work like they don't have families," Tyler emphatically revealed. "Or, at least that's what they want their supervisors to think. They work their asses off. Some people send e-mails from their cars, or late at night, just to give the impression that they work really early or really late." Interesting.

"Question three: How is the management?"

"My boss is buying a software product that sucks for the lab, and my job is to sell it as a great product to his boss and to Network Engineering. I hate to be such a Debbie Downer, but I think the guy wants to get promoted and leave our team eating a pile of shit." Such candor!

"Wow! Question four: Any strange occurrences at work?"

"There is this Indian guy that is an asshole to everyone on the team," Tyler divulged. "He was an asshole to me when I started. I was the new guy and didn't know the routine. I said to him 'Hey ...' And, his curt reply was 'My name is not Hey.' Little did he know that I have PTSD [Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder] from combat in Iraq, and that I'm a Senior Drill Sergeant in the [United States Army] Reserve. I screamed at this little piece of shit, basic-training style, just two short inches [5 cm] from his shocked face for about a minute – just like I learned in the Airborne Infantry: the arrive violently method. Because this happened in the lab, the only people that heard it were other IT-ers in or near the lab. I told the boss what happened and he just told me not to do it again. That Indian fucker doesn't talk to me now. Problem solved." Woah!

"Ok, moving right along to question five: What is your biggest job complaint? Or, did you just tell me?" I had a short chortle.

"Having to get up and go to this job and lock myself inside a cube in a windowless lab. Humans were born to work in sunlight. I need the sun." Not an overcaster. [sic]

"Question six: What is the best part of your job?"

"Working half a block from RíRá. They'll make my lunch off the menu. I get a simple ham and cheese sandwich, whatever soup is in the tureen that day, and as much Guinness I can fit in my belly. Sometimes I go at three-ish, sometimes at happy hour, and sometimes after work. Really, every hour is happy hour." Living la vida loca. ['the crazy life' in Spanish]

"Question seven: The best overheard conversation at work was?" Is this red-haired guy kidding?

"None. There were more conversations in Gorge Orwell's 1984 factories than in this morgue where I work. If someone chokes on a peanut in their cube and drops dead, no one will notice – no one."

"Ok, we're mercifully down to the last one – question eight: Who's the most unusual employee? Don't use their real name; use an alias. I don't want to be sued."

"It would have to be the aforementioned turd. Oh, let's just call him Sanjay. This guy doesn't have a car, because he spends all his time studying, and he lives close by. He is binary-code-smart, but is the least helpful person on the team. A real dickhead. He doesn't read e-mails unless directed to him. I have never seen one – not a single – e-mail from him. I don't even know if he knows how to write. Does he use good grammar? Correct spelling? Proper punctuation? No idea. He doesn't talk to anyone, except to be unhelpful, or to say 'No!' The funny thing is that he's a contractor from a major networker, and he's here at the lab to help the other engineers. The irony is not lost on me." From ferrous to ferric. Or, is that reversed?

"Excellent, man. Great candid answers, Tyler. Can I use them in an upcoming short story?"

"Sure. Where will it be posted?"

"It will end up on about a dozen or so free e-book websites. You won't be famous overnight, but if you are in six months, I want 44% of the action." What the hell is he talking about?

Tyler laughed. "Hey, I've got a question for you, Mr. Author."

"In the words of Pat Benatar, hit me with your best shot. Figuratively, of course." I chuckled nervously, hoping that a brown fist didn't go through my sternum.

"Extra-time question: Who's the best player on Liverpool?"

"I'd have to say Mané at this juncture," I answered.

"I'm sticking with Mignolet," Tyler countered. "I played defender in high school, but I always played goalie in adult leagues. My son played goalie in high school, and my daughter played goalie, too. Goalies take a beating. I had nose surgery when I was 24 from getting kicked in the face. It's a tough, underappreciated position."

"Get a zap to the face?" Joey, who had been eavesdropping on our discussion, asked Tyler. He sure likes the word 'zap'.

"Yes, sir, and I still remember it like it was yesterday."

The second half started. Six minutes in, Hoffenheim had a goal disallowed for offside. Living dangerously.

"That was scary," I said to the two gents.

"Offside is offside," Joey said. True that.

Eighteen minutes in, Milner came on for Henderson. Nice. Playing in the midfield for a change.

In the 74th minute, James Milner's cross to Salah skimmed off a Hoffenheim player's chest and went in the goal. Two-nil for the Reds. Looking really good now.

"I think we got this now," I opined. "Hope I didn't just jinx it."

"No, you guys have it," Joey said. "Back at Anfield, Liverpool will add to the goal differential. It's a done deal now." Did he just put the hex on us?

"The 'pool is Champions League bound," Tyler announced.

"Hope we do better than that feeble Suárez-less campaign of 2014-15," I remarked.

But then, substitute Mark Uth scored in the 87th minute. Damn! Just what I was afraid of. / It's 'game on' now.

"Here we go again," I moaned. "Still struggling to see games off. Same old story."

"The Reds still have this," Tyler predicted. Maybe.

The referee's whistle finally bleated three times. Liverpool had withstood a late German bombardment to win 2 to 1. Yes!

"Glad that's over!" I sighed. "What a relief. Well, I've got to run along, guys."

"Will you be here on Wednesday the 23rd for the second leg?" Tyler asked.

"Not sure if I'll be able to make it," I replied.

"Then I'll drink a Guinness for you," Tyler declared with a raised chalice.

"Zap!" Joey blurted as something shorted.

34. That Day (Nov. 2017)

That day, February 10th, 2016, was very much a winter one. The temperature was a toe-chilling 23º Fahrenheit (-5º Celsius) at 6:36 on that Wednesday morning as I wheeled my single-speed bicycle out the back door of our east Charlotte (NC, USA) basement apartment. On the cracked-and-bulging-due-to-unruly-roots asphalt driveway, I reset the trip odometer, turned on the fast-flashing taillight, switched on the slow-pulsing headlamp, fastened my helmet's chinstrap, and then began my commute to work. A frigid 11 MPH (17.7 km/h) WNW headwind greeted my ski-masked face in the all-quiet-save-for-a-rolling-beer-bottle darkness. Should I just take the car? No, ride for the calorie burn. This is balmy compared to that 7º Fahrenheit [-13.9º Celsius] morning.

My 6'-1" (1.85 meters tall), 192-pound (87 kg) frame glided down mostly-still-asleep Kavanaugh Drive. Then my 51-year-old legs pedaled up and over the first knoll in the built-in-the-1960s, mature-treed, lower-to-middle-middle-class Windsor Park neighborhood. The air entering my lungs was hardly pre-warmed; it stung. Several minutes later, after riding and turning on several British-named streets, I was approaching Kilborne Drive on Enfield Road. There wasn't much traffic yet; I crossed without stopping. When I got to busier four-lane Eastway Drive, I had to wait two minutes to cross old Route 4. Probably shouldn't go this way anymore. Kind of dangerous. And, Mr. Scraggly-Beard-With-Only-A-Few-Teeth-Left [a crazy, bile-spewing, inbred meth-head] lives around here. What a plod [lout] that fock [sic] is. He'd be better off as lawn fertilizer.

Finally a sufficient-for-nearly-frozen-legs gap appeared. I charged across and swooped down the first dip on Arnold Drive into the up-and-coming-or-already-arrived Merry Oaks neighborhood. Three minutes later I was winding down a curvy descent to Central Avenue. I merged onto the sidewalk at 22 MPH (35.4 km/h) and used the speed to help climb out of the Briar Creek Valley. Atop the rise at Morningside Drive, I waited for the traffic light to change. Don't feel as cold now. I'll take this over those sauna-like summer 'lows'. [often over 68º Fahrenheit; 20º Celsius] Wonder if that convenience store [Sun Express Food Mart] is open. Doesn't look like it. I'll buy a Powerball ticket later. Yeah, just get it at lunchtime.

The signal clicked to green. I continued riding on the vacant sidewalk (allowed in Charlotte), as Central Avenue already had a fair amount of not-so-courteous-to-commuter-bicyclists traffic, and the bike lane had vanished. (It had ended .8 miles – 1.29 km – behind where I now was.)

I weaved down the slope, avoiding the offsets in the sidewalk and concreted-over adjacent spaces. Then a brisk climb ensued up Veterans Hill. Once up at The Plaza (actually a street), I looked over at the upscale Harris-Teeter grocery store on the left while the light was red. Should I get a Powerball ticket right now? Nah, I'll get it somewhere else. Too cold to be fumbling around with that combination lock.

After cutting through the historic – and now quite expensive – Elizabeth neighborhood on Pecan Avenue, Bay Street and Hawthorne Lane, I turned right onto beware-of-the-inset-trolley-tracks, still mostly quiet, two-lane Elizabeth Avenue. It was now dawn; the 7:15 sunrise was only ten minutes away. I was locking my bike in Student Deck 1 two minutes later at 7:07 AM. I looked at my bike computer. Wow! It dropped another two degrees. [down to 21º Fahrenheit; -6.1º Celsius] A pretty direct route today – only 5.97 miles. [9.6 km] Rolling time: 28:28. Way off the record of 19:26. Slowed by that gelid breeze. Ah, but look at those repeating digits. Maybe Lady Luck smiles on my freckled mug today. Odometer now at 19,364. Wonder when this $69 [bought on sale on March 11, 2012] Walmart bicycle [a Kent Thruster 700C] hits the 20K-mile [32,187 km] mark. [It would occur on May 10, 2016 – the day that 'RíRá Ruckus' was published online.]

I walked across East 4th Street to my office. Once logged-in to my work e-mail account, I saw that the boss would be in late. Hmmm... A good day to do some writing; a good day to start that sex-robot story. ['A Novella Idea'] It's only going up to 38º Fahrenheit [3.3º Celsius] today. It's a great day to drink four cups of java and tap out some thoughts on the keyboard. How should I start the story? What is the premise? How are the attitudes and relationships? How does it end? Guess something will come to me. Hopefully soon. I better still have some creamer in the drawer. Yes!

I got the coffee maker going, and lo, high, and behold, I cranked out the first 1,229 words of the 1,500-word short story by noon, even after attending to several safety-related e-mail inquiries, code issues and miscellaneous phone calls. I then took a break and walked across East 3rd Street to the (then) Marathon gasoline station. In their cramped and crowded convenience store, I redeemed my big $1 scratch-off winner. However, for some unfathomable neural-short-circuit reason, I failed to buy a Powerball ticket.

Back in my office, while eating my customary veggie-burger-on-seeded-rye-with-steak-sauce (Yes, I know that it makes no sense) sandwich, I mulled over a title change for my newest tale. Maybe I should call it 'Robosexual Revolution'. Or, how about just 'Robosexual'? Or, perhaps 'Now Beseeching Electromechanical Bliss'? No, that's too broad – too easily found by the wrong – and soon resentful – reader.

The desk phone then rang again. The call was from a local law firm. So-and-so probably couldn't successfully claim disability the lady politely informed. She won't be happy. That's tough. 'Time to get back to work, Lorettaquisha.'

The boss came in at 12:35. I then went out to do some field inspections. After finding several minor safety issues, I retreated to the office to submit the respective work orders. Once ensconced in the old, wobbly, one-arm-lower swivel chair, I looked at the desk calendar. Oh, so it's Ash Wednesday today. I bet that Monique [my Filipina wife, aka Agent 32] already knows that. Wonder if she'll want to go by the [Roman] Catholic church on Shamrock. [Drive] Hope not. Just want to relax when I get home. Hope that the charcoal ash in the barbecue grill will suffice. What a sacrilegious thought that was. Another unholy demerit for me. If there really is a purgatory, I'll be parked there for quite a while.

The afternoon would pass without any incidents of note. Before leaving the office at 5:15, I checked the local weather online. Sunset is at 6:00. Tomorrow morning will be even colder: a low of 17º Fahrenheit. [-8.3º Celsius] Though, the high will rise to 48º Fahrenheit. [8.9º Celsius] Not sure if I'll bike it tomorrow. [I would.] Getting too old for that sub-20º Fahrenheit [< -6.7º Celsius] icebox. The skin's feeling thin.

My early evening bike ride home took a somewhat different route than that of the morning, due to rush-hour traffic considerations and certain problematic intersections. The Central Avenue Bridge over the Independence Expressway (US 74) only offered an unnervingly narrow, forty-four-inch-wide (112 cm) sidewalk. I kept to the left, so that if I slid to the right on some ice, I wouldn't topple over the low aluminum railing and land on the busy thoroughfare below. Fortunately, there were no pedestrians to navigate. I noticed the darkening, even-looks-cold city skyline over my left shoulder midway across the old concrete overpass. Some kind soul gave 'Bottled' [a 2015 short story] a five-star review today. That sure was nice of her/him. Wonder who it was. Where might they live on this slightly lopsided globe? None of my business. Wonder if she or he has ever launched a message-in-a-bottle ruse? Did anyone find it and partake in the puzzle? Or, did the bottle break against some rocks with the sunken note ingested by a fat, wily, lure-wise catfish? Jeez, why do I ponder such ludicrous nonsense? Oh well, maybe it's my lucky day. Need to replay Monique's lottery numbers; need to buy a new Powerball ticket. Mustn't forget.

I would safely traverse the four-lane, median-less bridge and continue on the eastbound Central Avenue sidewalk until I crossed the CSX railroad tracks just past Lamar Avenue. That's where I turned right onto the service alley behind a small strip mall. I made my way through the parking lot up to the beginning of Commonwealth Avenue. As I descended the long, straight-shot slant, a troubling train of thought emerged as I hit 28 MPH (45 km/h). Darn it! Forgot to stop at Harris-Teeter. Going this way, where am I going to buy the Powerball ticket? I don't want to tack on any more miles. It's getting cold and dark. And, the headlamp is dying.

Then I saw what I thought was my solution as I rolled across Morningside Drive: SA Mart, an old convenience store that had operated under a dozen different names over the decades. This place will do the trick. Mission accomplished.

I gently leaned my bicycle against one of the large window panes, because I didn't see anything to lock it to. I can keep an eye on it. I'll just be in there a minute or two. There are no loiterers, thanks to the chilly weather. Yeah, it looks safe.

I walked up to the counter. The thin, 60-ish, South Asian male clerk told me that they couldn't generate any Powerball tickets due to some data-transfer glitch. I was none too pleased, but remained emotionally restrained. Damn! Wouldn't you know it?! Just my usual non-luck.

"Ok, well, have a nice night," I said as I began my exit.

"You, too," he kindly replied. "Please call again. It should be working fine tomorrow." A day late with $2 in hand. Oh, what does it matter? The odds are like 1 in 292 million.

My black bicycle was still right where I left it. I got back on the modified steel-frame clanker-clunker [sic] and continued going southeast on Commonwealth Avenue. I soon made a left onto Green Oaks Lane and climbed past the retro-cool Aurora Apartments (the left-side units) to arrive at Briar Creek Road. I zigzagged to end up on single-family Carolyn Drive. A few minutes later, after scaling a curving incline, I was back on Central Avenue. Eastway Drive was just ahead. After crossing the busy road, I pulled into the Mobil/7-Eleven parking lot and peered in the window. The line at the counter was at least ten deep. No freaking way! It's way too crowded in there. Just hit the Circle K on Rosehaven. [Drive] Yeah, that's it. Well, it had better be – it's the last chance.

I got back in the bike lane and pedaled eastward. At Sheridan Drive (the first intersection; it's a U-shaped street), I noticed a big gap in the westbound traffic and shot across the five lanes. Excellent. I'm done with Central Avenue. No more busy streets to contend with.

At Maureen Drive I would make a swift right, as I had a lot of speed from a long decline. As I attacked the sudden incline, the street name triggered a memory. Wonder whatever happened to Maureen. [an Italian American lady from northern New Jersey] Did she marry a Wall Streeter? [sic] Or, was he just a two-bit gangster? Has she peacefully settled into an idyllic life? A four-bedroom house in the suburbs? Two late-model cars and two college-graduated-with-honors kids? Or, divorced? Unemployed? Foreclosure? Bankruptcy? Ah, the vagaries of this human existence.

I would cross Kilborne Drive without much delay. After a right on Sudbury Road, I ceased pedaling and let gravity sweep me down the long, almost-straight descent. Then it was a steep ascent on the sidewalk. Four minutes later I was dismounting the bike at our back door.

"Hon, did you buy a Powerball ticket?" my wife asked as I flopped on the bed, completely exhausted.

"No luck," I groaned as I fell asleep.

Guess which sextet of whirling ping-pong balls was plucked from the hopper at 10:59 PM? Yep, Monique's six numbers. (The agonizing realization is detailed in Powerballed.)
35. The Waitress (Dec. 2017)

Friday, December 1st, 2017. It was an exemplarily mild, last-third-of-autumn day in near-uptown Charlotte (NC, USA). I had just concluded a laboratory safety meeting with the chemistry staff. Roy, the 59-year-old, Caucasian, longtime lab facilitator, then asked if I wanted to join him for lunch at a nearby restaurant. Hope he doesn't want noodles again.

"What place did you have in mind?" I asked him.

"How about the Mexican one?" Roy suggested, as if reading my mind. I know that Mike will want to eat there.

"Sure, I like that place, Roy." Knew it.

We then began our short, .3-mile (.5 km) trek on foot to the Elizabeth Avenue eatery. As we waited to cross Charlottetowne Avenue, we witnessed a pedestrian (a 20-ish, white, male student) in the crosswalk arguing with a left-turning motorist, but nothing serious became of it. Everyone seems ready to explode at the drop of a hat nowadays.

Once in the restaurant's foyer, we were quickly seated at a booth by a Hispanic young lady. Our Latina-appearing, mid-20-ish, raven-hair-with-faint-caramel-locks waitress arrived just a minute later to take our drink order.

"Just a glass of ice water for me," Roy requested.

"Same," I told her. "No cerveza fría ['cold beer' in Spanish]; I have to go back to work." I then rubbed my seemingly-forever-sleep-encrusted, 53-year-old right eye. Why always this eye?

"Didn't get enough sleep last night?" she asked in perfect-sounding American English.

"He's never really woken up," Roy interjected. Nice zinger. Roy goes up one-nil.

"It's that bottle of diethyl ether in his prep room," I retorted. "He won't re-cap it. The sleeping class on the 4th floor awaits a wake-up spark." Huh?!

The busty waitress looked somewhat shocked. Is this red-haired guy for real?

"He's just pulling your leg," Roy then assured her. "Can I guess where you're from?" 'Pulling my leg?' Must be an idiomatic expression. English is so strange.

"Sure," she said with an infectious smile. "I'll give you three guesses." Does she know about baseball?

"Mexico," Roy posited first.

"Wrong, amigo. [friend in Spanish] Guess again."

"Guatemala," Roy then uttered in his gravelly voice.

"Nope. One strike left." Ah, she's seen our national pastime. Maybe her brother played shortstop in the Dominican Republic. And now, maybe he's in the [Baltimore] Orioles' farm system. Why the Orioles? Where did that come from?

Roy scraped his pale, cut-while-shaving chin. "I'm going with Peru for the win!" he announced with a burst of unforeseen verve. That was very game-show-like of Roy.

The waitress made a buzzer sound. "You struck out. You owe me a 25% tip." She giggled. "Just kidding." Not really.

"Well, where are you originally from?" Roy enquired. I bet that she was actually born in the U.S. / Roy made some bad, though quite understandable, assumptions.

"Spain – España!" she proudly proclaimed. "I'm from Barcelona. I'll be going back for five weeks on Sunday." Charlotte sure is a lot more international now. Never can be sure of where anyone is from. Not so many natives anymore.

"Ah, a Barça [FC Barcelona] fan, sí?" [yes in Spanish] I asked, fully expecting her answer in the affirmative.

"No – never!" she snapped. "I support Real Madrid. I am the black sheep of the family." She does seem like a contrarian.

"Ah, la oveja negra," ['the black sheep' in Spanish] I added.

"You know Spanish?" she then asked me, arching her dark-brown-penciled eyebrows. I bet her boyfriend gets no rest.

"No mucho. ['not much' in Spanish] Just had two years in high school. Sadly, I have forgotten most of it." ¡Tonto Americano! ['American dunce' in Spanish]

"What fútbol [football/soccer in Spanish] team do you root for?" she asked as she glanced towards the front. Maybe her manager wants her to cease this conversation. / Debo irme. ['I must go.' in Spanish]

"Liverpool," I solemnly stated.

"Oh, Barcelona plucked your best player," she declared with a surfeit of glee.

"They most certainly – and painfully – did. But, we now have this Egyptian, [Mohamed] Salah, who is following [Luis] Suárez's path. He's scoring goals at a good clip. His finishing has greatly improved."

She then looked at Roy. "And, what is your team, sir?"

"Kentucky," Roy spouted. "The University of Kentucky. The men's basketball team. I don't follow soccer, baseball, or the NFL. I'm from a small town in Kentucky."

I looked at our tan-faced waitress. "In a way, you two are in the same boat: You have to hide away to root for Real Madrid in Barcelona, and my friend Roy has to watch the Kentucky games at home as this area is hostile territory."

"Hostile territory?" she asked, looking perplexed.

"It's UNC [University of North Carolina] and Duke [University] country," Roy apprised her. "Those are two of our biggest rivals. But, he exaggerates – as he always does. There are many bars in Charlotte that are just fine for Kentucky fans."

"Oh, I see," she responded, seeming to grasp it. "I'll be right back with your drinks."

She would return two minutes later with a pair of clear, tall, ice-packed glass tumblers. Is there any water in there? Ah, calm down; the ice will soon melt.

I caught our waitress's eye just as she turned to leave. "Being from Barcelona, what do you think of the Catalonia independence movement?" I asked. Hope that I didn't just ignite a powder keg. / Grrrr...That topic! / Why did Mike have to bring up that controversial bone of contention?

"It's a very sore subject," she admitted. "Such unnecessary chaos if you ask me. Not everyone in Catalonia is for independence. It's not 92% in favor like the pro-independence parties claim; it's more like 52%. My family is divided – as are most: My mom, my older brother, and I are against it; my younger sister and younger brother are all for it; my dad just wants stability. We don't talk about it anymore. That's because if we do, it will end up in a terrible argument with horrible name-calling, including the English word 'Francophile', which, trust me, doesn't mean a lover of all things French." What a clever epithet! / Well, since Mike brought up this issue...

Roy gulped down some water and cleared his throat. "Was Catalonia ever its own sovereign nation?" he asked the quite-possibly-a-savvy-journalist-in-the-near-future waitress.

"No!" she boldly broadcasted. "Contrary to what you mostly hear in America, Catalonia has never been its own country," she passionately informed us. "The area was first formally known as the Principality of Catalonia in the Middle Ages, [the 12th century AD] and was soon part of the Crown of Aragon. Later, [the 17th century AD] it was a French-overseen republic. The four regional provinces formed a commonwealth about a century ago, [1914] and later [1931] restored their parliament. But, nationhood? Never!" Wow! She sure knows her history. But, she conveniently omitted the [Francisco] Franco era. / I just know that Mike's impressed. I bet that he's taking mental notes for another short story. Or, has he been secretly recording this conversation with his phone?

"When do you think the Middle Ages will be renamed?" I asked with a wry grin. Él debe ser un bromista. ['He must be a joker.' in Spanish] / Oh, brother! Mike has already started with his nonsense. Need to take him down a peg.

"Are you some kind of wiseacre?" she responded. She's heard the word 'wiseacre'? Wonder where.

"He's actually a very boring safety guy," Roy insisted. Wow! Another zinger. Roy goes up two-nil. / That should take some of the hot air out of Mike's balloon.

"Got to run," our waitress suddenly said as she dashed off to the kitchen.

Seven minutes later she returned with my sopa de lima (lime soup) and Roy's shrimp tacos. The food was just what the would-see-if-not-so-expensive doctor ordered: scrumptious fare. Muy deliciosa. ['very delicious' in Spanish]

After we were done, our Spanish server slinked over to our table once more to gather the plate, bowl and silverware.

"What's your name?" I asked our polite, professional, attentive, and very intelligent waitress.

"Estefana," she replied. "And, what are your names?"

"Mike," I blurted.

Roy barked his name a half-second later.

"Estefana, I write meta-real short stories and post them on the internet," I disclosed. Sabía que era escritor. ['I knew that he was a writer.' in Spanish]

Roy immediately pounced. "Yeah, he's funny like that." Three-nil. A hat-trick for old-boy Roy. He's really zinging the hell out of me today. Ah, but that's ok. He's buying. Let him fire away. Kind of amusing anyway. Hope I can remember all of this.

"My old pal Roy is hoping to make it in comedy, even at his advanced age," I told her to soften his gloat-filled barb. "Anyway, what message would you like to tell a person – or robot-human hybrid – existing 200 years from now?" What did he just ask me?

She was dumbfounded, but then her synapses fired. "Humans will be erased by 2217," she calmly asserted. Wow! There's a short story here. She would be a great interview. Too bad that it's time to leave.

"Plague or asteroid?" Roy queried her.

"Oh, I believe that our species' demise and subsequent extinction will be from widespread nuclear-bomb radiation," she confidently opined. "Humans will end their own race within two centuries. Probably within one. Mars will fail. Humankind's great achievements, all for naught. The cockroaches will win." She's no airhead. Wonder what Roy's thinking. / She's too young to be so nihilist.

"Didn't expect that," Roy divulged on our return to campus.

"Me, either."

36. The Waiter (Dec. 2017)

Tim, a somewhat husky; mid-40-ish-appearing; dark-haired; olive-skinned; mixed-race American waiter, was a bit of a joker – an odd joker – at a very popular Italian restaurant in east Charlotte (NC, USA). He would often share his strangely amusing, twisted, self-disparaging riddles and conundrums with us. After bringing the drinks to our table, he decided to lay a new one on us (Monique, my wife, aka Agent 32, and I, Agent 33) on this chilly mid-December (2017) Thursday evening.

"Why does the restaurant owner stay in the kitchen?" Tim asked us without any discernible emotion.

I looked over the front counter at the massive pizza oven and saw the short, bald, rotund, unmistakably-from-Italy co-owner. "I have no worldly idea, Tim," I replied.

"Are you sure?" he probed.

"So that he can stay warm next to the oven on a cold night like this one," Monique blurted.

"That's a very good guess, ma'am," Tim validated. "But, sorry, no prize." Or cigar.

"Ok, Tim, what's the million-dollar answer that we would never guess in a thousand years?" I asked. Or 10,000.

"Drumroll, please. Ta-da-da-duh-dum. The answer: So that he won't have to hear my riddles crashing on the floor." He's a weird one. / Kind of surreal – like Mysterieau.

"Bravo!" I exclaimed. "I like it, Tim. It's not everyone's cup of tea, but I'm down – or maybe I should say 'up' – with the self-dep[recation] angle. Too much male comedy in America is now just 'I can fart louder than fill-in-the-blank with my foot-long dick stuck up my ass'. It's just cocaine-abetted, juvenile, primate-chest-pounding nonsense. Ya know what I mean, Tim?" What the heck did my bana [husband in Cebuano] just say?! / Is he high on something fungal? / Did I really say that?

"Yeah, I guess so," he said, feigning exasperation. "Anyway, thanks for the compliment. Your pasta dishes will be out in ten minutes – maybe twelve." He then waltzed off to the kitchen. Maybe twelve? Not eleven?

The dining area began to fill up with an assortment of patrons: families from surrounding neighborhoods, first dates, and lone just-got-off-work regulars.

"What do you think of our waiter?" I asked my charming, late-30-something, brown-eyed Filipina wife.

"He's a bit of an odd duck," Monique replied. I just know that hubby likes his weird humor.

"I wonder what his story is."

"Why don't you ask him?" Should I? Would he take offence? Don't really know him that well. Though, I know that he has something interesting to reveal; can just sense it.

"Ok, I will, Agent 32." Agent 32? Recorder is on. I'm sure.

"So, you're recording, 33?"

"Just to be safe. Don't want to let a possible short story slide through the crevices of the remaining gray matter." Oh, boy.

Tim would return with our entrées eleven minutes later. After he carefully placed the large, white, oval, marinara-sauce-splattered plates in front of us, I took a chance and casually casted my metaphorical, innocently-inconsequential-enough-though-could-quickly-become-worrisomely-weighty lure.

"Tim, what's your story?" I boldly enquired. Is this guy some kind of writer? He kind of looks like one. But, no glasses. / Hope he doesn't say, 'None of your business, pal.' Awkward.

He chuckled boisterously for several seconds. Then Tim recomposed himself. "Everyone has a story, right? Is that what you're getting at? Or is it, to be more precise, 'why are you still waiting tables at 47 in a mid-tier restaurant?' kind of gotcha question?" Gotcha? He really knotted that one up.

"Any way that you want to answer it is fine, or you can just decline," I stated. And still get billed later.

"Your question is too rich to walk away from, Mike. It's Mike, right?" He didn't forget. / He has a good memory. Wonder if he remembers my name, too.

"Yes – very impressive," I lauded Tim. "You've got a much better memory than me." Maybe not.

"A good waiter has to have a good memory to keep a good clientele," Tim rattled off. "Wouldn't you agree, Monique?" Wow! He remembered my name as well.

"Good memory, Tim," Monique commended with a nod.

"It's all done by association – the Jerry Lucas image-based method," Tim disclosed. "But, I go a step further and make it a rhyming phrase. 'Mike the redhead on the red, lead bike.' It sticks better that way. I've now got 400 customers memorized." How amazing! / Is he serious?

"But, my bike is a black steel-frame," I quipped. Ah, a stickler for details. He probably works with codes.

"Now I might forget you," Tim declared as he descended into a hearty guffaw. His laughter wound down and then he continued. "And, chic Monique beside the mountain creek." Has he read 'Monique by the Creek'? Must be just a coincidence. Don't even think that short story is online yet.

"Tim, you are so witty!" Monique proclaimed.

"Thanks, Monique. Well, back to your question, Mike. I'll give you a four-sentence summary, since I'm pressed for time. Is that ok, folks?" Anything will most likely be fine.

"Sure," Monique and I said in unison.

"I was an only child born in Charlotte on Earth Day [April 22nd] 1970," Tim informed. "My hippy parents were killed in an automobile accident on Eastway Drive on August 9th, 1974 – right as [resigning President Richard] Nixon's helicopter was leaving the White House lawn for the last time. I suffered some brain damage in that violent collision; cognitive dissonance is now a staple of my staples. I was an orphan in area foster homes up until the age of 18; just a waiter who has bounced around town since then. Did I go over the limit if we allow a pair of semicolons?" What a life story. / Woah!

"No, you did fine," I assured him. "I'm so sorry about the loss of your parents at such an early age."

"Ah, it's ok," Tim mollified. "It happened a long, long time ago."

"My heart goes out to you, Tim," Monique empathized. It's so sad.

Tim detected our now-glum mood. "Well, it wasn't meant to be a let-me-bring-you-down-tonight speech," Tim avowed. "Just stating the primary facts in my run-of-the-mill life thus far. I'm still single, if you know any unattached Filipinas, Monique."

"Sure, Tim, just give me your full name and e-mail," Monique requested. "Oh, are you on Facebook?"

"I am, but not that often," Tim answered. "I've dated a few waitresses over the years, but they all drank more alcohol – and took way more pills – than me. All became shipwrecks." Shipwrecks?

"Tim, what's your favorite TV show?" I asked for some suddenly-escaping-my-fleeting-cognizance reason.

"None. I'm over and done with it. There's no TV in my apartment. Not to brag, but I can see through all the manipulation and deception. No show – or even TV news – is able to suspend its ridiculous unreality for me – not even the so-called hardcore crime-story series. And, those you-can-trust-us-because-we're-not-only-after-your-hard-earned-money commercials – well, I'm sorry, but it astounds me how so many fail to see the disingenuousness. It's insulting to my intelligence. Listen, I'm not the smartest guy – I'm well aware of that – but, I'm not stupid. And, how about all of the constantly-employed scare tactics? Did you know that 1.1 million people die each and every week? No one's death is going to stop the universe from doing its thing. 'Get over yourself!' The current state of TV bewilders me. It's gotten so 1984-ish." Wow! Snagged another short story. He was perfect.

"Thanks for your candor, Tim," I responded. "Can I use what you just said in a future online short story?" I knew that he was a writer.

"Sure, just change my name, and don't use the restaurant's name."

"You got it, man."

"So, what website will it be on?"

"A dozen or so. Keyword-search psecret psociety, Tim, with silent p's." Huh?

"Oh, like the word psychology?"

"That's correct, Tim," Monique affirmed.

37. Foxfire (May 2017)

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

Parkaar's [me, Agent 33] thoughts are in this color/shade. / Monique's [my wife, Agent 32] thoughts are in this color/shade. / Aristotle's thought-quotes are in this color/ shade.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

In mid-March of 2017, Monique, my forever-fascinating late-30-something Filipina wife (Agent 32), and I (Agent 33), decided to head up to Green Mountain RV Resort in the preliminary eastern range of the Blue Ridge Mountains (NC, USA) for a weekender at the family camper. It was 85 miles (137 km) from our residence in east Charlotte – only about a 100-minute drive if done nonstop; though, such was rare.

It was a sunny, yet quite chilly, Saturday morning in the Queen City as we motored westward on US 74 (Independence Expressway) in our gray, straight-drive with a chattering clutch, 2005 Kia Rio hatchback. Traffic was for the most part on the light side. We were soon passing the uptown towers on the Brookshire Freeway (Interstate 277 / NC 16). The city looked so new, and so quiet. Almost looks like a to-scale balsa wood model – a life-size set for a Toho movie. When does Godzilla appear to wreak havoc? Which building gets smashed to bits first? / Wonder what my crazy kano [Filipino slang for American] husband is thinking now. No, don't even ask.

We were making good time; we passed under Interstate 40 on US 321 at 10:24 AM. In 73 minutes we had gone 63 miles (101 km), passing through six traffic lights on the way: three in east Charlotte and three in north Gastonia. We got up here a little early for lunch. Should have had a second cup of coffee and left the house a half-hour later. Really don't want to eat breakfast. / I'm about ready for some food. My stomach is gurgling. Wonder if he heard it.

Twenty hillock-bounding minutes later, we were entering the sleepy foothills town of Lenoir. We took Harper Avenue NW into the downtown area. We parked and started walking on West Avenue NW to pass some time. I spied an ice cream shop across the street.

"Want some ice cream, mahal?" [love in Tagalog] I asked my black-jacketed, black-panted, black-shoed, black-haired Visayan wife.

"Ah, sure, bana. [husband in Cebuano] One scoop will hold me over until we eat lunch."

And with that reply, we crossed the deserted downtown lane. Corner Creamery was open. The ice cream was pretty good. Much cheaper than Blowing Rock. / So tasty. Yum-yum.

At 11:08 AM we were outside Piccolo's Italian Restaurant. The ever-grinning, short, dark-haired owner greeted us at the door. He was very gregarious and quite friendly. As a bonus to our pizza order, he threw in a free two-liter (67.6 oz.) bottle of cola (though we're not big soda drinkers). A near-life-size statue of Humphrey Bogart (Rick Blaine from Casablanca) kept watch over us as we ate the square slices of Chicago-style pie. (By the way, this place is full of interesting pop-culture artifacts, especially memorabilia related to the Windy City. It's a must-stop-in if in the area.)

Next, we had a few craft beers at Howard's Brewing (unfortunately, now defunct) around the corner on Boundary Street NW. The Mistletoe porter was distinctly divine. Strangely, the 30-ish, suds-slinging, tattooed, dirty-blonde-haired waitress mistook me for another red-haired dude that was in there last week. She was so dead-sure that I was that guy that I went along with it; I didn't correct her. She told me that I was funny last Saturday. Hope my doppeldonger [sic] didn't say or do something foul. Doppeldonger, where did that coinage come from? What warped my mind?

Fast-forward five hours. Monique and I are now on the wooden deck that wraps around two sides of the camper. We're relaxing on the rear (west) side that projects into the dense woods. As the sun begins to set, critters start to move about below, crunching down upon the carpet of dry fallen leaves. Yikes! We're not alone. What is down there?

I sipped on my tall goblet of Merlot as Monique nursed her demitasse of pink Zinfandel. It was a nice late winter evening with the temperature in the low 50s (Fahrenheit; 10 to 11º Celsius). I think that we have enough propane for the night. Sure don't want to go out again. It won't get as cold as last night. / The heat had better not go off in the middle of the night like last time.

"What kinds of animals are in this forest?" Monique asked, looking very concerned all of a sudden.

"Oh, there are many species, mahal. Way too many to enumerate."

"I mean, what threatening four-legged mammals might be out tonight?"

"Well, I'm sure that there are foxes, coyotes, wolves and bears up here." Bears?!

"Oi! Well, when it gets dark, I am going inside. And, I strongly suggest that you do likewise, Agent 33." Agent 33? Hmmm... She suspects that I'm recording. / I just know that he'll write up this outing later. He might as well record and get the dialogue correct. His memory is so bad now. He can't remember two days ago.

"Oh, honey, all of those animals that I just mentioned are afraid of humans." Not if they are hungry!

"Ok, suit yourself, Parkaar. [my ailing alias] But, this pinay [a Philippine woman] is going inside in ten minutes." She's spooked.

"You don't want to savor the sylvan gloaming with me, lovely Agent 32?" Sylvan gloaming? He's already sauced.

"No, I'll let you have it all to yourself, dear."

The softly spreading drapery of darkness settled on the 80% hardwood / 20% conifer forest. It was so tranquil. The campground's year-rounders were already in for the night. Sure is peaceful up here tonight. / It's so quiet that it's creepy. Feels like a horror movie setting. It's about time to go inside.

Then I suddenly noticed a greenish glow off in the woods. It was probably about 100 feet (30 meters) away. Did someone smear the contents of a lightstick on a tree?

I stood up and pointed. "Monique, do you see that greenish glow down there?"

"Yes!" she screamed. "Well, that's it. I'm going inside now. There's a mumu [phantom in Tagalog] down there." She then got up from her lawn chair and began walking towards the front door, where she stopped and turned towards me. "How long will you be staying out here, 33?"

"Maybe for a little while, 32. I want to check out that eerie glow. I want to know what it is." Oh, boy. I just knew it. Men!

"Ok, that's your choice. But, I'm locking the door, bana."

"That's fine, my extra-cautious wife. I'll knock in a three-four-three pattern when I return." What?!

"That's a losing formation, Parkaar." Huh? Oh, a pun on soccer setups. Very clever of her.

"Ok, it will be four-four-two, Monique." That's better.

"Stay safe. Bye. Oh, do you have your cell phone?"

"Yes, I've got it."

"Is it charged?"

"Uh, let me check." I fumbled for my phone in my pants pocket. Once I had it extracted, I checked the battery gauge. "Ok, it's at 67%. All good for at least two days, mahal."

"Ok, see you later, Mr. Nocturnal Explorer."

"Ok, dear. Just text me if you get scared."

"I most certainly will. And, you do the same, bana."

I blew her a kiss. She returned fire and stepped inside.

Next, I heard her successfully lock the door. Then I walked off the deck to the asphalt parking space. I checked our car. It was all locked-up. The just-up-the-street neighbor's camper still had their tiny, white, camper-outlining Christmas lights up; they were on and blithely twinkling away in silence. They probably got tired of putting them up and taking them down. Well, in another three months, they will have been deemed to have set up their lights early.

I then walked around to the other side of our Denali-branded camper. A faint deer path curled to the left and descended into the woods. Soon I was walking past the deck posts. Moonlight filtered through the gaps between the deck planks, thirteen feet (four meters) overhead. Good. We've got some natural illumination tonight. Forgot the working flashlight again. The one in the camper has dead batteries. Bad planning. Par for the curse. [sic]

I looked off in the distance, moving my head from side to side so that I could relocate that strange green glow. It didn't take that long, as there were hardly any leaves yet on the deciduous trees. Ah, there it is. Looks to be less than a foot (30.5 cm) in height. Looks like something right out of a sci-fi flick. Or, a horror movie? Hope not.

Small fallen tree limbs and twigs crackled under foot as I moved towards my target. I heard small animals – probably squirrels and other rodents – scurrying away from me. Then I heard a much larger mammal walking – steadily advancing. Is that a wolf? Darn! Forgot the damn pepper spray. Let's grab a nice-size rock and a thick stick. Well, just in case.

I stopped walking and was very still. The unseen animal – whatever it was – kept progressing at the same, slow, measured pace up a small ridge off to my right. It then seemed to be going away from me. And, ten seconds later, this was confirmed, as the sound of the animal's steps diminished and faded away. Whew! I bet that was a wolf. Or, I guess that it could have been a deer. Maybe a wolf tracking a sick or injured deer. It probably picked up the scent. Canis stalkerazzi. [sic]

Everything was quiet again. I looked up at the sky. Some thin cirrus clouds formed elongated zones for the emerging stars. Two stars in zone 4. Five stars in zone 2. One in 3. Three in 1. Clean, lubricate, protect. 3-in-One Oil. 1894. Originally for bicycles. Wonder if it is still produced. [It is, but now by the WD-40 Company.] What a strange universe. Cue The Man from RavCon. What could it all mean? Don't think that I'm smart enough to know. Maybe one only knows in death. If ever.

I restarted my gradual trek through the moonlit eastern North American forest. The green glow was now only about thirty feet (nine meters) ahead. What in the world is that? Looks like it's attached to the tree. Need to take a pic of it and show it to Monique.

Sixteen seconds later, after stepping over a wide-girth, wind-toppled oak tree, I was looking at the green luminous glow, which was right at eyelevel. Ah, I know what this is. It was in one of the pocket field guides.

The source of the soft green light was actually foxfire – a type of bioluminescent fungi. The layered clamshell-like growth was about nine inches (23 cm) tall by about six inches (15 cm) wide by two inches (5 cm) deep. It kind of looked like the profile of an ancient philosopher from Athens or Rome. I snapped a photo with my LG semi-smartphone. Well, this old birch tree is most definitely not long for this world. Massive decay is already underway. Wonder why this particular wood-reducing fungus glows in the dark. Maybe it's to warn nighttime foragers. 'Hey, don't even think of eating me! – I taste really bad; in fact, I may even be poisonous to you!' Hmmm... Wonder how bad it actually tastes. Is it really poisonous? Never saw this listed in the toxic category in any of my mushroom books. Ah, maybe just a little nibble. Oh, why not? You only live once, sport. And, you only die once, too. Well, maybe. Who really knows? Yep, here goes.

I broke off a small piece and placed it in my mouth. I bit down on it lightly and wrinkled my face, not knowing exactly what to expect, but anticipating a rancid flavor. The texture was fairly firm; the taste was a bit acrid, yet endurable. There was actually a not-totally-disagreeable aftertaste. No, it certainly wasn't a tasty prize-winning morel; however, I didn't have too much trouble getting it down the hatch. Wonder how long it will take to feel any effects. My stomach is not completely full now. Last ate over six hours ago. Will there be any effects? Probably inert, I would bet. But, if there is something neural coming down the tracks, we're close enough to the camper if internal fireworks start going off. It's not like we're eight miles (13 km) out. Yet. Ha! Well, while we're waiting, we can send the foxfire pic to Monique. We for me. I sure seem to love 1st person plural these days. At least I'm not down to 3rd person plural. That's probably game-over time. Broughton [Mental Hospital of Morganton, NC] calling. Hello? Anyone there? They are not here.

This is the text that I included with the photo of the foxfire:

This is what the green glow is, honey. It's called foxfire. It's actually a fungus. I'm fine. Nice little walk. Heading back shortly. How are you doing at base camperoni? [sic]

Monique replied a minute later.

I'm doing fine, my intrepid Agent 33. Just missing you. Get back here soon, Parkaarazzi. [sic] Mahal kita, asawa ['I love you, wife' in Tagalog]

And then I replied.

Are you sure that you don't want to see the mysterious green glow in person, seductive sexarita? [sic]

Her answer came back quickly.

Very sure. See you soon. Stay safe, Fungarazzi! [sic]

I looked at the foxfire again. I let my left index finger touch the cool fungal mass. And then, a thought suddenly blasted into my head, whence I have no idea. The energy of the mind is the essence of life. / That's Aristotle! The pride of Stagira hit a home run there. No doubt that they cheered him all over Chalcidice. Look at that parade. Standing room only. An errant ball rolls down the dusty promenade. The growing applause. Well, maybe celebrated in the upper echelons only. The bright Mediterranean sun in their faces. A light onshore breeze. What a moment in time. It was their present. It was all going to be Greece forever. Wow! My thinking sure has ticked up a notch after munching on that lustrously verdant elf ear. I'm channeling a famous ancient. And, what a famous ancient to channel. What a past present for this present! Wonder what lies ahead.

I pulled my finger back. My brain flashed. Yes, that's a famous quote by Aristotle alright. Or, was it by Plato? Wait. Socrates? Or, was it by Pliny the Elder? Or, the Younger? Or, the history-passed-over bummer? Hmmm... Not absolutely sure if it was Aristotle now. Doubt creeps into those forgotten crevices. And, how it expands so very quickly. Uh, could I utilize a 50-50 on that one, Regis? Shouldn't have daydreamed so much in that 11th-grade World History class. [Independence High School, Charlotte/Mint Hill] Mr. Carpenter would be disappointed. Ah, he knew I wasn't going anywhere noteworthy. Just have them know that it was Greece before it was Rome, and move them along. Wonder if Mr. Carpenter and his Indian wife are still alive? Guess they would be around 70 or so now. Time sure flew out that classroom window. Fast, in retrospect.

My left index finger again drifted back to the foxfire. It was as if it was being drawn by an invisible, irresistible force. And then, I saw it: It was the right-side profile of Aristotle in the gnarly fungal growth. In that very same moment, another ancient thought was flung into my 21st century mind-space. No great genius has ever existed without some touch of madness. / Ok, that settles it; that was definitely Aristotle. And now, the famous Greek is existing in some ever-after as a tree fungus. Well, at least for me at this point in time. Boy, this is so very weird. Uberifically [sic] bizarre. Hope there is more to come.

As I again felt the edge of the fungus, another quote by Aristotle shot into my mind. Thinking is the top bliss and joy in life. / Yes, indeed. It truly is, old boy. It separates us from other lifeforms. Even intraspecies. You really nailed that one, you sly syllogist. Couldn't have said it better myself. A five-star profundity there. The cog in cognition. How many quotes remain in this session? When does this special effect wear off? Hope it doesn't last until dawn. Don't want to be awake all night.

My left index finger then brushed the gills on the underside of another foxfire cap. I now realized that I would only receive the profound quotes when I made physical contact with the glowing fungus; a tactile connection was necessary. And then, shazam! The ideal man bears the accident of life with dignity and grace, making the best of the circumstances. / Another goal scored there, Mr. A. Top-self quality. Deft delivery. World-class material all day long – and all night long, too. Oh, so sorry that you are alive to read this. Ha-ha. Such dark hilarity. Never knew that Aristotle was so witty. Did we really think that after Plato it would just be pasty platitudes? 'Only the dead have seen the end of war.' Perhaps Plato's best. Over two millennia out, and it's still as true today as it was on day one. So, when's the next war? Just hang tight; it will be here before you know it, bunky. Will it settle things? Sure, it will. Well, up until the lead-up to the next war. Wonder what Aristotle thought when he heard his mentor say that. / It is not enough to win a war; it is more important to organize the peace. / Wow! Aristotle replies. This is something else. Let's keep this open channel open. And flowing. Further. Dredge ahead at full speed. Deepen all ancillary canals. Yeah, that's looking very nice, Ed. Ok, and what is your feeling about art, Aristotle? / The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance. / So very well-stated, sir! Bravo! Such a prescient remark. Way ahead of your time. Ok, I am sure that you had to deal with critics for your bold statements, as did Socrates and Plato. Ahem... Well now, Aristotle, what do you have to say about criticism? / There is only one way to avoid criticism: Do nothing, say nothing, and be nothing. / I love it! I'll give you a standing ovation for that. Pure genius. How did I never hear or read any of these gems? Maybe because I had my head buried in knowhere. [sic] Any views on knowledge and wisdom, father of Western thought? / Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom. / Wow! Never heard that maximum maxim. I should get out of this century more often. My apologies. Well, I know that I am just a bloke of average intelligence. Ok, maybe I'm a 7.25 out of 10 on my keenest day. So, knowing that, what should I do? Try to get into some degree-mill online graduate school? Or, search for Socrates' hemlock? / The more you know, the more you know you don't know. / A paradoxical aphorism there. And, couldn't agree more. Carefully build your unique ladder to get out of your dark dungeon. Make sure that all of the rungs are strong and secure. Then carefully climb your ladder to the top of the wall where that little window is – the one that you've been staring at for years; yes, that one which promises a wondrous tomorrow. Then, once on that stone sill, take a look around. Ah! You were actually in a room atop a tower. And, it's a long, long, oh-so-very-long way down. You're stuck. Ok, that's probably not the best example, is it? / Educating the mind without educating the heart is no education at all. / Need to do both. Ok, we got it. What about hope? / Hope is a waking dream. / Monique will like that one. But, not an Ambien® sleepwalking episode, right? Sorry, you've never heard of it. Let's just move along. Hmmm... What would my wife like to ask the eternal mind of Aristotle? Any adages regarding friends and enemies? / The antidote for fifty enemies is one friend. / She'll like that one. Yes, she will. You see – or maybe you can't – there's this mega-gossippy pinay group in Charlotte. Well, really all over the globe. We refer to them as Group Z. They're a rather toxic ensemble, saturated in self-loathing. Their prime desire is to pull others into their mire. My wife avoids them at all cost. / A friend to all is a friend to none. / So true. She'll like that one, too. How about one more on friends? Am I being greedy? If so, cancel my request. / A friend is a second self. / Nice. Score! Another one in the back of the net. You haven't missed from the spot yet, old guy. Did you ever wonder what life would be like 2,300 years later? Well, most of the problems of your time are still here, only magnified. / Republics decline into democracies, and democracies degenerate into despotisms. / Not so optimistic, huh? Not a big fan of one person, one vote? Dolts are easily manipulated by crafty politicians. Was that your thinking? Mob rule by those who eschew school? Well, you just may have had a functioning crystal ball back there. Where did you leave it? Under the Parthenon? How did all of those archaeologists not unearth it? You know, you could get a lot for it on Ebay. What's Ebay? Buying and selling on an electronic screen. Stuff moving from A to B. Money moving invisibly. Fees making some very rich. I bet you could figure out the whole scheme in an hour. / Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work. / I agree with you yet again. Too bad that so many are unhappy with their jobs now, Big A. Can I call you Big A? I'll take that as a yes. / Whoever is delighted in solitude is either a wild beast or a god. / Well, I spent many years in near-solitude. I'm certainly no god, or demigod. Thus, maybe I was a wild beast for a while. So, you weren't one for the ascetic lifestyle. Were you in the 'an idle mind is the devil's workshop' camp? / We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit. / I actually think that I've heard that one before, A. I believe that it was at a motivational seminar. / It is the mark of an educated mind to entertain a thought without accepting it. / Well, we certainly will consider any thought, even if for only a millisecond. Yes, even the vile hate-filled thoughts make us wonder about possible abuse, slighting and neglect. / Through discipline comes freedom. / Yeah, I agree with you yet again, A. So many today – in America at least – think that they can achieve their goals by irregular, undisciplined half-efforts. Must have a regimen. And, one must stick with it. Follow-through. It seems that so few have patience for that anymore. It's hedonism to the max now, A. Gratification cannot be delayed one nanosecond. Not sure how this ends. Not good, I would wager.

And then, my cell phone chirped. I had received a text message from my wife.

Are you ok?

I replied immediately.

Yes, all is going quite well, mahal.

What are you doing?

Oh, just getting some good thoughts from the Big A – future story material.

The Big A? What or who is that? Please don't tell me that you are communicating with a fungus-infested tree, Agent 33.

Ha! How did you know, astute Agent 32?

I know your brain better than you do. It's time to wrap it up and come back to the camper before a bear eats you.

It's all good, even if the wood is rotten.

The clock has started, Parkaar. No admittance after five minutes.

Ok, I am heading back now. See you very soon. Oh, please turn the outside light on. Salamat. [thanks in Tagalog]

I touched the foxfire one last time for the night. Wicked men obey out of fear; good men, out of love. / Yeah, no doubt, Aristotle. No doubt, whatsoever. Well, I've got to go now. Oh, before I go, might you have one more apothegm that you could serve up in an instant? / Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies. / That's good stuff there – a most righteous one to leave on. I'll share that with my wife. She will really like that one. Well, until, if, and/or ever... again. It's certainly been rather grand. And, most unforgettable. Give my regards to the others, if there are any in this hyper-state. Gia sou. [goodbye in Greek]

The walk back to the camper was incident-free: No animals – or humans – attacked me. I didn't hear anything, either. And, the interjected Aristotelian quotations had ceased. My thinking seemed to be back to normal. Or, as close as possible. Now, when did I first hear Aristotle mentioned in school? I think that it was in 8th grade at [Our Lady of the] Assumption. [Catholic School, the former location on Shenandoah Avenue at The Plaza in Charlotte] It was late 1977, or maybe it was early 1978. Hmmm... 1978. What a year. Evan and I at our first concert: Earth, Wind & Fire at the original Charlotte Coliseum on Independence Boulevard. The All 'N All Tour. Where's that 8-track tape now? Probably in an attic somewhere. That cold Sunday evening. Yeah, it was January 8, 1978. Funny how some dates stick. His dad dropped us off. That big gate-crunch. They didn't open enough doors. Almost crushed to death. Lifted off our feet. That cool black dude saved us by making some space for us to breathe with his elbows and forearms. Where is he now? Is he still alive? I wonder. And, back there at the flat-roofed, one-level parochial school on that spring day in '78, Paul threw that unabridged dictionary through the lower single-pane, tilt-open window. Such an irascible lad. And, he died in the '80s in east Charlotte. Did he die before or after Peter? Can't seem to remember. [Paul died from mishandling a loaded gun. Peter died in the cockpit of a plane in a storm; he was learning to fly.] And, that June day in '78 when I called the Korean girl and asked her out. She politely declined. Where is that green desk phone now? Guess it all gets lost in time. Wonder what Aristotle's wife was like. Yey! She turned the light on.

After a 4-4-2 rap pattern on the frosted-glass window with my right knuckles, Monique opened the narrow, beige, thin sheet-metal door. Finally!

"Where have you been?" Monique asked. "You've been gone 53 minutes!" That long?

"Oh, I was just down at the green glow – the foxfire."

"You just stood down there and looked at some glowing fungus on a tree for nearly an hour?" That's so buang! [crazy in Cebuano]

"I didn't just stare it."

"Well, what else did you do?"

"I touched it." Oh, boy!

"You touched some slimy fungus? Why on Earth would you do that? You had better go wash your hands."

"I received quotes from a famous Greek philosopher: the one and only Aristotle."

"What?! You've lost your marbles, bana."

"I have more than one left?" I chuckled.

Monique wasn't amused. "You need to lie down and go to sleep."

"You don't want me to tell you about it?"

"I'm tired. Just tell me in the morning, hon."

"Ok."

We both got in the queen-size master bed. Monique was asleep in just ten minutes. However, I was still excited from the Big A experience. As I lay on my back looking at the rounded ceiling, my mind was in replay mode. Man, that sure was something else. Need to take Monique down there tomorrow morning. Maybe she will get up before sunrise. Maybe. But, will she eat a piece of the foxfire? Probably not. Though, at least she can see it up close. She'll like taking her own pic of it for her Facebook page. She'll most likely caption it with something like 'My hubby was so fascinated with this glowing tree fungus that he stayed next to it for an hour last night.' Yeah, something droll like that. And, maybe in the comments section I could list the Aristotelian quotes that I 'received'. I need to write them down now before I forget.

I got up and quietly stepped into the kitchen area. There was some notebook paper and a ball-point pen next to a 500-piece jigsaw puzzle on the booth-style dining table. Surprisingly, my memory was razor-sharp. I recollected all of the Aristotelian quotes and my corresponding thoughts with remarkable ease. Wish my memory was always this crisp.

After finishing my modified shorthand notes, I switched on the ten o'clock news (Charlotte). The picture quality was pretty good tonight. (I had installed a long-range, directional, digital TV antenna last autumn.)

I grabbed a German bock beer (purchased at Aldi) from the small fridge. As I sipped it I learned about yet another shooting after a case of road rage on Interstate 85, a stabbing after an argument in southwest Charlotte, and a small child freezing to death after being left out in the cold overnight in Burke County, while the mom was passed-out on heroin. It's never going to get better. This species is doomed. Stupid, petty and violent. A terrible trifecta. Eventually terminal, I would bet. One can always hope for an asteroid, I guess. Getting nihilistic again. Need to lighten up.

After yet another annoying-as-hell Clott Scark car dealership commercial, the weather segment commenced. The morning low was only sinking to 39º (Fahrenheit; 4º Celsius) and tomorrow's high was rising to 57º (Fahrenheit; 14º Celsius) under fair skies. Looks like a decent day tomorrow. Maybe stop at Lineberger Park [in Gastonia] on the way back. No rush to get back to Charlotte. Nothing to do at the house. The heater seems to be doing ok. It must be 70º [Fahrenheit; 21º Celsius] in here. Even if the propane tank ran out right now, we would be ok. Well, I would; Monique, maybe not. She would have an outbreak of goosebumps if it got below 55º. [Fahrenheit; 13º Celsius] Let's hope it makes it to at least four in the morning. Make it five!

After zoning out during the car and macro-beer commercials, the sports segment started. A young, white, male reporter was interviewing a burly, mustachioed, dark-haired, intense-looking, Caucasian high school coach after his baseball team had lost the game by a single run after leading by five in the eighth inning. "We cannot learn without pain," he sternly announced to the camera. That's a quote by Aristotle! What are the odds of hearing that after that foxfire experience? One in million? Maybe not that unlikely. Still, what a coincidence. Wonder if that coach has a list of Aristotle's most famous quotes. Lists. He loved to make lists. Lists of lists. To-do lists. Non-essential lists. Listing ships. And, shipping lists. Get 'em out by Friday!

The news ended at 10:28. As another string of commercials started, I got up and very quietly opened the door. Once on the deck, I allowed my eyes to adjust to the low light level. Then I walked over to the far corner and peered out into the woods, looking for the magical green glow. But, I didn't see it, not even when I changed positions to get different sight lines. Hmmm... Now, where did it go? I know that I am looking in the right direction. I saw it from right here, looking precisely this way – at this very angle – just several hours ago. Does the glow not last all night? Weird. Will have to check on fungal Aristotle tomorrow. Better go back inside before Monique wakes up. She'll be none too pleased if she discovers me out here; she won't be thrilled in the least.

I looked up at the starry sky and saw what was most likely a meteor. It streamed for about eight inches (20.3 cm) of arc and then vanished into the vast blackness. So much celestial stuff whizzing about in space. I guess that the night sky looked pretty much the same for Aristotle and the ancients. Though, some shifting of the constellations has certainly occurred. The Big Dipper's bowl was deeper back then, and the end of the ladle's handle wasn't as bent. It's all moving farther and farther away, the astronomers say. Expanding expansion. Existence's enigma moving on and on. Out and out. And out... on another level... another universe? Oh, what am I thinking now? Time to go to sleep before I do something more foolish than usual.

I walked back to the front door of the camper and stopped. A firefly caught my eye. It was hovering over the only-still-working, railing-mounted, solar-powered patio lamp. The lightning bug pulsed in yellow as the lamp pulsed in blue. Wow! Their frequencies are almost in sync. Or, were. Looks like the firefly has sped up the tempo. Must be a drummer. Ha! Seems to be the only firefly out tonight. An early hatcher. Still a little cool for them. Don't think this one will ever see July. Maybe a hater of hot weather – just like Monique and I.

I then opened the right-hinged door and lightly stepped into the mini-foyer. After flipping the little, red, plastic toggle to the left to set the lock, I parted the sliding doors a few inches (7.6 cm) and peered into the master bedroom. Monique was still asleep. Ah, good. I didn't wake her up. / What has he been doing? He just will not settle down tonight. That fungus has hijacked his brain.

I slithered back into bed and hugged Monique. I'm going to surprise Mr. Smooth.

"So, are you now finished for the night?" she suddenly asked. Oops! She was awake.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm all done for the night, honey." Good.

"What were you doing out there? You didn't walk back down to that fungus again, did you?"

"Oh, no. I was just on the deck."

"What were you doing on the deck?"

"I was just counting the stars."

"Oh, how many did you count?"

"One hundred forty-one, dear."

"You didn't really count 141 stars, Parkaarstarsky. [sic] You just said that because it's a palindromic prime number." Parkaarstarsky? Hope I can remember that one.

"Yes, it's palindromic, mahal; but, it's not a prime number. One plus four plus one equals six. Therefore, 141 is not a prime number, as six is a multiple of three. Remember that old math trick that I told you about. My probability professor at UNCC (University of North Carolina at Charlotte) shared that one with the class. It was back in 1985. I'll never forget it. I still use it a lot." Why did I have to ask?

"Yes, yes, I remember. Ok, let's go to sleep now, 33."

"Oh, just one more thing, honey. When I looked for the foxfire from the deck, it was gone. It was like it had vanished – poof! – into thin air." Poof!... into thin air. Oh, boy...

"Oh?"

"Yes. Hey, let's check it out tomorrow morning. Maybe get up before dawn."

"Ok, sure. Goodnight."

"Love is two bodies occupying a single soul."

"Huh?" Darn! Botched it.

Monique was back asleep in just five minutes. It took me a little longer, but eventually consciousness was surrendered.

Sometime in the wee hours, I had a very vivid dream. I was back in ancient Greece. It was the 4th century B.C. And, it was night. None other than Aristotle was showing Alexander the (future) Great an inscription under a growth of foxfire in the forest just beyond the outer stone wall of Stagira. I was watching from above, as if I was an imperceptible ghost. I slowly descended to a height just above their heads. The inscription on the trunk of the thin-bark tree – in Greek of course – was translated for me as Aristotle pointed to it; I faintly heard:

Courage is the first of human qualities, because it is the quality which guarantees the others.

And then, Alexander looked up. I thought that maybe he detected my presence. But, he just looked back down again. Maybe it was a passing cormorant.

Then I started drifting out over the Aegean Sea. Moonlight was shimmering on the indigo swells. Suddenly I started falling. Faster. And faster. I woke up just before a most-certain fatal splashdown. Whew! Why do I keep having dreams that end with me falling from some great height? Failing?

I checked to see if I had awoken Monique when my arms jerked. I had not; she was snoring away blissfully. The red LED digits on the cheap, black, electric alarm clock stated that the time was now 3:13. The night of foxfire. Won't be forgetting this one. Foxfire Apartments on Idlewild Road at Electra Lane. [in east Charlotte] And, all those years I thought that foxfire was just a made-up word by some residential development consultant. Or, maybe to him or her it was just a cozy-sounding concocted word to lure tenants. Maybe they were completely ignorant of the existing meaning. Hmmm... Well, who knows? I think that apartment complex was built 47 years ago. Yeah, 1970. Seems about right. The guy or gal – or committee members – who came up with that name are probably all dead now. Still can't believe that Jim peed on the floodlight that illuminated that curved, brick, shrub-fronted apartment sign back in 1980. No, it was 1981. He's lucky that his wang [slang for penis] didn't get sizzled. What a crazy night. Did this follow or precede the 'electrified fence theory' night in Chantilly? [an older neighborhood in inner east Charlotte that is now glaringly gentrified] He's lucky that he didn't get zapped that night, too. It all seems to blur now. And, Gally was so drunk that night. Lying on broken glass on his living room floor. Who broke the long-neck bottle? How did it break? That old shag carpet. Beer being poured on him. And in the morning, the Paulster was holding up some girl's petite bra. 'Who's micro-bra is this?' Where is that lass now? Such lunacy. Lucky no one got arrested. But, the cops did make an appearance for something. What was it? The noise level? Hmmm... Can't seem to remember now. Oh jeez, why am I even wasting mind-space and mind-time on such past nonsense? Aristotle wasn't mentioned that night. On second thought, maybe he was by zany Mike A. [died in late December of 2015 in Salisbury, NC] He had made a list of various philosophers and asked us to pick our favorite one. Aristotle was on that list. First, I think. Who did I pick? Can't seem to remember. Well, time to get some much-needed shut-eye.

The last time that I saw the numerals on the clock next to my wife, it was 3:33. I awoke at 7:31 AM. Monique was still asleep. The air inside the camper was still warm. The propane hadn't run out during the night; we still had heat. So glad that the tank lasted the whole night. Not even sure if that Walmart in Lenoir is open 24 hours.

I kissed my sleeping wife on her right cheek, but she didn't stir. She must have been really tired. Just let princess sleep.

Then I got up and made some coffee. Being Sunday morning in the South, the over-the-air TV choices were quite limited. It was mostly religious shysters interspersed with miscellaneous homeware infomercials. I soon turned it back off. Let the HolyTurboVac suck all the satanic particles out of your house! It's only $49.95 if you order in the next thirty seconds. And, it comes with a 90-day, money-back guarantee that is backed by God himself. The all-powerful motor is warrantied for life – this one and the next one. And, if you act right now, we'll throw in an extra HolyTurboVac for Aunt Ruthie. So, what are you waiting for? Suck Lucifer's particulates right up into the easily cleanable sacrosanct dust sack. Then promptly empty onto your problem neighbor's yard. Why do I think such nonsense? Monotony? Check.

"Good morning, my kano."

I turned my head to the left to see Monique's cute bronze face in between the room-dividing doors. "Why, hello there, my dearest pinay. Want some coffee?"

"I want your sausage. [slang for... well, you probably guessed it, or reference wang on a previous page] Get in here now, Wankerazzi [sic] and prepare for organasm." [sic] She sure comes up with some priceless coinages.

I obliged. Well, there were worse ways to spend a Sunday morning in Appalachia.

Forty-four minutes later we were sitting across from each other at the dining table. The sun was up now. Monique was devouring some microwaved chicken fried rice.

"Want to try to find the foxfire in a little while, hon?" I asked, as I was anxious to further investigate the tree fungus.

"Sure, just give me two minutes. So, you were going to tell me about your foxfire experience."

"Oh, yes. Well, I must have been channeling Aristotle, mahal, because I kept receiving quotes by him. They just kept coming into my mind as I touched the glowing fungus." Utter madness. I bet he surreptitiously took something psychoactive.

"By chance, did you secretly ingest any of your magic crystals last night?" Wish I still had some of those granules de grandeur.

"Nope. I don't have any, honey."

"Tell me the truth, 33."

"It's the stark and patently honest truth: I iz [sic] totally out of stock, 32."

"Ok, just checking. You have to admit now: Your story is quite bizarre, my Parkaarismo." [sic]

"Well, let's go down there and see if you can tap into some Aristotelian quotes, too."

"Ok, let me get my jacket, Sergeant Psychonautica." [sic]

I chuckled.

As we exited the deck, I noticed that the temperature on the exterior thermometer was 43º (Fahrenheit; 6º Celsius). Good hiking weather. Should we hike to the summit? That may be too much for her.

In three minutes we were down in the foxfire area, searching for that half-dead birch. Twenty-two seconds later, I spotted the tree. However, a large animal's claw scratch was right where the foxfire had been.

"Honey, it was right here. I swear it was."

"Right there? Are you completely sure that this is the right tree, 33?" I'm so sure that he's recording this.

"I'm positive, 32. This is the very birch tree. It was right there where the scratch marks are. It looks like a bear ripped it clean off the trunk. Maybe there's a black bear walking around with a headful of Aristotle's most famous quotes."

"Now, what good would that do a bear, Parkaar?"

"Not sure, Monique. Might lead to madness. If we see a bear trying to remove its head, we'll know that we have our culprit." A bear trying to remove its head. What in the world?!

"I don't want to see a bear, period. Let's go back to the camper before we do."

"Ok. But, you do believe me, right?"

"I believe that you believe it." She doubts it.

We marched back towards the camper in silence. A plastic convenience store cup had washed down the slope. I picked it up. Gosh, I hate litterbugs, just as much as Agent 2 does.

"Is that cup recyclable, 33?" Monique asked.

"Yes, I see the triangle of arrows on the bottom, 32."

"I guess that everything gets recycled eventually, one way or another, even our atoms."

"I agree, Monique. Constant ongoing recycling."

"Where do you think this world is going, bana?"

"I think that it's still on its set-long-ago course: more wars – probably even a nuclear one soon; more mindless violence; more explosive religious fanaticism; more pettiness; more envy leading to stupid squabbles, fights and general nastiness; more disgusting bullying; more exploitation; more addiction; more depression; more suicides; more pernicious scheming. Ok, I'll stop there. I don't want to get overly optimistic." I chuckled.

"Snarkity snark. [sic] Ha-ha. Very funny, 33. Why now, aren't you the über-pessimist now? Meet Mr. Killjoy, the death of the party."

"I truly hope I'm wrong, 32, but I'm beginning to think that there is something innately wrong with us as a species. Maybe if we weren't primates..." Huh?

"What kind of ridiculous statement is that, Parkaar? Are you saying that we'd be better off as bacteria?"

"Maybe. Or, maybe as plants."

"No thanks. I don't want an animal munching on me, and not having any way to stop it."

"Or, maybe neither."

"What?!"

We were now walking around on the deck. I started to sweep the fallen leaves off as our conversation continued.

"Our brain size is nice and all, and has certainly led to some great technological advances. However, some of our bad primatal behavioral traits and tendencies are proving hard to shake off – hard-to-sever vestiges. Chimpanzees are insanely jealous, viciously violent creatures."

"What about bonobos? They are in our lineage, too, 33. There's progress. And, how in the world do you know exactly what early humans were thinking?"

"Well, you can approximate by what they did; what and how they destroyed; who and how they killed."

Just then we heard a large mammal in the woods below the deck. I walked over to the far railing. Some seventy feet (21 meters) downslope, there was an adult black bear walking back and forth between a sycamore and maple tree. It was as if its brain had been damaged, intoxicated, or possibly diseased. I bet that's the bear that ate the foxfire last night. It's slowly going nuts because it ate way too much – heck, it ate the whole damn thing! Its brain is confused. Its neural circuits are crossed-up. It can't make sense of the input. But, why is it walking in such a precise pattern between those trees? Perhaps the voice of Aristotle is saying: Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet. And, maybe that quote has been translated into a thought that the bear can understand. That's quite a reach. But, we don't seem to have any other explanations at the moment.

"Monique, come over here and look at this bear."

"A bear?!" Oh, my God!

"It's ok; it's way below, honey. We could get in the camper long before it could get up here, Agent 32. Look at that! It's locked into some kind of pattern, mahal."

As Monique looked down at the bear, it suddenly snapped out of its trance. It glanced up at us. But then, it peacefully walked away. Wonder what was going through that poor animal's mind. A dollar for that bear's thoughts. Ok, make it ten. / I'm glad that bear is going away from us.

"Let's start packing up, 33. I'm ready to get out of here."

"Do you already want to go back to Charlotte, asawa?"

"We don't have to go all the way back to Charlotte, bana. How about we just head to Gastonia and check out something down there? Didn't you say something about Lineberger Park yesterday?"

"Oh, yes. That's right. The park with the miniature train. Want to ride it for three laps?"

"Sure. Why not?"

In less than a half-hour, we had reloaded the car with our stuff. I then turned off the gas, water and electricity, and emptied the three sewage tanks. We were soon rolling down the steep slope. Feels – and definitely sounds – like we need new front brakes. Wonder how much that will cost. Too much, I'm sure. Cars – always consuming money.

The black bear, now mightily preoccupied, passed in front of us as if on some covert mission.

# About the Author

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

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

Mike has now written over 120 quasi/meta-real short stories – his forte – under the psecret psociety heading. Gold, a summer story, his first (and to-date only) novel – an erotic, suspenseful, deceptive, noir-esque odyssey – was e-published in 2013. Two novellas followed: To Morrow Tomorrow (2014) and Mysterieau of San Francisco (2015). A novelette, Kron by Night, was also included in Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, Volume 1 (2015).

The author is happily remarried with an ever-crafty teenage son.

Thanks immensely for your mind-time!

Have an idea for a pshort pstory? Have you overheard any pstrange, psurreal, or pspy-like lines? Have a word, term, or phrase that you want me to use? mike.bozart@gmail.com

Webpages:

www.facebook.com/mike.bozart

www.facebook.com/psecret.psociety

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